Bah dada, bah dada da. Sorry, I'm just singing. I feel like Garfield today. No, I'm not orange and black striped, I don't sleep in a litter box, and I am not round and overweight. Well, maybe a bit overwieght, but who isn't? But today is Monday, and Garfield and I hate Mondays. I really do. There is nothing about Mondays that make me smile. I think they should just be a part of the weekend, and then they'd be much better days. Tuesday would be the first day of the week, and then it would be Wednesday. BUT if Tuesday were the first day of the week, would we all hate Tuesdays? Who knows...
Why do we hate Mondays? Because it is a return to reality. Our fun on the weekend is at an end and we must all go back to the boring lives we really do lead. Weekends are the times when we stay up late and enjoy freedom. Mondays are the renewal of early mornings and shackles. If ever there was a more depressing day of the week, it would be Monday.
But maybe Monday will fly and we can get to Tuesday, which is only slighty better, just because it is not Monday.
Then again, there are very few Mondays left for me to fear. The semester is almost at an end, and then England here I come! I may still hate Mondays over there, but gimme a break, it's England! But all good things must come to an end, and then adulthood is upon me and I can go back to royally hating my Mondays in peace.
Hope you have an endurable Monday, and remember the immortal words of Puss in Boots: "I hate Mondays. Leave the bottle."
Monday, March 31, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
On a snowy Sabbath
Yes, gentle readers, you read that right. Snowy Sabbath. It is March 30th and it is snowing. There is nothing so painful and grotesque as waking up early on a Sunday to find that the day has been marred by forzen precipitation. If it were November or December, we would think, "Oh, look! A lovely winter blanket for the Sabbath! How beautiful!" But as it is neither of those months, the reigning thoughts (and I did talk to the roomates and we all agree) were more along the lines of "Oh, crap!" and "No no no no no!" and "I am NOT going out in this". It's bad enough having church at 8:30 in the morning, but then throw snow on top of it? Totally rude.
If the combination of early church and snow weren't enough, we find out that it was NOT fast Sunday, and therefore could have eaten breakfast. So we were starving.
And then...THEN... we go to Relief Society and discover that I once again have to conduct the music and come up with a 5 minute music thing...all in preparation for another chastity lesson. (All groan in agony). Don't get me wrong, chastity lessons can be very useful and I am in total accordance with the Law of Chastity and the principles that go along with it. It's just that it has been a very long time since I have recieved some new insights from one of these lessons. And this one was more like a Young Women's lesson for beehives. We even said the Young Women theme before he started. I felt delightfully ...13. Not so delightful. I know that the Bishop is an inspired man called of God, but sometimes I wish he would see us as adults and not teenagers.
But enough complaining. I promised I would make you laugh, did I not? Let me see what I can come up with...
Ah ha, here's something. I got my car washed and waxed yesterday and it snowed. ...hmmm, not funny, huh? Let me try again. Our kitchen has been redone but is not done yet so we can't really make food and have eaten out three times this week. ...ok, that's not so funny either. One more time and then I' m done. One of my favorite purchases in the last two months was "The Worst Baby Name Book Ever" (no, I am not pregnant), and it gives all this horrible explanations for certain names. Today we will talk about the name Dallas. "Loosely translated, this name means 'place in which one rests' (i.e., a rest room!). A rest room. I suppose there are worse places you could name your son after, but none really come to mind right now." So sorry for all of you that wanted that name. And just for kicks and giggles, I'll embarrass myself. Becky: "Officially naming your kid a cute, child-like derivative of a serious adult name is a sure way to make sure she never grows up, never gets a job, and never moves out of your basement." Hey, I'm one for three. But then, I never lived in the basement. Dangit.
Happy Sunday!
If the combination of early church and snow weren't enough, we find out that it was NOT fast Sunday, and therefore could have eaten breakfast. So we were starving.
And then...THEN... we go to Relief Society and discover that I once again have to conduct the music and come up with a 5 minute music thing...all in preparation for another chastity lesson. (All groan in agony). Don't get me wrong, chastity lessons can be very useful and I am in total accordance with the Law of Chastity and the principles that go along with it. It's just that it has been a very long time since I have recieved some new insights from one of these lessons. And this one was more like a Young Women's lesson for beehives. We even said the Young Women theme before he started. I felt delightfully ...13. Not so delightful. I know that the Bishop is an inspired man called of God, but sometimes I wish he would see us as adults and not teenagers.
