Cat Charmed

I am alarmingly in love with my cats. I don't mean the "butterflies-in-your-stomach-as-your-crush-approaches" love. I'm talking about the "I-want-to-squeeze-all-furry-things" love. I'm on the way to becoming a spinster whose only companionship comes in the form of cats. No, not really.

I don't know what is it about cats that's hurled me into a tunnel of obsession. I wonder if they have the ability to release chemicals that make humans fall in love with them. Maybe so.

You know how good girls like bad boys? Well, humans like cats. Cats are the bad boys every human dreams of. They are assholes, narcissistic, vain, egocentric, and just about every other adjective that describes one's own sense of importance. Welcome to the world of cats where you're nothing more than a large, non-hostile cat whose only purpose is to feed and pet the smaller, hostile cat.

My cats entered my life eight years ago; I haven't been the same since. The last traces of my former self have been washed away like a mound in the sand. I share in the pain of other cat owners, for our world revolves around the well-being of our cats. I don't exist anymore. I'm not real. My cats have cast a spell on me and I've no mind of my own. I'm captivated by their feline charm and always will be.

Each time they meow, purr, or knead a little part of me devotes itself to ensuring their safety and happiness. My cats "charm-meowed" me and I became their little minion. Ugh!

Dogs aren't nearly as interesting. Sorry.

Literary Coffee

What Happens After Your Money Has Been Stolen

Money is the gravitational force around which civilization revolves. It is a rather shallow yet indisputable truth--one which has driven our kind to commit acts of infidelity, dishonesty, and theft.

I must clarify that I'm not a money-hungry person (maybe just a little) and in the distant vision I've constructed of my future, money is a necessity but not an incentive. But how do you react when your hard-earned money is stolen under you nose?

Mistake the first: This isn't the first time I lose money (I am known for being rather neglectful of valuable objects), but this is the first I've had money stolen. It wasn't a disgustingly large amount, but it was money nonetheless. The theft took place on a cold, snowy Tuesday between the hours of 11:30 a.m. and 12 p.m. (if I'm not mistaken). I remember that earlier that morning I'd carelessly put a $20 bill in my coat pocket, hoping to buy a new novel and trusting that my personal belongings were out of thieves' way. Let's just say that I've learned to put a daily limit on assumptions. Upon arriving to the library, I placed my coat on a wooden desk--its usual spot--and made my way to the bathroom (a routine which I've religiously followed since freshman year). It never even crossed my mind that thieves were lurking in the light of day. It is also worth noting that as I headed over to the cafeteria around 11:30 a.m. the money was still in my possession--oblivious to its future abduction and unknown fate--which leads me to conclude that the crime transpired a few minutes before 12:15 p.m. (the time around which I discovered I was penniless).

Mistake the second: Who is careless enough to leave their personal belongings unattended? I am, apparently. I knew I should have hidden my money someplace safe, namely my backpack--or the safest place after a coat. I admit to being too trusting. I have fostered a blind trust in my generation and I wouldn't expect the people with whom I've gone to school to be juvenile delinquents. They've proved me wrong.

Mistake the third: I shouldn't be trusted with money, because, as noted in the aforementioned statement, I am neglectful of it. What, do I think money grows on trees? Um...well, yes. Do I think it's easy to acquire a ridiculously large amount of money? Only if it's Christmas. Nevertheless, I am unfit to manage finances of any kind, especially mine. Hence the stolen money. 

Mistake the fourth: I wasn't planning to spend money today. O, how stupid I am. If I knew I didn't want to go on a spending spree, how do I explain the cash reserve in my possession? In my defense, the flesh is weak around money. 

Mistake the fifth: Don't order coffee unless you're absolutely sure that your money hasn't been stolen. This is pretty self-explanatory. I ordered a latte from a little pastry shop only to find out that I'd had my money stolen. Luckily, the cashier took pity on me and didn't stage a public humiliation starring yours truly. The fact that I paid half of what it cost didn't stop the blood from rising to my cheeks. And had fury not clouded my vision, I would have died of embarrassment.

I am angry and I only have myself to blame. I am careless. Negligent. Irresponsible. Trusting. And absentminded. I save money because I like to buy things I don't need. But on this occasion the gods decided to play a prank on me: I saved $20 only to have someone else enjoy it (very funny). I bet twenty dollars that whoever took my money bought him/herself a pack of Marlboro. 

These kids will do anything to feed their addictions. 

