Whining is for whine...rs?

At what point in one's friendship with someone, can you say, "Stop complaining!" ?

Is there a point where, no matter how much despair and grief they're in, you're allowed to lose some sympathy for someone because they complain so much?

This question is not about any ONE particular person, I should mention. I just know way too many boxes o' whine. And, that's not to say they don't have reason to do it (in their mind...), but at some point, it becomes clear that their self-pity party is not helping anyone! Oftentimes, it just pushes people away. Of course, then the remaining friends of said whiner just have to hear about how Pity-Patty's life is so terrible, she even just lost a friend. Poooooor Pity-Patty.

The thing is, I think people who complain loudly are what I shall refer to as, "Extroverted Beggars". That sounds a lot worse than what I really mean. I am talking about those people who tell everyone (or just one person repeatedly), how sad they are. How hard their life is. How their life is dramatic and movie-esque, and they are the tragic hero. These people, really, are just hoping someone will come along and fix them.

Either that, or they really love the attention and pity. Not that they'd ever admit that. Understandable.

The opposite type is the "Introverted Seeker". This person has all that pain and trauma, too, but they are terrified of telling anyone. They just soak in their misery. Sometimes it can be hard for these types to deal with Extroverted Beggars. This is for several reasons. Often, the ones who speak up get more people's support and love and help. While the Seeker, who would love those things, sits back and silently envies others' ability to speak about their issues. The Beggars will claim to be alone and have it much worse and say everything bad happens to them, meanwhile, they are completely downplaying the hurt and difficulties of the Seeker. This can be hard to deal with.

Of course, it goes both ways. While the Beggar does love some aspect of the thrill or the adventure or the attention, part of them wishes they could be like the Seeker. Or, how they perceive the Seeker and their "simple and undramatic" life. Also, the Beggar's actions do catch up with them. A chain reaction of bad or difficult things or people saying or doing the wrong thing come along, and the Beggar's life ends up actually getting harder. It become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Which, both, makes the Beggar satisfied and miserable. Especially if and when the Beggar gets tired of the excitement and hopes to settle down into the life of the Seeker.

Anyway, you get the idea... I'm bored of writing about this.

Immigration... 64... no repeats... or hesitations

Preface: Recently, a few people, yes, more than one, asked me why I stopped protesting, or, when I will start again. I am not sure how it was asked, as it was all written-word, but I worry it was a challenge. I imagined them asking through pursed lips while doing a weird, ghetto head move. As if I was a fair-weather protestor, a giver-upper. I assure you, I'm not. Activism is my nature. At 14 years old, I started sending around petitions to teachers, friends, and family. I would raise money and get signatures constantly.

Even in my personal life, I would protest anything I didn't agree with within my family. Hunger strikes, speaking strikes, lists of hundreds of reasons a rule should be changed or I should be allowed to do something.  I'm stubborn, it's my nature. I get what I want; what the world needs.



Today I went to a rally. A rally for the Dream Act. A rally against discrimination. A rally where immigrants, their children, and their friends spoke out and told their stories. Some of their stories were truly heart-wrenching. These individuals, humans of the same Earth, as the rest of us, have had to go through so much pain and so many obstacles in order to survive.

Here are some photos I took at the event. Mind you, I did not take photos of the poster that spelled 'illegal' wrong...  I'm biased and some people are stupid. What can you do?

I am making this brief for two reasons. One is that I am not directly involved or affected by this cause. It means a lot to me, I care about every individual and their issues, but this seems like something these people have to speak out against. I am just here as a background voice to support them. I have NO idea what it's like to be them and in their position. I am not so stupid as to act as if I do. Second, there is something that arose, closer to home, that I wish to discuss. So, here you are:





The other action that I feel needs to be brought up is the act of giving. I realize I've covered the issues of kindness and goodness and blerp-blerp, being a decent human being before. I don't think I've stressed the importance of every individual, though. I get tired of seeing every believer fighting for the same causes, then moving on when the next big thing comes along. People tend to forget what they believed in. They forget the everyday person they are.

I am honoured to be close friends with a gentleman a few states away. We've been friends for several years now and he's always been nothing but kind and patient with me. We truly care about one another. However, having followed his dream and passion of the musician's life, he now has regrets. He is now at the point near starvation due to money issues. He jokes about his hunger and poor nutrition, because he knows, complaining and misery never solved anyone's problems. Might as well carry a smile as much as possible. We are aware of his difficulties, though. His family, his friends, myself... we all know he is in trouble.