But enough complaining. I promised I would make you laugh, did I not? Let me see what I can come up with...
Ah ha, here's something. I got my car washed and waxed yesterday and it snowed. ...hmmm, not funny, huh? Let me try again. Our kitchen has been redone but is not done yet so we can't really make food and have eaten out three times this week. ...ok, that's not so funny either. One more time and then I' m done. One of my favorite purchases in the last two months was "The Worst Baby Name Book Ever" (no, I am not pregnant), and it gives all this horrible explanations for certain names. Today we will talk about the name Dallas. "Loosely translated, this name means 'place in which one rests' (i.e., a rest room!). A rest room. I suppose there are worse places you could name your son after, but none really come to mind right now." So sorry for all of you that wanted that name. And just for kicks and giggles, I'll embarrass myself. Becky: "Officially naming your kid a cute, child-like derivative of a serious adult name is a sure way to make sure she never grows up, never gets a job, and never moves out of your basement." Hey, I'm one for three. But then, I never lived in the basement. Dangit.
Happy Sunday!
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Short story time.
Ok, I'm going to give in to my rather selfish side and post the short story that I think I am going to turn in for my final project in my Creative Writing class. This is a work I have already turned in but reworked with an additional 250 words. The first draft my teacher LOVED and said it was my best work to date. So here's my new and hopefully improved version of Day is Done, Gone the Sun:
Departed. Yes, that was one way to put it. Jeff was departed. Not deployed, not overseas, and most definitely not away.
Departed. Gone. Passed.
Dead.
Riley leaned against the sturdy oak and watched the proceedings silently, far from the white tent the rest of them were under, his black wool coat and the chill matching his mood. He saw the flag draped over the coffin, a sort of grotesque reminder of the so-called “honorable” way Jeff had died.
“He saved the lives of many with his sacrifice,” the chaplain was saying. “He will be forever honored and revered for his service by those who love him.”
Did he even know Jeff? How did this guy know what the rest of them would feel?
Riley could almost hear Jeff’s voice again, just as he had seven months ago before deployment. Jeff had thrown aside his parents’ warnings and called Riley to say good-bye. If he’d known it was the last time he’d hear his little brother’s voice, he might have been nicer. As it was, he’d never forget what Jeff said.
“I know you don’t agree with what I’m doing, Riley, or with this war in general. But I want to serve my country. I feel privileged to do so. I want to see to it that others don’t have to live in fear.”
The thing was, Jeff had sounded like he actually meant it. He did mean it.
Riley jumped as he heard the commanding officer yelling at the seven men in uniform. Boys, really, by the look of them. No older than Jeff had been when he’d joined up.
Bang! Riley closed his eyes, wishing he couldn’t hear a thing.
He remembered the message his father had left on his machine three days ago.
Bang!
“Riley, it’s Dad. I know you said never to call here again, but I thought you should know….Jeff’s been killed.”
Bang!
“The funeral is in three days at St. Boniface. I just thought you should know.”
And here he was.
The poignant sounds of a bugle filled the air, the haunting “Taps” that he’d dreaded hearing turning him colder. It made Riley wish he could cover his ears and block it out.
He opened his eyes to see his father helping his mother up, watched as she cried into his chest as they walked away. He almost wished he could go with them, talk to them again, be a part of the family again. But it had been too long. Some wounds went too deep. Some memories unforgivable.
It had been nine years since he had seen them. Nine years of blatantly ignoring Christmas cards and birthday cards and birth announcements. He’d not voluntarily spoken to any of them since Jeff’s wedding. And even then he’d yelled at his father, insulted his mother, and spent the entire evening making passes at bridesmaids.
He wondered if his parents knew that his parole had ended two years ago, if they knew he’d completed rehab and been sober for a year, or if they knew he’d kept a solid job for eight months and was up for a promotion. Did they know? Would they even care?
Probably not.
His eyes wandered back to the coffin. Laura was kneeling there with the kids, tears streaming down her cheeks as she stared at Jeff’s picture.
The brothers were so close in looks, people had always said, but so different in everything else.