The Art of Chaos

Making subscribers fall in love with your blog is hard. Making subscribers leave comments is even harder. But making subscribers fall in love with and leave comments on your blog is success. Thus far, I have had no success. Zero. Nada. Nothing. I've depleted the dust of Fortuna.

Why? Simple. My blog is chaotic; it lacks cohesion. That is to say that I focus on a wide range of topics when I should be focusing on one--my niche. I like to believe that my blog is a representation of my disorganized thoughts, cluttered mind, and a lack of writing direction. I'm on a road with no car or a sense of control. The reason I even undertook this task is because (1) I can't graduate unless I complete it and (2) I must practice the craft to which I am planning to dedicate a generous portion of my life--writing.

This blog is an examination; it is not only testing my level of commitment to the craft, but it is also helping me to hone it. I keep reminding myself that it takes approximately 10,000 hours to become a professional writer (yes, I am beware of scientific inaccuracy), and that literary polish can't be gained overnight. It takes hard work and dedication. Blood and sweat. Tears and frustration.

The first draft will always suck, the second draft will be slightly better, the third draft will show signs of literary improvement and the final copy will contain your blood and sweat transmuted into stories.

I am perhaps reassuring myself lest my inner critic plant the seed of doubt amid the forest of literary potentiality. Or perhaps I am conveying the point that my blog has no cohesion whatever. It is not so much chaotic as a jumble of word--but above all they contain my effort transmuted into sentences, paragraphs, and finally, an experience. And it is those little things that make it unique. I may not have a legion of subscribers following me, but I do enjoy the satisfaction of knowing that I haven't yet neglected the blog as I do other aspects of my life, and that's a giant leap for a gal. 

Drum Major for Justice

Here's an essay I wrote awhile back:

“Yes, if you want to say that I was a drum major, say that I was a drum major for justice. Say that I was a drum major for peace. I was a drum major for righteousness.”  --Martin Luther King Jr. 

                The desire to reach greatness, supremacy and distinction is in our blood. We want nothing more than to be exalted and accepted, acknowledged and praised, loved and  admired, but soon, this quest for personal ascension becomes a necessity—an urge if you will—burning deep within. But what is success if not a chain of events leading us to believe we are superior to our fellow brothers and sisters? Real success isn’t personal. Nor does it benefit one individual. Real success is achieving equity in a world ruled by injustice and acrimony. It is silencing our drum major instinct and paving the way for egalitarianism. It is the dream within a nightmare.

            We were born in an epoch where the dream of equality lies beneath the surface—fighting to emerge, but submerged every time. We have been fighting to attain justice, peace and righteousness in a world where unwarranted superiority inaugurated the reign of prejudice, where there has never been more disunion among our race. And, perhaps, it is times like this when the message of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. has never been louder and clearer: accept your neighbor as yourself. We have been hiding behind a veneer of justice, knowing quite well that ingrained prejudices are prevalent in society today—and they will always be. But when hope appears to be a lingering dot on the horizon, contemporary advocates of justice materialize and dissipate the darkness around—they are angels in the midst of devils. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. isn’t here with us today, but their counterparts are—reincarnations of goodness, love and peace. One such person is Malala Yousafzai, a young education activist who survived an assassination attempt by Taliban gunmen while returning home from school. And although Malala’s fight for education differs from the civil rights movement of Martin Luther King Jr., the message remains very much intact: equality and love. Malala forgave those who attempted against her life; in fact, she taught us a lesson which seems to have been lost in our hurried age: tolerance and forgiveness.

            It wouldn’t be fair to say that our nation has done nothing to promote “justice for all,” for it has, but more can be done. The United States has greeted its foreign neighbors with open arms, but the phantom of racism never fails to rear its ugly head. At the root, this “phantom” reflects a dearth of tolerance in our nation. We hurt because can’t forgive. We fight because we can’t tolerate. We kill because we refuse to tolerate and forgive. And although the dream of justice is still out of reach, our country has stood upright in one area: we have become a melting pot of disparate culture and rhythms, and it is this singularity which has taught us to embrace the beauty of races, skin colors, and gender.

            The key ingredient to equality is tolerance, and unless we learn to tolerate others, Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream remains not broken but unfulfilled. 

Six Reasons Why Cats are Better than Dogs

1. Cats are smart enough to pretend they're stupid. Yes, that's right. Have you ever seen a cat star in a Hollywood movie? No? Why? Because, unlike dogs, cats abhor the thought of spending hours on end memorizing their lines. We have been led to think that dogs are smarter than cats, but are they? Cats are smart enough to say, "I have the I.Q. of a fish. Feed me, pet me, love me, and repeat." Cats exceed at sleeping, eating, pushing their owner's bedroom door open, and dirtying their litter box. Their alleged stupidity is a facade that we naively buy so that we take pity on these feline creatures and adopt them as our own. Cats love the easy life. Does this remind you of your own pet?

