Burnt Meat

When I was two years old, my parents divorced. I've spend half of my life at my mother's house and the other half at my father's. My mom knew how to cook, how to prepare a meal, how to raise a child. My dad however, that was another story. He'd never had to take care of anyone on his own. And I was so little there was nothing I could do to help. He almost set the house on fire multiple times. Once, he even put the cardboard from a pizza box in the oven with the actual pizza. But my father always did whatever he could to take care of me. One of my favorite examples of this occurred from the age of four to twelve. Dad never really learned how to cook, so, to feed me, he would grill. We used to have an ugly old screened-in porch with a rickety grill that always smelled slightly wrong. He was always so afraid that he would poison me with uncooked meat that he would burnt the food until it was black. For a long time, I didn't really care what I ate. I would gnaw on that shoe leather and not think anything of it. Now, my father actually takes the meat off of the grill before it completely loses flavor. But it tastes wrong too me. The only kind of meat I can eat is when it's completely black. People think I'm crazy and weird for it, but it's just become part of who I am. And whenever I smell grilled meat, I think about my dad and all the sacrifices he made for me. He always did whatever he could do to make me happy. And for that I am always grateful. I'll never be able to repay him for all the love he's given me. He's one of my best friends and he's taught me how to live and how to survive. And most important, he's taught me how to love.

This Was When...

This is my mother.
This is her beautiful face and her beautiful skin and her beautiful soul.
This is my best friend.
This is her black shirt, her blue jeans.
This is her hair tied back, tamed.
This is my grandmother.
This is her purple sweater and her soft hands.
This is my grandmother's blonde curls.
This is her gentle smile.
This is me, in a time when my crazy hair didn't matter.
This was when my weight made no difference and I wasn't always confused.

This was when the world was simpler and more complex than it would ever be.
This was when staring up at the clouds, laying on my driveway, could solve any problem.
This was when I didn't need good grades to be happy.
This was when everything felt better.