A few years back, I tried to get donations to send him. I tried to reach out to social media in order to collect for this man's wellness and survival. It went ignored. Disheartening. Finally, I decided it was the day to help a fellow in need. I could not offer much, as I am dependent on others for funding, but just when I was tempted to order food for myself (something I never do), I decided instead to order a meal for him on GrubHub. I asked his address and had it sent to him. I kept asking him, "You'll be home in an hour, right? Not going anywhere? Don't move!" I joked, but I was extremely excited to hear of his meal coming. An hour later, he sends me a message. He is nearly in tears. The food arrived and he was absolutely astonished and overjoyed. He kept asking how he could repay me, as he sat and ate his first real meal in who knows how long.

I told him all I wanted in return was a photo of him enjoying the food. He did not have a proper camera or phone to take the photo, but he sent me a blurry photo. Seeing his smile as he sat with the meal made my heart crumble and then melt and then evaporate. I was rather hungry myself at this point, but seeing this photo was a thousand times more fulfilling than any meal. Not just because it was a man I cared about being taken care of, but because he is a human being. After all the difficulties in life and the people who let him down, he was finally being given the care he needed. Even if it was only tiny. For a little over $20, both of our evenings were just a tad more beautiful.

Why did I feel it was so important to share this story? Because, like I said, we forget to take care of people. We forget the joy of it. We think of the money or the time we need for ourselves, or the big story we want to explore, but we forget these moments. They are more healing than yoga or vitamins or anything we are so certain will cure us. If you're really looking to find happiness and youth and live longer, these actions will save you. Don't forget them the next time someone is fundraising or inviting you to a charity event, or someone asks for a little help. It might just be the most gratifying thing you ever do.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

When I was about 16 or 17, I, like most teens at that age, thought nothing would be cooler than my parents going away on vacation without me. Leaving me in the house with a couple hundred bucks, just like in the movies. I'd have a party, order food, and just be a downright fool for a week or two.

That never happened in my household. That would NEVER happen in my household. To this day, my dad hates leaving me at home alone when I visit. To be fair, I am pretty destructive...

Nonetheless, I wanted this so badly. Not that I had enough friends, or enough "cool music", or enough non-awkwardness to have said house party, but the possibility was amazing to me. Reality was, they didn't go away, we all didn't go away that often, in general. That was what I wanted, though.

Today, I know what an idiot I was. How ignorant and naive and clueless!

I haven't lived with my parents for about 6.5 years now and it turns out, I'm not very good at taking care of myself. My eating habits are bizarre and lacking, for one. It turns out, if I try to live on only peanut butter for a week, I'm not going to feel great. You get to the point where you are willing to kill a baby for a carrot or a little bit of an apple. Anything but peanut butter.

I also don't really know how to do laundry. No one ever told me. That and I never listened when roommates and random people tried. ahem. So, I've given up and just hand-wash stuff. It's probably dirtier when I'm done, but no one has to know.

I will admit, I am pretty proud of how well I've kept my dog and all my foster pets alive throughout the years. No dog or kitten or puppy has died under my watch! Feed, walk, mush face: check! I've got it down.

My latest realization of just how bad I am at all this life stuff was when I sliced my finger. My mom bought me a brand new kitchen knife since I've been attempting to cook more lately. The package said it would never become dull, and it wasn't kidding. Each time it slices through my skin just as seamlessly. Usually it's not too bad, just a tip of a thumb, or a paper cut to the ol' pointer finger. However, this slice was pretty bad. I wasn't sure it would stop bleeding. An hour and countless paper towel sheets later, the bleeding subsided. Only due to putting pressure on the wound. I don't own any antibacterial stuff or band-aids or even tape. So, now it just sits on my finger looking all bloody, purpleish, and swollen. Just looking at me. Judging me. Reminding me that I am a failure.

A friend bought me gauntlets in an attempt to keep me from harming myself more, but a girl doesn't always remember to bring her gauntlets into the kitchen! Besides, I thought maybe I had outgrown those shenanigans in the past 4 days. Maybe my reflexes and coordination had improved. Alas, the blood all over my kitchen sink says otherwise.