He shifted his gaze to the kids, whom he’d only seen in pictures. Jackson looked so much like Jeff at age 6 that it shocked Riley and he swallowed hard. Aimee was a miniature Laura with her blonde curls tucked under her fashionable black hat. She had a worn out teddy bear in her arms, clutching it around the neck.
Laura stood slowly and took Jackson’s hand as he bravely saluted the coffin. Aimee trotted forward and placed the bear on the flowers in front of the headstone, then took Laura’s other hand and the three of them walked down the hill to the limo.
Riley’s eyes slowly slid back to the headstone. Compelled by a force he didn’t understand, he walked over and knelt before it, unsure what he was going to say or do, the damp grass soaking his pants. His fingers came in contact with the bear Aimee had placed and he picked it up.
It was Jeff’s old bear. The one Riley had stolen countless times and thrown into the dirtiest mess he could find. The one Jeff had protected fiercely, even when Riley had teased him about it.
Riley ran his hands over the tattered bear with a shaky laugh that quickly turned into something else.
Jeff’s voice was back in his head, the last words he’d said to him. “I love you, bro.”
Riley had only been half listening at the time. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he’d said over the din of his friends watching the Colts game.
But did Jeff know? Had he known what Riley really felt?
He closed his eyes now, embarrassed by the tears, by the memories. “I love you too, Jeff,” he whispered, clutching the bear tightly in one hand while the other covered his face.
He heard light footsteps and turned. There was little Aimee, her blue eyes wide and staring. She looked at the bear he was holding, then back down the hill where the family waited, then back at him.
After a long moment, her little hand reached forward and, without hesitation, grabbed two of his fingers and pulled with all her three-year-old strength. Curious, Riley got to his feet and walked with her, letting her lead. She smiled up at him brightly and continued to pull him down the hill to meet the awaiting family.
No one said a word. Then his father smiled and pulled him close, Riley still holding Aimee’s hand.
I hope you all like it, and if you have any suggestions, by all means, tell me. It's due in two weeks, so you've got time! I know it's not very funny and you all like me cuz I'm funny, but there are times when seriousness is better. I'll make you laugh tomorrow, I promise. Happy weekend!
Departed. Yes, that was one way to put it. Jeff was departed. Not deployed, not overseas, and most definitely not away.
Departed. Gone. Passed.
Dead.
Riley leaned against the sturdy oak and watched the proceedings silently, far from the white tent the rest of them were under, his black wool coat and the chill matching his mood. He saw the flag draped over the coffin, a sort of grotesque reminder of the so-called “honorable” way Jeff had died.
“He saved the lives of many with his sacrifice,” the chaplain was saying. “He will be forever honored and revered for his service by those who love him.”
Did he even know Jeff? How did this guy know what the rest of them would feel?
Riley could almost hear Jeff’s voice again, just as he had seven months ago before deployment. Jeff had thrown aside his parents’ warnings and called Riley to say good-bye. If he’d known it was the last time he’d hear his little brother’s voice, he might have been nicer. As it was, he’d never forget what Jeff said.
“I know you don’t agree with what I’m doing, Riley, or with this war in general. But I want to serve my country. I feel privileged to do so. I want to see to it that others don’t have to live in fear.”
The thing was, Jeff had sounded like he actually meant it. He did mean it.
Riley jumped as he heard the commanding officer yelling at the seven men in uniform. Boys, really, by the look of them. No older than Jeff had been when he’d joined up.
Bang! Riley closed his eyes, wishing he couldn’t hear a thing.
He remembered the message his father had left on his machine three days ago.
Bang!
“Riley, it’s Dad. I know you said never to call here again, but I thought you should know….Jeff’s been killed.”
Bang!
“The funeral is in three days at St. Boniface. I just thought you should know.”
And here he was.
The poignant sounds of a bugle filled the air, the haunting “Taps” that he’d dreaded hearing turning him colder. It made Riley wish he could cover his ears and block it out.
He opened his eyes to see his father helping his mother up, watched as she cried into his chest as they walked away. He almost wished he could go with them, talk to them again, be a part of the family again. But it had been too long. Some wounds went too deep. Some memories unforgivable.
It had been nine years since he had seen them. Nine years of blatantly ignoring Christmas cards and birthday cards and birth announcements. He’d not voluntarily spoken to any of them since Jeff’s wedding. And even then he’d yelled at his father, insulted his mother, and spent the entire evening making passes at bridesmaids.
