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Woke up early to go snowboarding

Had a 2 hour drive

Couldn’t keep my eyes open

Had expresso for the first time

Had too much expresso

Was really hyper

Scared Harrison because I was going 90 on the turnpike

Scared Harrison because I was driving with no hands

Got to the mountain

Got a really good parking spot

Sucked going down the mountain the first time

Thought it would get better

It didn’t

Banged my head on the ice

Had to take a break

Got disgusting food from the cafeteria

It made me miss the food at my job

That just made me hungrier

Tried to think of anything but food: nada

Went back down the mountain

Banged my head on the ice, again

Wanted to leave

Got in the car

Got more expresso

Got home at 10

Thought I was going to go to sleep early for once

Was too jittery from the expresso to sleep

Called Bari

Looked at the clock - 2:38

Blamed Bari for keeping me up late

Finally went to sleep

Going to be exhausted tomorrow

I love to spend my time sitting on my bed
Wondering what I can do instead
Maybe go on my computer
Maybe I should study 
Or just watch TV
I pull off my covers
Pay no mind to my bed hair
Strength in ever direction
Then get a cramp  that hurts like s***(excuse me for that word)
I walk to my desk and smile calmly in my head
The future cannot be formed, if your sitting on your bed
Don't wait for things to happen
Take a step forward instead

My shoes won't tie
My hair is a mess
My legs our sore
My room is a wreck
I live with people crazier than me
But I can't say that they're mean
I wonder what life would be with a blue sky
Birds flying through the sky
But instead my sky is grey
But I guess that's fine
I mean life that can be a pain
But I guess I like my life that way just telling you all the truth

On my last trip home I  lost my arm, I don’t know why or how.

I missed out on a year of my life

After so much worrying, the police finally released Kevin. He came top the hospital, it was nice to know that I didn’t lose him along with my arm.

I screamed and cried as I explained to the police that Kevin didn’t belong in the hospital. They thought that I was just in shock from what happened to my arm as they tried to understand and figure out how I lost my arm.

“How did you hurt your arm?” they asked.  “Who hurt you?” I was stuck on the words they used: Hurt. They acted as if my arm wasn’t missing. Didn’t they see it was missing.

“It was an accident.” I yelled. “An Accident.”

They started nagging me about Kevin. Their words went in one ear and out the other.

I took a long pause when they finished speaking. I yelled once more “It was an accident, Kevin did not hurt me. Get out and let me see him”

Happy Story:

I stand in a crowd and see nothing but grey figures around me.  Because the only one that matters is you, let's be together forever.

Tragic Story: I stand in a crowd and see nothing but darkness.  I'm alone and I can't find you.  I want you to know, "I miss you"

That's amore:Dean Martin

"When the moon hits you eye like a big pizza pie

That's amore
When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine
That's amore
Bells will ring ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling
And you'll sing "Vita bella"
Hearts will play tippy-tippy-tay, tippy-tippy-tay
Like a gay tarantella

When the stars make you drool just like a pasta fazool
That's amore
When you dance down the street with a cloud at your feet
You're in love
When you walk down in a dream but you know you're not
Dreaming signore
Scuzza me, but you see, back in old Napoli
That's amore"

I've been a writer. I started writing when I was 12. They were little poems that followed the AB pattern and rhymed every other line. I never invested the time to develop an advanced vocabulary so the poems consisted of overused words, but they were my poems. They were my thoughts in 12, or 14, or 24 sized font. And I cherished each poem that I started, whether I completed them or not; because they were my poems. They were my thoughts in black, or, blue, or pink ink on white paper. Those poems turned into short stories, which very quickly turned into never- ending stories.   

I am a writer. I haven't written a poem in months; but I work on my novels daily. I've added a few words to my vocabulary, but not many. The stories still seem never ending; written in pure dramatization and ending abruptly. I save any deleted content and value everything. Because these stories or scenes, are my escape into a life that I have created. A life that has been stuffed onto a 13- inch screen, but can never be limited in words, font size, or font color.

But I've never shared anything with anyone outside my comfort zone. It may seem strange my comfort zone includes people that I don't interact with physically on a day- to- day basis. I've shared my creations online or through email. I've sent 100 pages of imagination to people that live in Oklahoma, or Chicago. But when my best friend since 10th grade asks me to send him something, I get nervous. I anticipate judgement. 

I am a writer; I've been a writer. But I want to be a publisher.