You see, the slicing and dicing of my flesh wouldn't be so intolerable, and probably not-so-common if I still had my mommy standing there annoying me. "Don't hold that with your fingers, use a fork!" "Don't slice towards yourself!" "Don't chop your fingers off!" All these silly rules that now actually apply.

I'm not saying I want to live with my parents again. I know that would be a horrible and terrible and miserable idea (for them, mostly...) I just wish, well, first of all, I wish I hadn't used up all my Snoopy band-aids playing a game of 'Sticky Fingers' last week. I also wish I knew how to do this whole thing. This mature, growing-up, independence mishegas. I realize no one knows off the bat, and no one is doing it perfectly, but GOD, if I could just stop burning and cutting myself, I'd be ever so grateful. If I could learn how to organize things NOT on my kitchen table. If I knew that there is a reason they make separate washing stuff for wood and tile floors. If I knew WHAT they called washing stuff! Detergent? No... Soap? Maybe, but I don't think so. Spray bottle stuff that we don't drink? That'll do.

I'm a hot mess and I'm not even sure what a hot mess is. I think I fit the description, though.

What is the solution? Handbooks, directions, instructions, not forgetting the gauntlets? I suppose those might help. If I didn't misplace the directions... or if I have the time to read them. Meanwhile, I'll just keep playing along. Pretending to not be clueless. Acting like I know what's going on and each mistake is a "one time thing". Eventually, I have to catch on, right? Neurons and stuff, right? That's what we have them for!

I need some of them animal instincts to kick in. I don't how to boot those suckers up. Kicking sometimes fixes stuff. I'll give that a try.

Wait. Nope. Tried that once. Ended up having my toe go under my foot, the SAME foot, and crack the bone. Doctors laughed at me. Let's not experience that again. How about we maintain just a wee bit of pride, eh? Can we do that for a few more years? Let's try, champ!

Hey, I'm just a programmed being in some flesh. I'm here to be molded and learned real good. I'll take the punches as they come. If that means losing a few digits or an eyeball, so be it. If I have to sacrifice some babies along the way, I can dig it. Although, any other tidbits of life advice are appreciated...

We all have a role

Last night a full-grown man hugged me so hard that I literally could not breathe. Yes, I said "literally", and I mean literally. There was so much pressure on my chest and throat that air could not get through. So much so, that I could not say, "Stop!" or "No!" All I could do was try to push him away.

Upon release, he laughed, grumbled, and drunkenly stumbled off into the night.

This was -- is a friend of mine.

In high school, my closest friend would greet me with a hearty punch, slap, or smack to the back or arm.

Before then, my "best friend for life" and her sister would throw me in their closet and hit me with a ruler if I tried to leave.

To this day, my mother and brother find the best way to get a message across is a swat, pull, punch, or kick.

I am aware I am not a punching bag. I am not deserving of this treatment. So, what I have to sort out now is... why I allow it and how I became convinced this was okay.

First, I will look at last night. Yes, I was unable to breathe, which is why this dude was able to choke-hold me. But I certainly could have put an end to our friendship there. Or, at very least, not texted him 20 minutes later making sure he got home safe and well. Being drunk is not excuse for a man to harm a girl, even if it is partially unintentional during a hug. On one hand, he had previously been discussing some heavy issues of his. He was talking about the internal pain he has, his suicide attempts, and his claim that I "could not possibly feel as much pain" as he does. Accurate or not, he was clearly clicked into an unhealthy and upsetting mindset. His sudden rage hug may have been due to this. It was his frustration and hurt, and I was the nearest stress ball. This all occurred to me in moments, which is why I let it go. Which is why I allowed such inappropriate treatment. Which is why I presume it will occur again eventually.

When I was in 10th grade, I moved to a new school. Immediately, I was an outcast. I was familiar with this role, I was hunky dory with it. The way I was treated was horrible, but I was able to grin and bear it. Grinning and bearing it has always been my expertise.

The first person to introduce herself and welcome me into her little nerd group was a girl who had been bullied her whole life, as well. She was the type who hardened up, due to this. She didn't take anything from anyone. People thought she was nuts... heck, I thought she was nuts. She would have rage fits and power trips. Our other group members were familiar with her ways, but they would call her out when she yelled at them or insulted them or smacked them on the back. I, of course, did not. I just bit my lip and made a joke. Our teacher once observed this and said, "You are the most calm and patient person I have ever seen." I took this as a compliment. It was, but it didn't solve my problem. Eventually, when my friend was done testing how long I would stick around and be loyal to her, she stopped insulting me. I wasn't gross or ugly anymore... not usually, at least. I got off the hook after 2-3 years of this. Not because I was strong and stood up for myself, just because she, for the most part, didn't feel the urge to do it anymore.