Revision #3

Original - 
In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. He said I had a gift. He told me that a person can do whatever they like when they write. He smiled when he told me, knowing that he’d just given me the secret to unlocking Pandora’s Box. I came to discover that he was right. When I write, I can escape, cross over into some other world where the boundaries of time and space don’t exist. If I wanted, I could build a trampoline out of clouds and propel myself up into the night. I could even dance with the stars. I could set with the sun and glow like the moon. I could make an invisible key and unlock myself from any cage. I might even be able to fly without wings. I can ride whales across an ocean that’s truly blue and I’d never have to hold my breath. When I write, I can create a world all my own. My father told me I could. He wouldn’t lie, not to me. I could be the founder of an alien colony on Neptune who tries to make contact with Earth, or I could be the leader of a herd of dragons. I can write and leave everything and everyone behind. It’s a voyage I often take alone, although it is not necessary to be alone. I could take any companion with me, even if they’ve been claimed by the grave centuries ago. Even if they never existed at all. But I like to be alone. I can do whatever it is I happen to please. But my world is starting to crumble. I can feel it, like a poison just on the tip of my tongue. If I move or bend back, the poison will slide down my throat. I can see elements of this place I’ve created slipping into the cracks of places I didn’t build. I shouldn’t be scared, but I am. I’m frightened. The whirlpool of a life that isn’t real is beginning to engulf me. I can feel the darkness and light battling just under the surface of the wind, their war invisible. Fire bubbles beneath the unbroken tread of the waters, ready to emerge the moment my heartbeat flutters. I can’t even move on solid ground now, the foundation shutters and falls away, and I am left with gravity’s betrayal. My father would be ashamed. Now, I do the only thing I know how to do. I write, I escape. And I know there will come a day, soon, where my writing swallows me. When I escape forever, and am never allowed to return. I look forward to it. Then I went back into the house and write, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.  
Revision - 
In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. He said I had a gift. I didn't quite realize what he meant when he used the word gift. At that age, every gift is one wrapped in green paper, under the tree until Christmas. I didn't realize what having a gift meant. It wasn't until I really began working a pencil and paper that I truly began to realize what it meant. He would read the scrawl I'd scribbled down on a blank canvas and weep. He said it was beautiful. He said I was beautiful. But when I read whatever story I was working on that day, I'd see nothing more than grey letters. They meant nothing. In time, I began to force myself to see something better. To see whatever it was my father saw. He told me I could travel the world without leaving my room. He told me that a person can do whatever they like when they write. He smiled when he told me, knowing that he’d just given me the secret to unlocking Pandora’s Box. I came to discover that he was right. In school, the teachers and my classmates began to see my potential. At first, what I experienced was fits of angry jealously from the other students. It was awful. I didn't understand what they wanted, they wanted something I couldn't give them, And even knowing I couldn't give it too them seemed to fuel the anger. But over time, everyone realized that I was something far too special for petty emotions. They realized that I was not to be written off. When I write, I can escape, cross over into some other world where the boundaries of time and space don’t exist. If I wanted, I could build a trampoline out of clouds and propel myself up into the night. I could even dance with the stars. I could set with the sun and glow like the moon. I could make an invisible key and unlock myself from any cage. I might even be able to fly without wings. I can ride whales across an ocean that’s truly blue and I’d never have to hold my breath. When I write, I can create a world all my own. And as I continued to create this world, I began to grow unsatisfied with my own. I began to see the vibrant summer grass as listless and dull. The moon was nothing more than a rock in the sky. Life became ugly and worthless. And I came to realize that I had an addiction. I became addicted to a drug that only I could supply. But what did it matter? I could create anything I wanted, couldn't I? My father told me I could. He wouldn’t lie, not to me. I could be the founder of an alien colony on Neptune who tries to make contact with Earth, or I could be the leader of a herd of dragons. I can write and leave everything and everyone behind. It’s a voyage I often take alone, although it is not necessary to be alone. I could take any companion with me, even if they’ve been claimed by the grave centuries ago. Even if they never existed at all. But I like to be alone. Alone is what I do best. It feels like I've been alone all my life. I see the other people around me, but they look like stick figures. Little stick figures without a life or a mind of their own. It's like they walk in a constant fog, and my head sticks out just barely above the cloud cover. Every once in a while I want to join them. I feel the desire to hold my breath and shove my head down into the dark abyss and let their stick figure world take me away. But I know I can't do that. I couldn't survive in their universe. And besides, my little planet is beautiful, isn't it? I can do whatever it is I happen to please, can't I? I always thought I could, my father said I could. He's gone somewhere, somewhere I can't follow. My world is starting to crumble. I can feel it, like a poison just on the tip of my tongue. If I move or bend back, the poison will slide down my throat. I can see elements of this place I’ve created slipping into the cracks of places I didn’t build. I shouldn’t be scared, but I am. I’m frightened. The whirlpool of a life that isn’t real is beginning to engulf me. I can feel the darkness and light battling just under the surface of the wind, their war invisible. Fire bubbles beneath the unbroken tread of the waters, ready to emerge the moment my heartbeat flutters. I can’t even move on solid ground now, the foundation shutters and falls away, and I am left with gravity’s betrayal. My father would be ashamed. Now, I do the only thing I know how to do. I write, I escape. And I know there will come a day, soon, where my writing swallows me. When I escape forever, and am never allowed to return. I look forward to it. Then I went back into the house and write, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.  

