Uneducated, Unaware, Unwilling

I’m uneducated about most political aspects of American society. Matt is listening to a president’s speech. I’m catching a few words here and there, enough to collect that the speech is about the war in Iraq….or something. presidential speeches bore me, always have. Sadly, they probably always will. I’m unaware about many current events simply because I don’t care to teach myself. To discipline and foster myself in American politics is a suicide attempt. I would bore myself to death.  It’s not only politics. Pop-culture is another example. I’m never up to date with who’s in what movie or which celebrity just got divorced because they’re heading to rehab for the third time. I’m simply un-American (That’s to be said in a deep redneck voice). I’m unwilling to wrap myself up in such topics. I have the worst memory when it comes to facts, unless of course it has to deal with myself or the people I have relationships with. My best friend’s aunt’s favorite color: purple. Date and place I passed my first kidney stone: January 2004 coming home from a date with Riley Stecker. It’s eccentric to say the least that I can remember the oddest facts about people in my life, but I can’t remember who’s the Secretary of State or the gross national debt. Maybe it would help if I read the newspapers that are so conveniently displayed (for free) at school.

Confession:  My brain doesn’t function properly enough to remember economics and academics.

The Fight Against AIDS

The winter months are always the hardest for my family. About three years ago, my dad caught a cold from me. It turned into pneumonia and there he was lying on his death-bed. The saddest part of all of this was that I prayed for my father every minute of every day that winter. I wept and prayed for his death. I was miserable. He was miserable. Eventually, he got better. But every time he gets sick, we hear the doctor say “I’m not sure if he’s going to make it this time.”

Having a father that is HIV positive has been one of the biggest blessings and curses in my life. Every day I’d watch my dad swallow 10 different pills and head off to work. He’s constantly at the doctors trying to stay up to date with the latest HIV/AIDS medications. So much money and time has been put into the health and well-being of my dad. We were outside working a few months ago. I never noticed how lanky my dad was until I saw the pump inside of him bulging out of his skin. This pump that was surgically placed inside my dad and sends medicine into his spine. It’s ridiculous because he still takes a million pills a day. This is man….from which helped form my own flesh and blood… has no ambitions in life. He’s just waiting for his number to be called.

When I was in Kenya this summer, I fell in love with a little girl named Catherine. 13 years old, rude as can be. She just wants to be loved. I remember her asking me why I was in Kenya. My answer: to heal my broken heart, to find love in places or people I’d never expect it from, to cross off things on my bucket list. Catherine fell into my arms, eyes swollen, and tears bursting out of her seems. She cried out to me knowing that she won’t know when her next meal will be. She doesn’t even know if today could be her last day. Catherine also suffers from HIV/AIDS. She doesn’t have the ability to get modern medicine for her disease. She’s just suffering.

Many people in Africa have HIV/AIDS because they aren’t educated about the disease. FACT: Many Africans get infected with AIDS because of a sad lie. Witch doctors and such have told people that their HIV/AIDS will be cured if they sleep with a virgin. Therefore, the disease is spreading like a wildfire. Africa also doesn’t have the money or resources to get modern medication for those with HIV/AIDS. It’s horrible.

I don’t know where I’m going with this. I had a point but lost it within telling the stories. Get educated. That’s it. This pandemic of HIV/AIDS just needs people to be informed about the effects (physically and emotionally) of the disease.

The Art of Love: The Love of Art

I have an immense love for organic and eco-friendly crafts and sewn objects. When I was 8 or 9 years old this love started to grow tremendously thanks to a woman named Ann Poindexter. As years have passed, I’ve noticed that I’m just obsessed with browsing the internet for eco-friendly designs. For example, I stumbled upon this awesome company today. I also have a folder on my desktop filled with things I’d like to make at some point in my life. It’s MAXED OUT with DIY projects from homemade dresses to crocheted pieces of art. You bet your britches that I’m going to make every single one of those things just for the hell of it. Maybe I’ll find a use for them. Maybe I’ll steal Ian’s idea and give all of my makings away.

Here are just a few of the things I’d like to make or have made. Ahhhh. I’m in love with this stuff.

Confession: I’m afraid I will never turn this hobby/obsession into a career. I’m afraid I’d stop loving it if I did it for money.

Confession: One day I’m going to own a sheep so that I can shear his wool and put it to good use.

It’s past my bedtime.

My friends always bug me about not staying out late. Even worse, they bug me about turning into a hermit because I rarely hang out at all. Most of the time, I feed people the lame excuse of needing to go to bed because I have to get up early. In reality, I’m just at home listening to 90’s pop and lip syncing in front of the mirror. I’m not ashamed of this by any means. I don’t necessarily enjoy the company of my mirrored self over the company of my friends. I just REALLY like to dance around in my flannel jammies. Side note: Sometimes I wish I actually owned a hairbrush, but only so I could use it as a pretend microphone when I lip sync.