He wondered if his parents knew that his parole had ended two years ago, if they knew he’d completed rehab and been sober for a year, or if they knew he’d kept a solid job for eight months and was up for a promotion. Did they know? Would they even care?
Probably not.
His eyes wandered back to the coffin. Laura was kneeling there with the kids, tears streaming down her cheeks as she stared at Jeff’s picture.
The brothers were so close in looks, people had always said, but so different in everything else.
He shifted his gaze to the kids, whom he’d only seen in pictures. Jackson looked so much like Jeff at age 6 that it shocked Riley and he swallowed hard. Aimee was a miniature Laura with her blonde curls tucked under her fashionable black hat. She had a worn out teddy bear in her arms, clutching it around the neck.
Laura stood slowly and took Jackson’s hand as he bravely saluted the coffin. Aimee trotted forward and placed the bear on the flowers in front of the headstone, then took Laura’s other hand and the three of them walked down the hill to the limo.
Riley’s eyes slowly slid back to the headstone. Compelled by a force he didn’t understand, he walked over and knelt before it, unsure what he was going to say or do, the damp grass soaking his pants. His fingers came in contact with the bear Aimee had placed and he picked it up.
It was Jeff’s old bear. The one Riley had stolen countless times and thrown into the dirtiest mess he could find. The one Jeff had protected fiercely, even when Riley had teased him about it.
Riley ran his hands over the tattered bear with a shaky laugh that quickly turned into something else.
Jeff’s voice was back in his head, the last words he’d said to him. “I love you, bro.”
Riley had only been half listening at the time. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he’d said over the din of his friends watching the Colts game.
But did Jeff know? Had he known what Riley really felt?
He closed his eyes now, embarrassed by the tears, by the memories. “I love you too, Jeff,” he whispered, clutching the bear tightly in one hand while the other covered his face.
He heard light footsteps and turned. There was little Aimee, her blue eyes wide and staring. She looked at the bear he was holding, then back down the hill where the family waited, then back at him.
After a long moment, her little hand reached forward and, without hesitation, grabbed two of his fingers and pulled with all her three-year-old strength. Curious, Riley got to his feet and walked with her, letting her lead. She smiled up at him brightly and continued to pull him down the hill to meet the awaiting family.
No one said a word. Then his father smiled and pulled him close, Riley still holding Aimee’s hand.
I hope you all like it, and if you have any suggestions, by all means, tell me. It's due in two weeks, so you've got time! I know it's not very funny and you all like me cuz I'm funny, but there are times when seriousness is better. I'll make you laugh tomorrow, I promise. Happy weekend!
Friday, March 28, 2008
Harvesting
Funny/disgusting story time. Yesterday I was on campus with Jenny and we were just minding our own buisness when Jen suddenly grabbed my arm and said "That guy is picking his nose!" I was skeptical. I mean, c'mon, we're college students for crying out loud. But I turned and, sure enough, there he was. But it wasn't some accidental hooking. This was a deep, plunging, digging for clams harvest. I was embarrassed for him. "That's sick," I said and went back to what I was doing. Not two seconds later, Jenny goes, "Oh my gosh, he just ate it!" "Oh, yeah right," I said. For real, nobody does that outside the first grade. But curiosity got the better of me, and I began watching. Horror of horrors, the college student was indeed eating the rewards of his endeavors. My stomach clenched and I just stared at him (don't worry, we were in a discreet location and he couldn't see us). How in the world could a mature person do something so disgustingly childish? Not to mention really really gross! But then I thought, what is mature? I have some male relatives in their seventies that are hilariously immature, and I know some young men that are wise beyond their years.
So, besides wanting the rest of you to be thoroughly disgusted this morning, I do have a point. What do we do when we think no one is looking? Would we be embarrassed if we were caught? Would we lie? Would we do it again regardless? Would we care?
These are all things I asked myself, and I can honestly say...I have no idea. But I'll pay more attention to myself (boy, that sounds uber-superior of me) and watch for those things that I do that no one else sees (I hope) and I'll let you know. It'll be a growing experience for all, and hopefully not embarrassing for me.
Anyways, happy Friday and good weekend! And if you go digging for clams, bring a spade.