Revision #2

Original - 

Pain can be the only thing to let you know you’re still alive... sometimes I wonder if I was even born at all. I know I had to have been born. I breath, I eat, I even sleep and wake up the next morning. But every now and then I wonder if I really exist. I’ve never felt real. I’ve always felt like an idea, a fleeting little wisp who’s never quite there. People look at me, and it feels as if they don’t quite see me standing right in front of them. They say things and the words vanish. And every now and then I think I disappear. I just dissipate. Better yet, I evaporate, like a puddle of water on hot pavement. But now I feel as if, one day soon, I’ll just cease to exist all together. One morning, a morning that felt like a glitch in a timeline I could never be part of, I floated down to the living room. That’s when I first noticed the changes. I couldn’t see any pictures of me. Not that I’d seen any before, but surely my mother and my father had to have some. I was their child, their reason for living and all that. But I didn’t see anything. A stranger could walk in and have no idea they’d ever even had me. Had it always been that way? When my mother walked into the room, her stance was firm. Gravity and her feet nailed her to the ground. I hated her. I wanted to be able to do that, and not feel like I was falling all the time. I expected some sort of greeting. But I never got it. I called her name. She looked at me, blankly. It was like she was seeing me for the first time. I could almost see the shock, the horror, in her eyes. She didn’t even know me. Then, she blinked and her face was an icy slate. She passed through me, her solid body finding its way over me. She left. She walked out the door. I never saw her come back again. I don’t know if she ever did. I wonder if she remembers me, even the fragment of my presence. I wonder if she can look back and think of a ghost who might have existed once, and might very well have not. I could feel myself becoming extinct. I went through the house, looking for something that could confirm me, and who I was. I went to my room. It didn’t look special. It looked like a regular guest bedroom, nothing to say that I’d ever slept there, or played on the carpet when I was young, or had my first kiss by the window. It was empty, memory was just a word. It held no meaning or structure. It had to have happened. I know it did. I lived once, didn’t I? I turned and looked around. But I couldn’t see anything that spoke to me, calling my name in longing. My name, what was my name? I didn’t know. I had one, didn’t I? Everyone had a name. I looked at my fingers, and saw nothing. I looked at my legs, and saw nothing. I went to the mirror. And saw nothing. The last thing I can remember going through, what I suppose would be my mind, was to wish for pain. To hunger for it. Just so I could know that I used to be something. So when the air passes next to you, look for me, would you? It’s been lonely, and I wouldn’t mind the conversation. 

Revision - 

Pain can be the only thing to let you know you’re still alive...people hate pain because it makes them feel something unpleasant. They hate being powerless to stop that throbbing, burning, pounding. People can sometimes find escape in sleep. I bet that feels nice, to drift away like that and have troubles float away from the mind and off into the distance. Still, sooner or later, we all have to wake up. Every now and then I'll think about the people who hate themselves for feeling everything too deeply. I'd like to go talk to them, tell them how foolish they are. Sometimes I wonder if I was even born at all. I know I had to have been born. I breath, I eat, I even sleep and wake up the next morning. But every now and then I wonder if I really exist. I’ve never felt real. I’ve always felt