I love how you can tell

Yes, I'm back again.

I love the smell of Dial soap. The basic orange liquid soap. It reminds me of my childhood. Good ol' hippocampus. Hands, actually. It reminds me of clean hands. How my mommy's hands would always smell like Dial soap and it made me feel safe. She never wears perfume, so I love it when I can smell something strong on her...Dial hand soap included. I guess this orange soap reminds me of the love a mother's hands possess. It's such a simple smell. No perfumes to make us smell like apples, morning dew or monkey brains. Just simple orange stuff. I love it, so sue me.

My favorite Aries, Jen Maz, came over the other night. The night's plans originally centered around watching movies and cuddling on my bed. But my bed is not a normal bed and it typically invites more than just cuddling, but actually hanging out. I can't tell you how many times my friends come over and we just hang out on my bed and converse. Jen came over and the movie never happened. Instead we laid on my bed in the dark, nestled under the covers and talked about ourselves and things that scare us, things that mend, and others that will never feel different. People truly amaze me. It seems that we all have stories, shit that others would never guess. And then you get close to people and their story is off their chest and into your ear canal. Usually I'm shocked as shit because I think I've heard all I can from a person, and then I get more and more. I guess I like it that way. It keeps me on my toes. I love it when people amaze me, especially for their strength through all the shit that's a scar on their fragile skin. Mazola is one of those people. I feel like I am a baby who just started solid foods and she is the babysitter who slides one cheerio at a time across my highchair tray. Each cheerio is a new feast for me, and a new challenge for me to gulp and figure out. Also new lessons about human beings and resiliancy. I learn from other people and their experiences. Quite often, I take them as my own until I get it. It's like walking a mental fifty miles in their shoes.

Ya know how you sometimes wish you could change yourself? You never feel pretty, smart, creative, witty, wealthy, perfect enough. It's like you'd trade your own life, because it's nothing good, for someone else's...they automatically have it easier. I feel like that sometimes. I feel like if I looked, acted, believed, thought differently, I'd be better and needed and wanted more. But then I think about how I'm me, my greatest possession, and I'm, well...sorta stuck with it. I really can't change who I am without being something I'm not, so I should just improve on what needs repair. Hey, I'm not too shabby. No one is really gross, it's just that we're never happy with what we have. We're all raised to believe the grass is greener on the other side. A chick with no beauty or wealth looks at someone famous and wishes her life was as glamorous; the celebrity, who may be gorgeous and rich, may want a normal, less critical life. Every other person has it easier than me. Every other person has it easier than you. If you actually talk to those that have it easier, they are actually miserable too. We all want to swap body parts because looking a certain way will make it easier to keep a head high and to look for life. But it all happens from the inside out, in all honesty. How you perceive yourself is how others will perceive you. I look at myself and a pretty face with deep, friendly eyes and modest smile, appears. I may not be a ravishing beauty that will grace all of the chic magazine covers of the world one day, but, hey, I ain't half bad, eh? There are days when I glance at myself and see a beautiful woman, not just a pretty little girl. I appreciate all kinds of beauty (often finding it in everyone) and I appreciate the color and shape of my eyes, the outline of my face, my hair, my collarbone. But what really counts, and shit, I know it's cliche, but it's what lies underneath. The inner me. Welcome to the danger zone. The heap of vital organs and blood is not the inner me. My psyche is what I'm talking about. Shit, what a psyche it is. I've spent many, many hours discussing my inner workings with myself (it's what I do best) and I have reasons for why I think the way I do. On the one hand, I believe that I am gorgeous and intelligent and witty and a great conversationalist. Then, the other greasy monkey mit possesses a mean side where I think I'm ugly and fat and retarded and a half-wit. Some days I get the rational hand, other times the monkey paw and I feel like I want to swap lives with someone just because they have it easier. I was raised being told that I was fat, and basically, no one would want me unless I changed how I looked on the outside. I'm not sure where the confidence that I do possess comes from, but it's there. I credit good friends (and other significants) for keeping my outlook up and out, not inward. However, I was always told that I was smart as fuck. I dont have issues with my intelligence; I'm always thriving for more with my brain. I fight with my body image, like every other girl and human being on this planet. Can you blame me? Always being told, quite frankly, that you're not good enough in one sense...and letting myself believe it. Shit shatters though. I'm getting there. It's a revolution. A true revolution that I wrote of a few months ago. And yeah, I'm likin' it. I feel like I'm just ranting with no actual point now...what the fuck was my point? I do this all of the time!! Oh yeah...it's what counts on the inside. So, you're thinking, if you feel like a frumpy walrus on the inside, how do you convey the "sexy" (as I've been told), confident gal with everything to offer. I guess it's because I don't think about what bothers me. I don't dwell and let it suffocate the beautiful girl that is there. I'm quite the looker, ya know? =p. I guess not thinking about it, makes it less apparent to my life. If I always dwelled upon the dreadful, I'd be annoying and self-pitying. I dont ignore the problems, I just don't let them consume my thoughts. That helps, I suppose. Gods, what's my point? Jeezuzzz. Shyeah, the innerworkings are functioning, yet possibly hazerdous. Eh? I don't know. I'll just shut up now because I'm not sure what my point was...

I think we're getting drunk today at Hofstra. wooot.

My uterus hurts...

I'd like to be on swings forever. It's almost like flying, but it feels more like being a kid...and I love being young again.

G'nite. I'm gonna go chat it up on AIM at 4am. Peace nukkas.