so this is what I don't love you feels like

Well, I think I successfully gained five pounds since thursday. But I'm not freaking out about it. You hear that world? I'm not freaking out about it.

Alright, I'm lying. Looks like it's back to salad and veggie soup for me.

Thanksgving was good.

He and I lit a log in the firepit on the porch, we wrapped up in a blanket and enjoyed the crisp cold air. Dog on my lap, everything but the flickering flames were dark and resting. It was refreshing and dear god, I don't think I've ever been more thankful to not have to hear, "I love you" or have emotions shoved down my throat.

I don't want love, I don't want a ring, and I don't want children.

I want good friends, good bikes, and good horses.

I want to know who I am and I want to stop seeing myself as a "work in progress".

"Redlight" David Nail.

If God had a name, what would it be and would you call it to his face?

Happy belated thanksgiving. I went for a run this morning and I'm pretty sure I waddled a little bit. The best part about post thanksgiving? Cold left-overs for breakfast.

It's cool out; I can feel the winter sneaking up and the world slowing down. take a deep breath and soak it in.

My dad is brushing the basset hounds teeth.

Uh what?

Been lookin' for a reason man, somethin' to lose

I grudgingly woke up to my alarm at 0642am this morning. People that set their alarms in multiples of five always annoyed me. I tend to set mine in multiples of three. "Bleck, maybe I can learn to accept a few extra pounds" ran through my head. Then a flashback of me in a bikini in Cancun; I slipped on my asics. I was surprised by a thick fog that had crept in during the night, stealing the belligerent familiarity of my morning runs. I took a deep breath, paused, and started walking up what I affectionately refer to as, "fuck hill" (it earned it's name by the countless amount of times I've dropped the f-bomb running up it). I ended up running the neighborhood three times.

I stopped by walmart to pick up a fancy new helmet that I figured I'd crack in less than twelve hours, a camel pack with extra pockets to hold bandages and gauze, power bars, and a few other items. I took my Trek in to the shop to get the rear wheel fixed. It was also a perfectly good excuse to oogle over shiny, slender, machines of perfection in various colors. I picked up a second bike stand for the back of my truck. After all, if you have two kids, you need two car seats. Plus it meant I would get to use power tools when I got home, win-win. At some point in this mess my best friend, who is a fellow biker, cancelled on going with me. That means I was braving this extremely dangerous trail, alone. And all of central Florida (and anyone with access to google) knows I dont' have very good luck with places like that. fail-fail.

However I had no idea that I'd end up spending nearly an hour digging through cabinets as tall as me looking for two nuts to go on two bolts. Never found them. Figures.

I drove to my mothers and my step-dad helped put it together with two bolts and nuts that actually matched and were the right length. We changed out the pedals and lowered the seat on my Gary Fisher. I loaded them up, packed my camel pack, and made sure I had everything I needed.

water? Check

cell phone? Check

Bandages? Check

gauze? Check

medical tape? Check

Power bar? Check

ipod? Check

gerber knife? Check

Helmet? Check

Two sexy bikes? Check and check

a living will? ....uh

Everything was packed and ready, key in the ignition, turn over, and clickclickclickclickclick. My truck won't start. Thirty minutes later I put it in drive and head toward the park, turn around because I forgot something, and finally on my way.

I had a dispointing phone conversation on the way, "Christ! Don't you know life is passing you by!" "...yeah".

The trail was rough. I almost ate it a few times but I managed to exit with a film of dirt, bruises, and a drop or two of blood. I was anxious manuvering the trail alone. I'm not sure if it was from the omens earlier and my bad (and i mean relaly) bad luck or if its residue from one year and fifteen days ago today. I'd like to pretend that didn't leave a lasting scar. I'd also like to pretend like I didn't just eat that sherbert...

I pulled my Trek out and took it for a spin. I missed how light it feels in my hands, the way I can stretch my legs out, and hunched down and cutting though the wind. I found a playground hidden between the tree line and farside of the baseball fields. I stopped at some empty bleachers to lay down and close my eyes.

I ended up on the swingset. I must have swung for over an hour. Back and forth. reconnecting with a best friend through text while Jason Aldean poured into my ears. I was happy, I was really happy. I had a huge smile and I couldn't help but laugh when memories popped in my head.

Then I had this obsurd feeling. Despite the dirt, sweat, smelly clothes, and broken out face (thank you pms), I felt pretty. I was alone on a swingset in an empty park, watching the sunset alone and I was happy.

.

I must have swung on that swingset for over an hour, watching the sunset.

When I finally returned home I made a delcious dinner (hello brown rice, baked chicken with a white wine/garlic marinate, and steamed veggies), rented The Ugly Truth (because I'm shallow and Gerard Butler reeks sex) and did sit ups.

At any rate, my eyes are heavy and there's a math book infront of me that needs to be cracked.

She needs to feel that fire, the one that lets her know for sure

"When we run, we are already so exposed, often nearly naked in our shorts and T-shirts, huffing and puffing, purified by the effort. Briefly removed from the defenses and secrets we maintain in so much of our lives, we feel less need to hide our private thoughts, loves, fears, and stresses. We share."

Amby Burfoot, The Runner's Guide to the Meaning of Life


Out running.

Your baby needs someone to beleive in, and a whole lot of space to breathe in

I've been doing pretty well nutritionally wise for the past few days. Well, besides all the pizza and beer last night (that was a big ball of delicious fail). I'm sipping on hot tea and snacking on a sliced banana with rasin bran and cool whip.

I had a quick run today. I was feeling anxious and needed to let my thoughts bound through the sky and work out some kinks. Oh, and I knocked out a few hundred sit ups while I was at it.