like an idea, a fleeting little wisp who’s never quite there. People look at me, and it feels as if they don’t quite see me standing right in front of them. They say things and the words vanish. And every now and then I think I disappear. People don't think that's possible. But how would they know? It's not like a medical condition, it can't be cured with medication or treatment. I think it's in the mind of everyone. That tiny little dust speck of a fear that can be easily ignored. But's it's still there, haunting. And I can feel that ghost coming for me, it's coming fast and there's nothing I can do. I'm standing still in the middle of a freeway. I'll just dissipate. Better yet, I evaporate, like a puddle of water on hot pavement. But now I feel as if, one day soon, I’ll just cease to exist all together. One morning, a morning that felt like a glitch in a timeline I could never be part of, I floated down to the living room. That’s when I first noticed the changes. I couldn’t see any pictures of me. Not that I’d seen any before, but surely my mother and my father had to have some. I was their child, their reason for living and all that. But I didn’t see anything. A stranger could walk in and have no idea they’d ever even had me. Existence is funny that way. The only proof that you're alive is evidence. Registered evidence of birth, life, death. The gravestones with the little dash in the middle of two dates. A body, a corpse. It's all evidence. And I had none for myself, I had none to show and prove my point to myself and everyone else. Had it always been that way? When my mother walked into the room, her stance was firm. Gravity and her feet nailed her to the ground. I hated her. I wanted to be able to do that, and not feel like I was falling all the time. I expected some sort of greeting. But I never got it. I called her name. She looked at me, blankly. It was like she was seeing me for the first time. I could almost see the shock, the horror, in her eyes. She didn’t even know me. Then, she blinked and her face was an icy slate. She passed through me, her solid body finding its way over me. She left. She walked out the door. I never saw her come back again. I don’t know if she ever did. I wonder if she remembers me, even the fragment of my presence. I wonder if she can look back and think of a ghost who might have existed once, and might very well have not. I think she might recall some of the good stuff, like when I scraped my knee in the park and she carried me all the way home. When I called her and asked her to pick me up from a party because I'd been drinking. The day I first drove a car. Maybe she dreams of me, not really me but the scent of my soul. She might laugh when she wakes up and talk to everyone about the crazy nightmare she'd had. I could feel myself becoming extinct. I went through the house, looking for something that could confirm me, and who I was. I went to my room. It didn’t look special. It looked like a regular guest bedroom, nothing to say that I’d ever slept there, or played on the carpet when I was young, or had my first kiss by the window. It was empty, memory was just a word. It held no meaning or structure. It had to have happened. I know it did. I lived once, didn’t I? I turned and looked around. But I couldn’t see anything that spoke to me, calling my name in longing. My name, what was my name? I didn’t know. I had one, didn’t I? Everyone had a name. I looked at my fingers, and saw nothing. I looked at my legs, and saw nothing. I went to the mirror. And saw nothing. The last thing I can remember going through, what I suppose would be my mind, was to wish for pain. To hunger for it. Just so I could know that I used to be something. So when the air passes next to you, look for me, would you? It’s been lonely, and I wouldn’t mind the conversation. 

