The Weirdo is EVOLVING

The world is falling apart!! A weirdo couldn’t possibly possess the ability to become even more unique and weird? And self-driven? Mother of God! She has completely lost it!

Welp… The weirdo just got weirder (according to some). I have embraced my strangeness and followed the path less traveled by conformity junkies and have somehow landed myself in the process of creating an equality based clothing company while sporting my newly shaved head. Well, at least the back of my head.

The company is still being sorted out and altered; however, I am more than determined to have it come to life. The idea for the company came to be when I realized all of the different pages I was following on social media, many are only directed to a single group of people: gays, lesbians, bisexuals, the disabled, and so on. All of these pages were highly successful in empowering and otherwise raising money towards these individual groups. Many times tee shirts or other clothing needs were sold to generate profit and sported catchy slogans and presented a powerful message towards their cause.

My desire is t create a company that will somehow represent and appeal to all people, no matter size, race, gender, sexuality, disability, or any other factor. The clothing will be available for alterations to suit needs, as well as create a fun and uplifting vibe that will unite all of those that wear the clothing instead of trying to shove them in completely different corners of the room.

In the end we are all humans, no matter the circumstances or desires of our society. The clothing will be sized in both male and female sizes. In other words, anyone can purchase a tight or loose fitting tee shirt despite the overwhelming need for other companies to have them separated int eh category of male and female apparel.

The company is still extremely new and still tumbling around in my mind, but no matter what I know for a fact this company will soon come to life. Stay tuned!

August 15, 2016

“You can spend minutes, hours, days, weeks, or even months over-analyzing a situation; trying to put the pieces together, justifying what could’ve, would’ve happened… or you can just leave the pieces on the floor and move the fuck on.” – Tupac Shakur


Recently I have been feeling stuck. I reply situations or scenarios in my head and try to justify in some sense that what I did was originally wrong and could have been better. There’s instances where I reanalyze situations that have happened weeks ago, and yet their presence is still potent like a rancid tv dinner left in the fridge.

I’ve spend nights dreaming about issues that should no longer affect me. I get nervous around people with whom I think I have made a fool of myself in front of, but I bet they have already forgotten about the whole incident.

My new goal is to learn to move forwards and to release all negative tension that I unconsciously allow to sink into my brain. These thoughts are too much like drugs. I feel that I cannot be a better person unless I have these thoughts to keep myself in line; however, I’ve finally reached a point of realizing how dangerous thinking abo9ut the past is for me. Now it’s time to forgive myself and free myself from the figurative ropes that have been tying myself back from reaching happiness.

Oh, To Be A Woman

A woman: a strong and powerful creature that is resilient, intelligent, and whatever the hell else they wanna be. But in the eyes of a few less gracious creatures, women are a sign of sex, submission, and objects. Today was a reminder for me that women are still far behind in reaching equality alongside males.

While watching the Olympics, anyone can hear the objectivism formed behind the announcers word choice. Female Olympic athletes’ success is given to their boyfriends, husbands, or coaches, instead of given directly to the amazing athlete who beat out majority of the world with their impeccable skills. Meanwhile, male athletes are given all of the praise for their hard work towards their skills and barely an ounce of praise is given to their coaches.

While walking on the streets this morning I was an object in the eyes of male gaze. Because of the heat advisory, this morning I decided to wear shorts… yuh know, the pants that attract male attention because of how they cover a female butt and yet reveal our legs (those obscenely sexy things that connect to a females’ naked body. Oh the horror). Okay, in all seriousness, it is expected to reach 100 degrees today and I didn’t feel like sweating it out in jeans and an oversized tee shirt.

As soon as I walked out of my apartment and saw myself in the reflection of a window, I was bombarded with an overwhelming feeling of regret. ‘I should have worn something different. There will be too much attention drawn towards me because of my washed out, high waisted shorts.’ Then I realized I was objectifying myself. I looked at my body and thought that too much of it was showing. ‘Maybe my shorts are too short and reveal too much of my jiggly thighs. Maybe my cropped shirt will blow in the wind and my navel will show. Maybe the black combat boots I’m wearing are too counterintuitive to the rest of my outfit that it will lead passerbyers to stare at me.’

I was appalled by very own reaction to what I was wearing. Just because I have decided to step out of my comfort zone and wear shorts does not mean I am breaking some figurative rule that will suddenly subject me to harassment on the street. But it did.

As I walked through the city, instantly I was facing catcalls and obscene remarks. As men drove by in their cars they honked, called out, or whistled. When I entered a cafe for breakfast, a man approached me and apologized for staring, all because I was wearing shorts. When I wore jeans and a tee shirt I experienced limited calls; however, this morning I put myself in a position that allowed men to view me as a object. A position that should not even exist. A position too many women are placed into just because they have a body and wear whatever the F…. they want.

It saddened me to know I almost reentered my apartment to change after noticing my reflection. The way someone dresses does not limit their value, and yet, while walking along the street my value diminishes to where it’s almost non-existent.



The fruits of life

Will still expire.

The heat of my breath

Will not take me higher.

In what time do we reveal

The inner demons,

The silent screams,

The misplaced gun shots

In which we feel?

To you

I am paralyzed.

I do not feel.

For I am strong

And my insides are numb

All from feeling

Too much.


The Unchangeable Man

What is the most changeable part of an old man? His hair, surely, but definitely not his mind. The hairs on his head rework, thin, and disappear, but his mind will never reform.

So what is it with the old man who lives next door? He sways on his deck-swing every morning while smoking his pipe. I’ve grown to memorize the tobacco he smokes just from the times I’ve rode by while on my bike on the way to school. And each morning he raises his stale eyes from behind his round metal glasses just enough to peep at me as I pedal by, then grumbles to himself. He lives in routine.

Last night I sat on my roof overlooking the trees that flourish over the land across from my house, and I saw him. His metal framed glasses reflected against the dim streetlamps as he silently swayed into the woods. Afraid the old man would get lost or had dementia, or something, I followed him.

He took the route along the creek and didn’t trip over a single rock. His feet knew their path as if they’ve done this 100 times before. I stumbled behind as I followed the glow of his flashlight and kept my distance to not be heard or seen. When the old man stopped, so did I. When he turned around to check his surroundings, I hid. When he took in a breath I mimicked him, paranoid my breathing was competing with the creek’s gentle flow.

Soon he stopped, faced towards the creek, and reached into his pocket. I found a thick tree to hide behind and peaked my eyes around it just enough to take in the strange man’s movements.

He pulled something out of his thick wool jacket. It was round and small and glimmered under the flashlight’s rays. The old man stepped towards the creek and stood between two trees that leaned in towards the water at a peculiar angle. I saw the old man lift his head, take in a breath, glasp his hands together, bring them to his mouth, then fall to his knees and weep.

I turned around and redirected my eyes away from the old man, the man known for throwing rocks at teens for egging his house. Instead, I now know him as the old man who cried along the creek, an unknowing side to the man who shut his front door in my little sister’s when she tried to sell him Girl Scout Cookies. Now, he’s the old man with a story not written across his face.