I bought my Gary Fisher mountain bike this evening between classes. I don't want children; I want bikes. I want my own garage with them hanging from the beams, my own tool chest, a table, and dusty medals and numbers pinned to the walls.

I'm changing. I'm making an effort to lose the extra five pounds that have taken residence on my ass, I'm taking a good look at who I am and where I need to be, and I'm fighting my inner demon's.

Here's to hoping it's all for the better.


I'm lacing up and heading out to pound some asphault. I need to clear my head.

Be your bestfriend, tell the truth, and overuse I love you, go to work, do your best, and don't outsmart your common sense.

If I eat another cookie I think I'll literally fucking die. Maybe it's a combination of being a complete nerd and an EMT but I'd love to have a glucometer right now and check my blood sugar. It's at least four hundred. At least.

Oh god, this is worse than a hangover.

So tomorrow's game plan:
Run off the cookies that have migrated to my ass.
Match my sit ups(sit up to pound), of a small horse.
More than my weight in squats, with weights.
Shoulders.
Get completely obliterated while wearing nothing more than simpson (read, king of the hill will also suffice) boxers and Hane's boy's S undershirt.
Followed by a little Call of Duty action, a few drunk dials, and passing out by midnight.

Yep, that's my fucking game plan.


I need to kick my ass in gear, drop the 5 or so pounds of weight (not water), get my ass back into some triathlons and a marathon for that lovely little pause between fall semester and paramedic school. Besides, I'm running out of race t-shirts and let's be honest, I don't do the races to run myself into the ground, shred my ligaments, or for that moment of bliss crossing the finish line (they all start to mesh after a while). No, I do it for the t-shirts and that small complex I get when I'm ambling through public with a triathlon/race shirt and legs as solid as fucking granite.

She sits alone by a lampost, trying to find a thought that's escaped her mind

"Nothing is more sacred as the bond between a horse and a rider. No other creature can ever become so emotionally close to a human as a horse. When a horse dies, the memory lives on, because an enormous part of his owner's heart, soul, and the very existence dies also."
- Stephanie M Thorn

I needed today. I needed to wrap myself up in my head and withdrawl into my own world. I went to the park and pounded the pavement with my asics. I ran it four times stopping twice at the abandoned playground to swing on the swing sets. The wind was cool and the sky was threatening and all I could think was, "I should have swung more when I was a little kid". I love swing sets, I always have. Whenever I see them I get giddy and can't resist the urge to go for a little swing.

We rode out to the back pasture. I slipped his tack off and laid in the grass, resting my head on my well worn saddle. Savoring the smell of leather, horse, and earth. He grazed in close proximity to me, occasionally nuzzling me or waking me with soft, warm puffs of air on my cheek.

Sometimes I look at him and I try to picture my life without him.
In thirty years I'll be rounding fifty and he'll be gone. I can't imagine those times. Lines on my face, wisdom behind my eyes, my skin tan and scarred from years of living.

In thirty years the best teacher in my life will be gone and I can't even begin to cope with that idea. You'll have to drug me, I swear.

I spent the day outside with my favorite men whispering in my ears through neon orange speakers (Gary Allan, Jason Aldean, Journey). I made the executive decision to keep my phone off all day. I needed a break from all forms of human contact. I needed to soak up the day and screw my head on straight. I finally turned it on about nineteentwenty to a voicemail from a best friend. She put her horse down this evening from complications with EPM and cancer. He was such a great horse and I respect the hell out of her for everything she did to keep him happy as long as possible. Rest In Peace Tommy, you'll be missed love.

But stay awhile and maybe you'll see a different side of me

God, the 80's were such a brainfuck. Between songs like, "Every breath you take" by The Police or movies like Labyrinth and Moonwalker, I think I'm going to stroke out.

I guess I should be angry, I should feel guilty, I should be screaming. I've never been emotional and over the past year what I had left sept from me without any consent. There goes another relationship down the drain. Another notch, another album in my flickr, and another journal coming to a close.

I hate having huge metaphorical balls.

I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh lord. And I've been waiting for this moment all my life, oh lord.

"Through the curtains of rain, I spied another runner, head down, footfalls splashing. I was not alone. Both of us on our own, drenched, chasing things that perhaps can never be caught. No longer am I running from my demons, but running to look them in the eye." By Caleb Daniloff

I'm a nineteen year old runner but if you ask everyone else I'm more like a thirty-something year old with a sarcastic bite. People say I have my head screwed on straight and I'd like to think I do too, well, most of the time. I've got my daddy's temper and the mouth of a sailor. I'm uninhibited because I'm a firm believer in being who you really are instead of what society expects you to be. I push the envelope and I thrive in controversy.

I always get asked why I run so much and I usually just mutter through a response that they never really get; basically, I run for my physical, emotional, and mental health (and I'll just leave it at that). Well that and I have almost a 34" inseem, are you kidding me? I was born to run. "Running is my private time, my therapy, my religion." Gail W. Kislevitz

I've been an obsessive journal writer since I hit that angsty, awkward tween age. I have volumes of my life in ink and every juicy, humiliating, and down-right hormonal life changing (this is subject to interpretaion)incident that happened. Some were burned, others were ripped up, and the rest live in my night stand. What's left are chapters in my life I couldn't bring myself to destroy in some ludacris way...or I just never got around to. (Here's to hoping this will last longer than my relationships)

If you're looking for some sappy "The Notebook" bullshit I suggest you scroll your happy ass over to Women's Entertainment or Oxygen's (channel 44) website because you wont find it here.

I've always had a bit of a complex when it came to figuring out who I really am. I think I'll still be trying to figure me out on my death bed. So Mr/Ms high-and-mighty, goodluck and god speed.