Revision #1

Original -
He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late. It was on the very first page. In massive black letters. Beware. Beware. He'd done all he could. She never woke up. Her eyes stayed shut, clamped tightly together under the weight of the spell. She wasn’t going to wake up. Not now, not again. He knew this much. He couldn't help but feel satisfied. Liberated. That was a better word, more descriptive. He almost laughed. If anyone knew about words, it was him. He stood over her bed as the vines and plant-life growing from the book began to engulf her, really engulf her. Even if the idea of her demise was pleasing, he was glad she was in a state of slumber. Nothing was worse than being awake when it happened. He still remembered. He remembered screaming and shouting and seeing no response from his family. They looked right through him. He wasn’t real anymore. They’d be dead now, dead for hundreds of years. He wondered how his mother passed, how old his father lived to, who his sister had married. He’d never know. He didn’t really recall them now. He couldn’t think of their names. They were blurry, surrounded in a perpetual kind of fog in his mind. But he knew once they’d been blood. Even if his existence with them was wiped away. He watched as the girl’s arm slid into the book. A blinding light shown from the vines and flowers. It had started. She still didn’t wake up. But how could she? The book was being merciful. Even it knows that there’s nothing more painful than ceasing to exist. And it’s a different kind of pain. It’s the empty kind, the bleak kind. The kind that throws you into an abyss. He sometimes thinks he recollects what it was like to be tangible, to be a measurable form. He knew it was probably just his imagination, the book playing tricks on him. The book has a sense of humor. You could feel it laughing at you once you were inside. Once it had lured you into its prison. She’d know that laughter soon. He wondered how she’d react. The real curse of the book isn’t the book itself. It’s everyone else. Whoever reads the book is trapped, and the other poor soul is released. So the story never really gets told. It’s sort of just known, a little piece of it ingrained in everyone’s mind. No one really knows how it got there and no one will notice when it vanishes. She won’t even be free to be caged. Maybe he should burn the book. He’d considered it while he was waiting. He fantasized about going to a fireplace and destroying it forever. But what would happened to her? He cocked his head, almost her entire torso was sucked in. Her legs too. He wondered how she’d be described. Would they mention her hair? She had the most beautiful hair. He still knew how the book once described him. It had focused on his eyes. Every five pages, there had to be something about his eyes. But he himself had forgotten what color they really were long ago. Once the girl was gone, he’d cover this room in mirrors. He’d look at his eyes at least five times a day. He’d never forget again. The vines were wrapping around her shoulders. He was so close. He was so close to freedom. He smiled, for the first time in centuries. What would her title be? His was Prince of Water’s End. Children loved him once, he was every little girl’s first love and sparked the first hint of jealously in little boys. When the children got older, they looked back on him and smile. They’d say that they remembered reading him in school, and watching the cartoon adaption of his life on television. But he wasn’t really there. And when he was forgotten, no one would really take notice. The book pulled her closer, her neck contorting as it descended. She wouldn’t even be a memory anymore. She’d be nothing more than a silly fairy-tale. A character. She was still sleeping, he could hear her quite breaths become sharp. She was struggling. His stomach began to sink. Suddenly he wanted to stop it, stop all of this. But then he didn’t want to stop anything, he just wanted it to go faster. Then he wanted to close the book and decimate it and throw the tattered pages into the wind. Her head was gone now, all that remained was one eyes and a cheekbone. He let out a deep sigh. That’s when it happened. The eye opened. She was awake, vibrantly awake. The book had woken her up at the very last minute. He gasped and covered his mouth. That one eye could hold so much emotion. Horror. Confusion. Betrayed. The book lingered on her eyes, waiting a while before finally swallowing her and closing itself. He sank to his knees. That was the book’s way of punishing him. He stayed slumped on the floor for some time. Then he reached up. He wanted to see the title. She deserved that much.  He reached up and pulled the book from the bed. The title wasn’t written in any real language. She’d been written by Charles Perrault. And by The Brothers Grimm. And then later by Walt Disney. It fit her. And the book was laughing. “Sleeping Beauty.” 
Revision - 
He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late. It was on the very first page. In massive black letters. Beware. Beware. He'd done all he could. She never woke up. Her eyes stayed shut, clamped tightly together under the weight of the spell. She wasn’t going to wake up. Not now, not again. He knew this much. He couldn't help but feel satisfied. Liberated. That was a better word, more descriptive. He almost laughed. If anyone knew about words, it was him. He stood over her bed as the vines and plant-life growing from the book began to engulf her, really engulf her. Even if the idea of her demise was pleasing, he was glad she was in a state of slumber. Nothing was worse than being awake when it happened. He still remembered. He remembered screaming and shouting and seeing no response from his family. They looked right through him. He wasn’t real anymore. They’d be dead now, dead for hundreds