As for my childhood friend and her sister, well, that story speaks for itself. However, the reason I continued to go over her house and be "best buddies" with her was because she was the person I was supposed to be. All the adults in my family said she was who I should be more like. And I tried! I tried to focus in school and study and do better and make more friends... It didn't work, though. I couldn't will it to be. So, I continued to spend time around her. Time, I thought, would transform me into the perfect student and perfect daughter and perfect person. It just turned out to cause me to let her boss me around, make me misbehave, destroy my self-esteem, and get me beaten with a ruler in a dark closet. Don't worry, though, karma came around. Now she's in law school, living in Manhattan, and dating a dude who is doing good things with his life. If it makes you feel any better, he's pretty ugly. Maybe she'll fall off a mountain, eh? A girl can dream. (I assure you, I was going to use a much more horrible hypothetical, but I figured falling off a mountain would do the job for now.)

Anyway, these are just examples of what a chump I am. I can be an insanely weak fool. I couldn't tell you if people like me *need* to exist. I don't know that there have to be those of us who are the net to catch everyone who falls off the rope. In all honesty, though? Its never really bothered me. Not that I like being hurt and insulted, but I've come to accept my role in people's lives. I get a slight, weird pleasure from being so important to them, even if they don't know I am. I'm not always just the friend who listens to your problems and offers comfort or advice, I'm also that friend you can gain control over or just yell at and punch. At the end of the day, I'm healthy and alive, how I view myself is no longer going to lessen, and I am confident in my ability to maintain my dignity and self-respect throughout it and despite it, so why not? I don't deserve it, but I do allow it for their sake, for my own "self-importance". It's my special job and I'm pretty glad for it at this point. Is that so bad?

Backwards Story

In my 'Self and Craft' writing workshop class, we were told to write a backwards story (a story backwards?).

Meaning, we had to write about events taking place... but backwards. Well, not walking backwards or anything, just that you have the last step having first. This is hard to explain. Just read it.

BIG DREAMS

I'm stuck in this bus for 6 hours. My legs are cramping and my career is over. A man like me doesn't stand a chance in prison.Of course, a man like B.K. doesn't get shot in his own household. I should have known better. I probably should have done some research. I probably should have checked my sources. There are a lot of things I should have done, but shooting B.K.'s neighbour was not one of them.

A month before, I showed up at the address I was given with my little, shiny friend. I rang the doorbell. I pulled the trigger the moment the door opened. I didn't care if it was his kid, his Nana, or B.K. himself, I just wanted someone in that house to die.

I left the spot, making sure I didn't leave a trace.

All this because I got to the venue about 20 minutes before he did.

I headed to the back of the club. Behind the red curtains. It's true what they say in the movies. Behind the curtains, the people were more beautiful, the cushions were softer, and the drinks were stronger. B.K. wasn't anywhere, though. He wasn't a guy you could miss. Big, loud, and the dude looked like he peed diamonds. He didn't live a simple, humble life. Not B.K. Though, he always did have a weird smell. It reminded me of my Nana's house. Makes me think he had a soft side too.

Well, God rest Nana's soul, but I don't stand for being stood up. I was born to shine, and anyone who tries to make me look bad isn't going to live to tell it. All I knew was he told me to meet him that night. The night that would change everything. He had heard my latest mix ''Raise the Streets'' and he liked it big time. He promised me a gig that would bring my name to the big timers -- I'm talking BIG: Carl Heat, M.C. Broke Vinyl, Gideon Pop Top... BIG.

I was an up-and-coming DJ at an underground club in the heart of Manhattan. My tunes had just been discovered by B.K. Scazz, New York's dream-maker and soul-taker. I wasn't letting anything stop me. Or so I thought.

Disordered Eating

Eating disorders are some of those most common and yet, most difficult disorders to cure. Why is that? Why are some people anorexic and some people bulimic... how are some people neither?

I will admit, bulimia intrigues me much more than anorexia. This is because anorexia is very straight forward. How individuals end up with anorexia may differ, but the end goal is the same: to lose weight. To be as thin and frail as possible. In the end, every anorexic starves themselves and gets thin, weak, and sick. Bulimia, however, is a puzzle.