On a more serious note, I find it a little sad that I got slap happy at 9 PM tonight. When Ian and I were at Ziggies, I turned into quite the gigglebox. This upsets me a great deal. One should never get slap happy at 9 PM. I’m ashamed of myself, but I did have a very good evening.

Confession: I can’t handle the night life. My heart longs for activities that occur in the PM, but my mind and body disagree.

Reading the Red Letters

When I have kids, I’m not going to teach them about the Jesus I learned about in Sunday School growing up. When I was told the Christmas story, it was watered down. “Jesus was born in a manger.” Here’s my version of the Christmas story: “Jesus was born in a trough. It was filled with donkey snot and half-eaten hay. It smelled like horse shit and dirt. Jesus wasn’t born and put into a crib in a beautiful nursery like most babies.” It’s a strange thing that The King of the Universe was welcomed into the world like that.

Why do I claim to follow this man again? Why do I claim that I look up to Jesus? Oh yeah, he did things that I am frightened to do and turn my cheek from every single day. “The dying, the crippled, the mentally ill, the unwanted, the unloved—they are Jesus in disguise.” (Mother Teresa) Jesus says it himself that if we ignore the sick and hungry, then we are ignoring Jesus. There’s something seriously wrong with this. I want to be Christlike, even more so I want to engulf Jesus. I can’t do that if I can’t even muster up the courage to take care of the sick and the poor.

Confession: I like that Jesus was a dirty, sassy and bold pauper. I’m going to tell generations to come about him.

Confession: I want to be Jesus, but there are too many fears and failures preventing me from doing so.

Confession: I just stole all of these ideas from “Red Letters” by Tom Davis.

your skin against mine

I hate when people constantly apologize for brushing their foot against mine when sitting at a table together. I hate even more when a person lightly brushes their arm or hand against mine when standing/sitting next to one another. I’m not giving people the prerogative to just play footsie with me or hold my hand all of the time. I just want people to know that it’s ok that they bumped into me once, twice…..or even five times.

Confession: I just want to be touched.

Apatheic Advocate

We’re living in a world where violence seems to be the answer. Gang bangers and suicide bombers believe their actions will change the world. Ghandi’s probably pissed. Most people especially beauty pageant queens claim to want world peace. I feel like I can still survive in this world if we never reached world peace. I haven’t been and hopefully won’t be directly affected by the violences in this world. (Now that I say that, my death will be caused by a gang war’s drive by shooting)

Confession: I advocate world peace, but deep down I don’t really care about it.

What is it that you do?

Whatever it is that I get paid for, I’m unsure of its exact title.

I sell tickets to athletic events and theatrical performances at Missouri State. Most days, I suck at my job. I over or under charge customers, forget to include discounts/coupons, incorrectly add up my receipts, and answer the phones “MSU Tix, this is Roger.” (or whoever else’s name that I happen to be texting on my cell phone while speaking to patrons)

Confession: I’m unclear of my job title and duties.

Nymphos

Categories (in exact order)

About the blog, Anal sex, Biblical studies, etc

pffff hahahhahahahaha

The Apple Fell Far From the Family Tree

As I am digging through boxes of old cd’s to find my old Road Trip mix, I found Mewithoutyou’s A—>B Life album. I haven’t listened to that since freshman year of high school.  Among the mix, I found Calibretto, Showbread, Slick Shoes, and then…….wait for it……Dwight Yoakam’s Christmas.

I don’t know who I thought I was trying to be when I listened to all of that. I’m definitely not ashamed though. The problem that I have with the music, movies, hobbies, and such that has molded me into this insanely obsessed barbaric woman  is that I have no idea where it came from. If you knew my family, you’d think the milkman was my father. I am the odd one out in our redneck clan. (Ah, but I do love certain things about the redneck culture.)

Attending the annual family feast is something that I almost dread. I do love getting to see the new additions to the family, eating Aunt Kathy’s pumpkin pie, and smelling cherry cigars on my uncle’s sweater, but I hate getting picked on for being so eccentric. Nobody in my family understands my passion for a more eco-friendly lifestyle. Everyone makes jokes about my piercings and tattoos. And of course, my aunt always invites the neighbor boy so “there aren’t an odd nubmer of seats at the adult dinner table.” I do know that secretly she’s just trying to hook me up with him. Hey, at least I don’t have to sit at the kids table anymore.

Tomorrow will be pretty eventful for me. Maybe I should tell everyone that I’m going to get another tattoo for every joke they make about me. That’ll shut ‘em up.