So, besides wanting the rest of you to be thoroughly disgusted this morning, I do have a point. What do we do when we think no one is looking? Would we be embarrassed if we were caught? Would we lie? Would we do it again regardless? Would we care?
These are all things I asked myself, and I can honestly say...I have no idea. But I'll pay more attention to myself (boy, that sounds uber-superior of me) and watch for those things that I do that no one else sees (I hope) and I'll let you know. It'll be a growing experience for all, and hopefully not embarrassing for me.
Anyways, happy Friday and good weekend! And if you go digging for clams, bring a spade.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Ode to Thursdays
Ah, Thursdays. Interesting day. Passed the middle of the week, but not quite Friday. Thursdays get a lot of flack for being one of those boring days that we can't wait to get through. I myself find Thursdays to be a drag day, the one that I just have to get through in order for my weekend to commence.
Thursdays start early, usually late, though, as I cannot manage to get myself out of bed early enough to warrant a decent shower and proper attire. Thursdays are the days of sweats and ponytails, and sleeping in class. Anyway, then I get to come home and doze/read/write until I have to do something else. If my softball team is in town, I have practice at 11:30 until 5ish, but if they are out of town, I have the entire day for me...until 5:10, and then I have to go to my creative writing class where I learn about how much I don't know about writing and that I'll never make it in that field. But I prove myself wrong every time. Especially last big project when I got the high score on the short story. BOOYAH!! Eat that, Professor!
After living through aspiring writers' hell, I come home and face the roommates, who recognize my face but struggle to remember my name. We usually veg, get to know each other again, and eat all sorts of food that only college students can get away with. Sometimes we make a trip to Borders, which is bad as we all have a book fettish and therefore cannot talk each other out of buying yet another book for our exponentially growing libraries. How I am going to move everything in one trip, I do not know.
Anywho, then Thursdays are over and Fridays can begin with the best beginning of all--sleeping in!
Happy Thursday, my pals! Tomorrow is Friday!
Thursdays start early, usually late, though, as I cannot manage to get myself out of bed early enough to warrant a decent shower and proper attire. Thursdays are the days of sweats and ponytails, and sleeping in class. Anyway, then I get to come home and doze/read/write until I have to do something else. If my softball team is in town, I have practice at 11:30 until 5ish, but if they are out of town, I have the entire day for me...until 5:10, and then I have to go to my creative writing class where I learn about how much I don't know about writing and that I'll never make it in that field. But I prove myself wrong every time. Especially last big project when I got the high score on the short story. BOOYAH!! Eat that, Professor!
After living through aspiring writers' hell, I come home and face the roommates, who recognize my face but struggle to remember my name. We usually veg, get to know each other again, and eat all sorts of food that only college students can get away with. Sometimes we make a trip to Borders, which is bad as we all have a book fettish and therefore cannot talk each other out of buying yet another book for our exponentially growing libraries. How I am going to move everything in one trip, I do not know.
Anywho, then Thursdays are over and Fridays can begin with the best beginning of all--sleeping in!
Happy Thursday, my pals! Tomorrow is Friday!
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Words of Wisdom
Last night I was in the car with my roommates (a not so unusual occurance) and we were chatting about various books that we have read in the past (a rather extensive list). Two of the books mentioned involve men falling in love with women that society had dubbed plain and unattractive and they had no prospects for marriage. With each of these women, their male counterparts found them beautiful and beguiling and absolutely amazing (gives hope to the rest of us, doesn't it?), and they didn't understand why the world doesn't see it. Obviously, the three of us really liked these stories and the emphasis on inner beauty, but also how these women were also pyhsically beautiful to the men who loved them. Then my roommate Whitney made this comment: If every woman in the world was absolutely gorgeous and phsycially beautiful except one, would that woman be more beautiful because she was different?
It made me pause and think. I still don't know the answer a few hours later, but it was something to ponder on. We're all given the looks we are and we must muddle through with them, but more than that, we should be proud of the way we look. We only get one body so like what you get!
Reminds me of a quote from Don Juan Demarco. Ok, so he's a bit of a womanizer and a wealth of sensuality, but he got this one right.
"When I say that all my women are dazzling beauties, they object. The nose of this one is too large; the hips of another, they are too wide; perhaps the breasts of a third, they are too small. But I see these women for how they truly are... glorious, radiant, spectacular, and perfect... because I am not limited by my eyesight. Women react to me in the way they do, Don Octavio, because they sense that I search out the beauty that lies within until it overwhelms everything else."