2. Cats don't go out for walks. For those of you who despise the thought of walking a pet after an arduous day of work, fear not, for cats despise this just as much as you do. Unlike their more extroverted and noisy archenemy, cats have a litter box. If we were able to condition cats to use a litter box, why can't we do the same with dogs? Must dogs receive the royal treatment? Cats denounce favoritism and praise originality. And because they're each entitled to a litter box, cats believe themselves the ideal pet. Aren't they?

3. Cats won't bark if there is danger lurking nearby. I know you might be thinking, "How is that a good thing?" Well, before you jump to conclusions, hear me out. Just to fabricate a completely hypothetical scenario out of thin air, let's pretend that someone was trying to break into your house and your dog was nearby. Of course your canine friend would most likely bark at the stranger and reveal your hiding place. Cats, on the other hand, wouldn't bother. They would simply scuttle away under your bed and remain there until the danger's passed--or possibly until you were caught off guard and brutally assaulted. I know, I know, this is horrible, but at least you would die a quick and painless death and  save your cat from a violent fate. Cats will thank you for your bravery.

4. Cats won't ask you to play fetch with them.  Cats are, by nature, night owls. Don't expect your cat to be physically active during the day, because you won't accomplish much. Which means that you have 12 hours to relax, run errands, and maybe take a little nap before your little feline friend wreaks havoc by night. No amount of coercion--or catnip--will make a cat stop. Once they get going, that's it. Kiss your sleep good-bye.

5. Cats think you're the pet. This is not meant to be humorous, for it has more than a modicum of truth. The paradox of owning a cat is that you don't own the cat, the cat owns you. Your house, your life, and the cells governing your body become by an unwritten law of the universe property of your cat. There is nothing they won't "mark" and no place is too dangerous for them. 

6. Cats rule the world. Cats are the furry best friends we've always dreamed of having, and their possessive, and often condescending nature, makes for some funny anecdotes about the complexities of their inner world. The reality is that cats rule the world, but they don't want us to know. Someday, when we least expect it, they'll force us into submission. What conniving, treacherous little creatures they are!

The Demon of Anxiety

Anxiety is part of the human condition. It is an all-too-common disease of the mind, a curse for some, and an unwanted visitor for others.

Social anxiety is the abnormal fear of social situations, public places, and most of all, people. It is the heavy world I've been holding up for years on my back, as Atlas was once cursed to do. And what's worse is that I can't rid myself of it--trust me, I've tried.

Anxiety is a psychological hell. It is the boogeyman residing in the dark corners of my mind and taking great delight in my mental anguish. Its minions--fear and stress--flood unexpectedly into my party, preparing for the arrival of a most distinguished guest: anxiety itself. And as my worst fears whirl in an impenetrable cyclone of negativity, I find myself frozen at the eye of a storm, dodging the sharp objects hurtling toward me.

Try to think of it as basking in the sun and then getting drenched by a sudden rainstorm. As you gaze into the sky--feeling mesmerized by its timeless beauty--clouds scud across it, obscuring the faint traces of golden hue and staining it an unholy gray--you know, deep down, that a storm impends. Anxiety is similar. The beauty of creation is tainted. Obscured. Forgotten. The world suddenly seems irrelevant; nothing matters, for the demon of anxiety has perched itself on my shoulder and won't allow itself to be exorcised. It will always be there, mocking me with inhuman squeals and diabolical gestures.

Because I haven't yet learned how to master anxiety, I have to live with it. I've become accustomed to its crippling presence--a presence which never ceases to instill fear in me. But, at the same time, it is a blessing, for it's allowed me to expend energy working on my writing. It has granted me free access to the creative river which flows through the gates and alleys of my psyche.

How can a curse be a blessing?

The Conversion of a Girl into a Bibliophile

I'm a self-proclaimed bibliophile, and anyone who's been around me long enough will confirm this declaration. 

I love books. I love their smell. I love their crinkly texture. But most importantly, I love the content found within their pages. 

You get the idea. 

I at first hated books. For one, my parents never bothered to instill the habit of reading in me, but I also never gave it the time of day. What I didn't know, however, was that I had yet to stumble across a book I'd fall in love with, a book that would pique my curiosity and capture my attention.  