of years. He wondered how his mother passed, how old his father lived to, who his sister had married. He’d never know. He didn’t really recall them now. He couldn’t think of their names. They were blurry, surrounded in a perpetual kind of fog in his mind. But he knew once they’d been blood. He knew once they'd felt love for him, real love. Sometimes he thinks about love and what if must have felt like. Would he ever fall in love again? In the book, he'd married a princess. She'd been beautiful, and the book had claimed they'd been in love. But that can't be right. He didn't get a say in the matter. He was once devoutly religious. He wondered what religion he'd practiced. He thinks back. But he can't recall. Still, he knows that he used to believe in something beyond this life. And that could be true, and if it was, his parents - his family - would be at peace somewhere. And maybe they remembered him. Even if his existence with them was wiped away. He watched as the girl’s arm slid into the book. A blinding light shown from the vines and flowers. It had started. She still didn’t wake up. But how could she? The book was being merciful. Even it knows that there’s nothing more painful than ceasing to exist. And it’s a different kind of pain. It’s the empty kind, the bleak kind. The kind that throws you into an abyss. He sometimes thinks he recollects what it was like to be tangible, to be a measurable form. He knew it was probably just his imagination, the book playing tricks on him. The book has a sense of humor. You could feel it laughing at you once you were inside. Once it had lured you into its prison. She’d know that laughter soon. He wondered how she’d react. The real curse of the book isn’t the book itself. It’s everyone else. Whoever reads the book is trapped, and the other poor soul is released. So the story never really gets told. It’s sort of just known, a little piece of it ingrained in everyone’s mind. No one really knows how it got there and no one will notice when it vanishes. It's hard to look back at childhood and remember where all the stories came from. For some, they were seen on television. For others they were read at dusk from loving parents, or grandparents. But fairy-tales are a hazy thing. He wondered why people don't question fairy-tales more, and myths. Why does no one think about these things? Surely everyone must know that they're there. He wonders if she liked fairy-tales once, the girl. Maybe that's why she picked up the book in the first place. It looked old and worn and beautiful. He could see how her curiosity could be peaked. Curiosity will curse her now, it will plague her like a sickness she can never free herself from. He thinks about the way she is now and can't help but think about her strength. She'll crack inside the book, like everyone else does. She won’t even be free to be caged. Maybe he should burn the book. He’d considered it while he was waiting. He fantasized about going to a fireplace and destroying it forever. But what would happened to her? He cocked his head, almost her entire torso was sucked in. Her legs too. He wondered how she’d be described. Would they mention her hair? She had the most beautiful hair. He still knew how the book once described him. It had focused on his eyes. Every five pages, there had to be something about his eyes. But he himself had forgotten what color they really were long ago. Once the girl was gone, he’d cover this room in mirrors. He’d look at his eyes at least five times a day. He’d never forget again. The vines were wrapping around her shoulders. He was so close. He was so close to freedom. He smiled, for the first time in centuries. What would her title be? His was Prince of Water’s End. Children loved him once, he was every little girl’s first love and sparked the first hint of jealously in little boys. When the children got older, they looked back on him and smile. They’d say that they remembered reading him in school, and watching the cartoon adaption of his life on television. But he wasn’t really there. And when he was forgotten, no one would really take notice. He didn't mind being forgotten. It had bothered him, at first. He isn't going to pretend he was at peace with losing everything right off the bat. But over time, the book starts to speak with it's prisoner. It's not abusive or angry. It's mood changes every day. Sometimes it will be sweet and gentle. And that's what he'll miss about the book, the only thing. He'll miss the times when the book was something more than just a book.  The book pulled her closer, her neck contorting as it descended. She wouldn’t even be a memory anymore. She’d be nothing more than a silly fairy-tale. A character. She was still sleeping, he could hear her quite breaths become sharp. She was struggling. His stomach began to sink. Suddenly he wanted to stop it, stop all of this. But then he didn’t want to stop anything, he just wanted it to go faster. Then he wanted to close the book and decimate it and throw the tattered pages into the wind. Her head was gone now, all that remained was one eye and a cheekbone. He let out a deep sigh. That’s when it happened. The eye opened. She was awake, vibrantly awake. The book had woken her up at the very last minute. He gasped and covered his mouth. That one eye could hold so much emotion. Horror. Confusion. Betrayed. The book lingered on her eye, waiting a while before finally swallowing her and closing itself. He sank to his knees. That was the book’s way of punishing him. He stayed slumped on the floor for some time. Then he reached up. He wanted to see the title. She deserved that much.  He reached up and pulled the book from the bed. The title wasn’t written in any real language. She’d been written by Charles Perrault. And by The Brothers Grimm. And then later by Walt Disney. It fit her. And the book was laughing. “Sleeping Beauty.” 