First of all, let me get out of the way a basic understanding of bulimia for those of you who have not ever seen, met, or heard of a teenage female (I say this sarcastically since if you have any connections to a teenager, you have heard of or even discussed this topic....)

Everything about bulimia is very dramatic and excessive. This is evident from the very first part of bulimia: binging. Now, everyone pigs out now and then. That’s fine and normal. You’re sad or bored or anxious or just in the mood to nosh, and you might end up eating every food item that you come across. However, when a bulimic individual binges, they can take in literally thousands of calories in only a couple hours, or less! That could mean someone is eating an entire box of chocolate, an entire cake, a pound of M&Ms, multiple bags of chips, and still searches for more! This could sound like someone who just doesn’t care or has no self-control, but these individuals explain that it is not by choice. It is an unstoppable force and they need to eat uncontrollably. It’s as if there is a demon inside them who just wants to eat lots of candy corn and pork rinds.

But hey, if once in a while a person wants to stuff themselves to the point of exploding, who am I to judge? You see, the problem arises with the next step, and that is purging.

Purging is the overwhelming urge by the person who just binged to make up for all the eating. This urge comes along with fear, guilt, and shame regarding all they have eaten. Purging comes in different forms. Some choose to force themselves to vomit, others take laxatives or water pills, some follow the binge with starvation, and of course, there’s always excessive exercise.

The sad irony is, all these things often lead to weight gain! After all, laxatives release things that have already been made use of (meaning, the calories have already been absorbed into the body...) And lots of liquid. Which just means loss of water weight leading to dehydration. Not very useful. Puking is unpleasant and doesn’t do much either for the same reason, while corroding teeth and the esophagus. Nonetheless, binging and purging tend to occur 2 times or more per a week for at least 3 months for afflicted individuals.Not to mention, even when the B & P twins are not showing up, there is still a major obsession with food. Usually this is a negative relationship that takes up all of the individual’s time and thoughts.

Of course, being concerned, or overly concerned with image and body weight is very common in today’s world. However, bulimic individuals take it one step further. Their weight and appearance determine their worth, self-respect, and entire ability to experience happiness. No matter how intelligent, beautiful, or successful a bulimic is, if their tummy isn’t trim enough or their thighs touch, they don’t consider themselves good enough.

There’s also the aspect of control. This may be self-control, control of their habits and body, or just general control in their lives. Food and our relationship with it have been known for ages to be a metaphor for our outlook on the world and our views on our selves. For many, controlling one’s eating means control over everything else in life that they may find difficult or displeasing. For this reason, bulimia can be found in the thin, the heavy, the intelligent, the dull, the male, the female, and of people of all ages.

Upon a friend’s mention of it, I became very intrigued with male bulimics. When I corrected his assumption that I would be writing about females with the condition, he was a little taken aback by the concept of male bulimics. He knew of their existence, but did not immediately infer that from my mention of the word. This is what makes the subject even more intriguing, just how little male bulimia is discussed! This prompted me to seek out something written by a male with bulimia. As I hoped I would, I quickly came across a blog written by just that! On bulimicboy.blogspot.com, I read into the emotional and physical state of a sufferer. A paragraph that I felt particularly helped my understanding, or at least went into a similar thought pattern was as follows,

"Some days have been worse than others. Not every binge has been massive. But it’s not really about that. It’s about whether I’ve been in control or whether I’ve let the urge get the better of me. And I have let it get the better of me. I’ve stopped fighting. Every morning I’ve woken up and thought ‘It’s a new day, so dust yourself off and start again’. But by evening I’ve lost the willpower and just submitted to it. And for the last few days that’s been making me feel pretty terrible.

...today it’s got to the point that I have to try something. I’ve been starting to feel hopeless again. As though there’s just nothing that I can do about it. As though bulimia inevitably wins, and the best I can do is find a way to tolerate it while it has its wicked way with me. And I haven’t felt like that for several months. Even when I’ve had setbacks it’s seemed like a blip, but I’ve still been moving in the right direction. It’s become pretty impossible to make that case to myself just recently. So I have to do something. Maybe writing will help me to rediscover some resolve...."