So, be the dazzling beauty that you are, ladies. Because we are worth it, and it'd be a shame to be anything else.
It made me pause and think. I still don't know the answer a few hours later, but it was something to ponder on. We're all given the looks we are and we must muddle through with them, but more than that, we should be proud of the way we look. We only get one body so like what you get!
Reminds me of a quote from Don Juan Demarco. Ok, so he's a bit of a womanizer and a wealth of sensuality, but he got this one right.
"When I say that all my women are dazzling beauties, they object. The nose of this one is too large; the hips of another, they are too wide; perhaps the breasts of a third, they are too small. But I see these women for how they truly are... glorious, radiant, spectacular, and perfect... because I am not limited by my eyesight. Women react to me in the way they do, Don Octavio, because they sense that I search out the beauty that lies within until it overwhelms everything else."
So, be the dazzling beauty that you are, ladies. Because we are worth it, and it'd be a shame to be anything else.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
My realizations
There comes a time in every woman's life when she looks back on what she has accomplished and wonders if it was all worth it. Typically this occurs around menopause. I must be way ahead of my time because I've started doing that. I'm young, I know, but sometimes I feel like I've lived forever. Which is, of course, ridiculous as I have experienced very little in my life and haven't had time to accomplish much of anything, but here I go anyway.
I'm about to graduate college, so I am at a crossroads of sorts. The leaping off point from proverbial childhood into adulthood. And I wonder, am I ready for it? What in the heck makes me ready to be an adult, to make adult decisions and have to follow through with them? Bills, work, food, dating, and all of those wonderful adult-ish things that will come to me start to spin around my head like the little birds around the head of a cartoon who has just fallen from impossible heights.
I will graduate in Athletic Training, which is a good program and a promising career path. But I don't actually want to be an Athletic Trainer. Not really, anyway. Not enough money, too many hours. and too little respect. Plus, I feel too much like a man. It's affected my social life out here, at least that is what I tell myself. But massage therapy school will be a great blessing because I actually want to do that.
As some of you might know, I have taken up writing as a hobby...and found that I am pretty good at it. Which cycles back around to why I chose my major. I have no idea. If I can do this, why didn't I start earlier? Why didn't someone tell me that I could do this?
And then there's the part of me that will never be really satisfied with my life because I have not the courage to work on it. My musical side is a quieter part, mostly because there is always somebody better, so why bother? It's cowardly, I know, but there it is.
So why am I blabbering off on all of these tangents? I'll tell you...I don't know. But I do know--and here's where the realization comes in-- that there are so many sides to me and either I am the most complex human being ever created or we are all like that, with so many different aspects that we can find ourselves in which ever way we want.
Which leads me to ask you all the question: Who are you really?
I'm about to graduate college, so I am at a crossroads of sorts. The leaping off point from proverbial childhood into adulthood. And I wonder, am I ready for it? What in the heck makes me ready to be an adult, to make adult decisions and have to follow through with them? Bills, work, food, dating, and all of those wonderful adult-ish things that will come to me start to spin around my head like the little birds around the head of a cartoon who has just fallen from impossible heights.
I will graduate in Athletic Training, which is a good program and a promising career path. But I don't actually want to be an Athletic Trainer. Not really, anyway. Not enough money, too many hours. and too little respect. Plus, I feel too much like a man. It's affected my social life out here, at least that is what I tell myself. But massage therapy school will be a great blessing because I actually want to do that.
As some of you might know, I have taken up writing as a hobby...and found that I am pretty good at it. Which cycles back around to why I chose my major. I have no idea. If I can do this, why didn't I start earlier? Why didn't someone tell me that I could do this?
And then there's the part of me that will never be really satisfied with my life because I have not the courage to work on it. My musical side is a quieter part, mostly because there is always somebody better, so why bother? It's cowardly, I know, but there it is.
So why am I blabbering off on all of these tangents? I'll tell you...I don't know. But I do know--and here's where the realization comes in-- that there are so many sides to me and either I am the most complex human being ever created or we are all like that, with so many different aspects that we can find ourselves in which ever way we want.
Which leads me to ask you all the question: Who are you really?
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