Looking Out, Looking In

I love this picture. I love it, I've seen it a hundred times and it never fails to make me awe in wonder. I love the stars, I always have. I don't know their names, I don't know their age or if they're even alive any longer. By the time I'd seen the stars, their light may have burnt out years ago. For some reason, their life and their death make me feel something incredible. Sometimes I think about their supernova and their place and their demise. The universe lost one of it's children, and it doesn't seem to mourn. No one seems to notice, and the stars don't mind. Humans are so greedy and so selfish. We want our existence to be noticed so badly that we forget to enjoy the fleeting time we have. The stars don't do that. Sometimes I look up at the sky at night and it's the first time I feel truly at home. I look up and I feel like I'm seeing an old friend again for the first time in ages. Sometimes I even find myself talking to the stars. "Hello, how have you been?" It's comforting, thinking about my atoms, and the way they came from the stars. When I die, I think I'll go back. I'll go back to the stars and the universe and my atoms will come back to their home. I believe in Heaven, that's my Heaven. Everyone has a different idea of what paradise must be like, and that's mine.  

Flea Market Pictures

I wish I could know what they know. I wish I could find out everything they’d found out. I wish I could ask them about life. About what it means to be alive. I see their mouths in the picture and I wish I could make them move. All that knowledge, all that truth. And I can’t find my way to it. It’s gone, all that time they took to learn how to live, and it’s gone. I sometimes feel as if I’m stumbling around in the dark, and it will take a century to find a light. I wish I could ask them about it. What does it take to find a light? Maybe I’ll never find it at all. What if that’s it? What if this is it? They know, their eyes hold an entire universe. Each pupil is a star. I wonder what it was like when the star when into supernova. It must have been quiet to the rest of the world. The rest of the world went right on spinning, didn’t it know? I wonder what they asked themselves. Sometimes I look back on the people who lived before us and I wonder how they survived. All that pain, all that hardship. And then I think about the people who will live three hundred years from now, and I wonder what they’ll think. I bet they won’t know how we survived. Sometimes it drives me crazy, the fact that I’ll never know. The only way I know history existed is because people told me it did. And the only way I know the future will exist is because people tell me it will. And then I think about all of us, in our private little boxes. Trying desperately to cling onto the little speck of existence we’ve been given. And, oddly enough, I feel lucky.

Something That Will Always Remind You Of KHS

 I’ve loved doing the musicals here at Kickapoo. In fact, I can’t imagine my high school experience without them. These posters will remind me of the friends and memoires I made here, always. #dramatic #thankgoodnessiamdonewithhashtags

Something A Little Kid Might Notice Or Find Interesting

Maybe I'm wrong, but when I was a child I know I was obsessed with food. Not that anything has changed today, but I’d imagine a child taking note of this box of food. #idk #lol #idkisstillathingright 

Something That Looks Like A Face But Isn’t Really

 I liked the way this looked. Maybe it’s not the most creative thing I could have found, but I thought it was interesting. #itried #howdopeoplethinkuphashtags

Something From Nature

I thought this was kind of ironic, it is indeed something from nature, but it’s fake and inside the building. I’m so deep and thoughtful, right? #amicoolyet #hashtaghashtagultimatehashtag

Something Handwritten

I was interested in what this was. I’ve walked past this a hundred times and never noticed this once. I’ve always wondered about the things I’ve missed because I was walking too fast. #iamtryingtobedeep #icantthinkofacleverhashtag

An Interesting Angle

An interesting angle – I thought this angle was kind of cool. I'm not good with a camera though, so I might have been totally wrong. But I liked the way the words danced across the picture. #notaphotographer #icantdealwithhashtags

Something Round

Look how round this circular lock is. It’s so circle. I’ve forgotten how square things get with this magical circle. With round things in my life, I'll never need squares again! #circlelifeisgreat #pleasestophashtags

Something Square

 This window is indeed square! Look at how square it is. It’s magical. Who needs circles when you have squares? In fact, I love this square so much, I think I'll become a spuare. Squares forever!!! #squarelife #hashtagsareanightmare

A Book

I love books. Book are my favorite things ever. Stories are magical, honestly. What would we do without them? Books have been there for me when no one else was. #storytime #hashtaghashtaghashtag

Someone Who Has Helped You

This fine nerd is Phil Lester. He is a Youtuber, and is one of the funniest people on the planet. He has gotten me through a lot, and he doesn’t even know me. #amazingphil #icantthinkofanotherhashtag

Someone Who Makes You Smile

Meghan (and Zach) equals magical! Meghan is super awesome and she’ll always be there to make a person’s day better. I know she'll go on to make an awesome difference in the world! #lol #nomorehashtags

Something That is Beautiful

Katie is one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met, inside and out. She’s one of the best people in the world and has a heart of gold. It's people like her that makes this Earth a great place to live in. #bestfriend #icantdohashtags

Someone You’d Like To Be More Like

 It’s hard not to want to be like this girl here. She’s confident, funny, and takes life lightly. I wish I could be like her. She really keeps me sane everyday and reminds me to not sweat the little things. #amandaisaboss #hashtagssucks

Something That Brings Back A Memory

Something that makes you feel nostalgic/brings back a memory – I’ll always remember going backstage for shows. The theater has really been a haven for me. Drama has been the best part of highschool, and I’ll never forget everything that happened there. #dramageek #ihatehashtags 

Something That Annoys Me

Something that annoys you or other people – Selfies. Selfies are a nightmare. Everywhere I go I see pictures of people making the duck face, the pouty face, ect. You name it, someone has tried it. This is a stupid trend meant for even stupider people. #stopselfies #theylookstupid #andhashtagsareawfultoo.