A common trait of bulimics is depression. This in itself leads me to a theory. That is, the metaphor of bulimia. Food is a VERY commonly used cry for help in individuals. Sometimes it's someone eating more and more to fulfill their need for control, sometimes they eat less just for the sake of getting someone to notice their need for help. In the case of bulimia being paired with depression, maybe weight loss was the individual's attempt at taking hold of his or her own life. Proving that by making the right changes and doing things "right", maybe they too can be thin... or maybe they too can be happy. However, upon noticing that he/she is not thin enough or they are not seeing the change, hope is lost. Now this person has realized, or it has occurred to them, that maybe they aren't ever going to reach that goal. No matter how much they do things like they think they should to get what they what, no matter what steps they are taking, it will never be enough. Happiness/thinness will never be attained.

Food for thought, eh? Pun intended.

I am a victim

I am a victim of labels. The words that make or break a human being. I have been called many things in my life. I've been a hippie, I've been a loser, I've been morbid and creative. I've been called evil and wise and offensive and compassionate. I've been called an introvert and brave and stubborn. I've been told I'm beautiful,  I've been told I'm ugly. My ability to love and care has been put in doubt, but then it has also been celebrated. My writing has been praised and my singing has been criticized. I am an entire catalogue of witty nicknames and misnomers.

They always say not to describe your child as anything but the best. Not to label your child or allow others to. Growing up, I was a very quiet kid. Everyone would say, "Ariel is shy. She needs to speak up. One day she'll come out of her shell." These people didn't know me.  They didn't know I loved performing on stage and screaming at concerts and that one day I would be the only one willing to enter the rehearsal room and kick out the people who were staying too long. They didn't know I'd travel the world alone and make friends with Chinese people and Greek people and people from countries no one knew existed. They didn't know I would stand up when no one else could or would. Or fight for my rights, my desires, my beliefs.... Nonetheless, they told me who I was. They defined me for the rest of the world. Words like "shy" and "weird", or even "crazy" would stick with me for the rest of my life. They're the first words I would think of when asked to describe myself. They're the words I let others staple onto my forehead and treat me as.

To this day, I get anxiety being with people. Maybe it's not because of some sort of social fear, but because of a fear of being "shy" again. I was always told it was a bad trait, that I had to learn to be someone else. I had to act like I always had something to say and speak up. That lying back and only speaking when spoken to was wrong. The person I was born to be, the person I called "me" was bad. If that "me" showed up in social settings, I had reason to worry. I was condemned to speak or once again be the bad "me" that no one liked. That was what made me anxious, that is what I was running from.

I bet you, whoever you may be, are also a victim. Maybe you are the mental kid or the fat kid or the kid who enjoyed math class a little too much. Nerd. You heard it too many times. I know you have heard it too many times because just once is too many. It is easy for others to say, "You're not a kid anymore. No one has called you that in 10 years!" That doesn't mean the words didn't sting and leave a mark in your mind. People are a product of their experiences. Those words and names that we grew up with were how we created our identities. What else did we have? We needed something to base our self-opinion on. As soon as your mother beamed at you and shrieked, "He's a big boy, but he'll outgrow the baby fat." There. There it is. You are now the big boy who HAS to outgrow the baby fat. Who else could you be? What else is there? The words "Perfect as he is" aren't even on the table yet. When you find that baby fat doesn't magically melt away at 14 or 15 or even 16, now you have failed to be the person you were told you were. You were supposed to outgrow it. You didn't, and now... you're just the big boy who didn't get less fat. You're the big nose whose face didn't grow into it. You're the neuroscientist's kid who didn't catch onto science. You're the tall kid who didn't get perfect with practice. As a matter of fact, you didn't even learn to enjoy basketball. What a waste.

This is not a message that has not been expressed before a thousand times in a thousand different ways. Everyone nods and agrees and wishes they could stop the insults and the bullying and the self-loathing. It doesn't stop, though, it won't stop. Not until every mother and father learns how to speak to their child, not until every child learns to love themselves, not until humans can look at other humans and really care and want them to be happy. Not as happy as they are themselves or happy on the exterior or pessimistically happy, but humans need to deeply and so passionately that it hurts wish for other people to live lives full of beautiful, wonderful things. Maybe life won't be a dream, sweetheart, and of course it's stupid to live entirely on the phrase "it could be worse!", but the first step is believing and wanting such gaiety to exist in others' lives. There's no room for resentment or envy, there's only room for a hug and telling someone, and I quote 'Almost Famous', "It's all happening."

We are the deities of our destiny.