Like sharks circling for the kill.

I feel like marriage is a death sentence. Once I get married, kaput! My life is over. My feet will be trapped in cement and I'll be heading for the bottom of the ocean. WHY would I do that? Why is finding love in another person an ultimate goal that is expected in my life? Blargh. My mind is so fuzzy, thought swirling around, I can't make them out. I was so adamantly upset over something but now I can't remember what it was. Well, that's irritating. My room is a disaster. Why do I live like this?? I hate it with every fiber of my being! I can never STAY organized. My clothes end up on my floor at the end of the day, turning into some monolith of a monster at night and slowly encroaching on the breathing space in my room. Get back, thou foul creature!! The older I get, the less I dream about being married. I want to LIVE first! Find out who I am, go places, see things, be free, irresponsible and independent. I can barely rely on myself, I don't want anyone relying on me, husband, child or otherwise. I'm sure it's great once you're older, yada yada yada, but what's the rush? Oh wait, there isn't one! Marriage is for people who have nothing better to do with their lives but settle down and punch out babies. Ok, yes. Extreme. Forgive if I offended you, I'm just irritated and this is my blog and I can say whatever I darn well please. This post has no point. Not that anyone reads it anyway, so it's just a place for me to vent. I could have said in many less words: I'M IRRITATED WITH THE WORLD AND IRRITATED WITH MYSELF FOR BEING SO IRRITATED. End of story. Goodnight.


I've had this blog for four years. I went back and read some of my first posts. I was so full of joy and happiness. I was surrounded by a group of people who loved me and I loved being with. Now I'm lonely, bitter, easily irritated, tired all the time and constantly trying to change all of that. Half of that is lies. I always concentrate on my negative attributes. I think my main problem is that I'm trying to save myself. I know that's impossible, and I know who can save me, but I don't know how to let Him.

Cootie epidemic?

So far in my short life, I have only been actively pursued by three guys; a seven year old named Nicolas, a twelve year old named Andy, and a seventeen year old named Mitch. (Lucky enough for me, I happened to be the right age for all of them aaaaand...by my calculations, the next one should come when I'm around 22 or 23...)

The young man I'm mentioning here however, is Mr. Nicolas. I seem to remember that he was ardently in love with me and expressed it often in the form of teasing, chasing and kicking me. I didn't have and girl friends for a while because they didn't understand why I was having more fun with a cootie infested boy than with them, talking about Lance Bass or Justin Timberlake.

I ran across a note from Nicolas today and got such a kick out of it. It's written in his absolute BEST cursive and says:

To: Rachel Elizabeth
From: Nicolas Villa

Sweet Rachel I hope you had a merry Christmas. I did. I got a playstashon and legos new jeans plus the Grinch stole christmas game and a cool pen I wanted. Did you have a good Christmas? What did you get for Christmas?
I am glad I know you.


I thought the "Sweet Rachel" part was just too cute. :P

We were friends until he told me I had really hairy legs and proceeded to laugh at me because of this. A seven year old girl's ego can only take so much.

A time capsule treasure chest.

In October of 2002, I discovered that the friendly neighborhood moths became tired of the cold and decided to move into a more cozy abode...my room. At the news of the infestation, my mom had someone come in and promptly throw everything I own into boxes, toss in a few mothballs and duck tape the boxes shut. After this, I was left with a completely (and I mean completely) empty room and an unhealthy but very warranted moth phobia. It took me seven years to finally get the boxes out of the attic and go through them, one by one. The experience was incredible. It was a mix between a time machine and a treasure hunt. The boxes were haphazardly labelled with titles like "bed," "loft," and "closet." Until I opened the box, I had no idea what I would find. Normally when I pack something a lot of debate goes into whether the item will be deemed worthy enough to be packed preciously away until I needed it again. This however, was soooo not organized. My life had been frozen in time. Every note, every toy, every picture, paper, trash, candy, book, doll, treasure...everything, was in one of these boxes. One by one I opened them and poured over their contents, meeting my twelve year old self all over again. I found myself in the things I thought were worth keeping. These mere objects symbolized my imagination and innovation that I let die a long time ago. Every item had a use, a purpose, a symbolic meaning to me. I "ooohed" and "aaahed" over the toys that I had missed, things I thought I had lost forever. I was transported back to who I was seven years ago, a simpler me who spent hours playing with her toy horses, days setting up playmobile towns and a lifetime being a mother to her precious dolls. Everything I did was so intricate and planned out. My dolls each had their own biography, complete with favorite color, animal, activity, you name it; it was there. When I played school, my "daughters" took spelling tests, math tests, art class, history, and bible. All of their miniature notebooks were there, spelling words misspelled in their shaky handwriting and corrections in my lovely red handwriting. Each doll had a personality and a miniature bedroom to match it. Their mother, me, had a different name for each stage of my life and their "father" was whoever my current crush was at that time. :P I don't know how long I must have had the last name Bass...

My thoughts varied so much going through those boxes. I was overjoyed by finding all of the things that I loved...but I'm not that girl anymore. I moved on, I grew up. It makes me almost angry that I can't be her anymore. I loved that life, I loved who I was. I was imaginative, I was creative, I had a life within myself that no one knew about and no one could share with me. I was so happy to be me and to spend time on my own making my own little world. These toys speak of a different time in my life, one that I feel was cut off to drastically when I had to pack it into boxes. Literally over night I was done with dolls, with toy horses, with barbies and beanie babies. I look at them now and I love them as much as I did the last time I saw them but they have no place in my life anymore. Why not? Why can't they? Why can't I be who I used to be and sit on my floor and dress my dolls for hours? I don't know. That delicate girl has crawled deeper inside my heart the older I've gotten, protecting herself from the older me who must face reality and move on and be "mature," whatever that means. After all these years, I connected once again with the me that I know so well, the free spirited, creative, tender hearted girl who wasn't afraid to be herself. I don't want to box her away again, pushing her out of sight so I can become someone else. I want to embrace who I used to be, no...who I still am, and let my imagination run rampant.

I hope beyond a hope that some day I'll have a daughter who I can share all of my beloved dolls and horses with. I hope that she knows how much they meant to me but most importantly takes them for her own and I can watch her get as much enjoyment out of them as I once did. :)