My first encounter with books took place at the local library where I was a volunteer for the summer. It was July and, as is so often the case with most 13-year-olds, all I wanted was to ensconce myself on the couch before the TV and enjoy the shows I'd been unable to watch during the school year. Needless to say, my mother didn't approve. She wasn't very fond of the idea of having a 13-year-old dawdle the day away, and she therefore took it upon herself to find something productive for me to do. She suggested I enroll in summer school, but I balked at the idea. Who wanted to spend summer sitting in a classroom while all the other kids enjoyed themselves on the beach? Exactly. So the library became my one and only option. The air-conditioned building also came as a blessing, for temperatures didn't cease soaring that summer. But the real blessing was yet to come. 

I was assigned a mentor who was, unsurprisingly, a bookworm. She would talk long and passionately about her favorite books and authors--which mostly consisted of vampire fiction--and I would hang on her every word. I was intrigued. Her passion soon led me to check out my very first vampire book: Vampire Kisses by Ellen Schreiber, which tells the story of a goth girl who falls in love with a Romanian vampire. Clichéd? Yes. But it was also riveting.

It wasn't until years later that I began to realize Vampire Kisses set me on the path to a life of reading. 

Shortly thereafter, I began to devour every novel I could find--be it fiction or non-fiction. I was determined to expand my mind, to absorb knowledge, and to meet characters far more interesting than your average Joe (unbeknownst to me, I would soon come to appreciate the art of novel writing). 

Life's too short to read every book that's ever been written, and that's a very depressing thought. It is also sad to think that some people treat books as they would a virus: with fear and repulsion. But what's the source of this fear and intimidation? Is it the fact that they have yet to fall in love with a story? Or is it because they've never been accustomed to daily reading? Or are they simply not interested? Maybe they just need their own mentor nudging them in the right direction.  

I remember I would spend my Christmas and birthday money on books--mostly vampire fiction (thank you, Geisha)--and I wouldn't regret it. In fact, I brimmed with happiness. 

Clothes didn't matter. Shoes seemed dull. And parties were chaotic locations where teen angst permeated the air. But books were life itself. They were the ambrosia my soul yearned for--my own godly dose of enlightenment. They were my sole friends (yes, I must admit I was a bit of a loner). But above all, they comforted me, pulled me out of the dark abyss into which I had fallen, and inspired me to pursue a writing career. 

And for that, I am very grateful. 

Soliloquy of a Procrastinator

I am not proud of it, but I will admit to being a chronic procrastinator. I am sitting alone in my overheated bedroom, trying to do homework due tomorrow. Before that, my mother coaxed me into taking a long, much-needed nap (which I did), unaware that precious hours would tick by. But instead of buckling down and getting my academic responsibilities over with, I'm reading The New York Times online, obsessively checking my Facebook page, and sipping a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Oh, did I mention that I'm creating imaginary scenarios that go with the music playing in the background? Really, I want nothing more than to read the mountain of books sitting on my desk. It's quite the calamity. 

As I was scrolling through the endless Facebook updates, one in particular struck my fancy: it was an article by The Wall Street Journal titled "To Stop Procrastinating, Look to Science of Mood Repair." It was indubitably a message from the powers that be telling me to get to work. 

I began reading. According to the article, a new approach to tackling the monster of procrastination is to check our mood, but I didn't necessarily find that interesting. A passage in the second paragraph, however, spoke directly to me: 

"Often, procrastinators attempt to avoid the anxiety or worry aroused by a tough task with activities aimed at repairing their mood, such as checking Facebook or taking a nap. But the pattern, which researchers call 'giving in to feel good,' makes procrastinators feel worse later, when they face the consequences of missing a deadline or making a hasty, last-minute effort..."

As this excerpt amply indicates, I procrastinate because feelings of anxiety and worry invade my thoughts. I believe, naively, that, if I put things off, my homework will magically do itself; pen will magically scribble on paper; and my computer will magically tap out words on the keyboard. Yes, that will happen. 

In a way, I am avoiding my responsibilities because they seem intimidating. Scary. Stressful. What if I miss the deadline? What if it's wrong? What if I stay up all night? What if... What if...
"What" and "if" are two words as harmless as words can be. But put them together side-by-side and they have the power to haunt us, taunt us, torture us. 

Procrastination and "what if" are the monsters in the closet. They are a nuclear war looming on the horizon. They are a writer's worst enemies, but unlike the famous saying "keep your friends close but your enemies closer," they can't be befriended. They can, however, be tamed. They can submit to our will and grow weaker with each passing day as our self-discipline flowers. They are the lions and we are the lion-tamers. 

They can't be stronger than our willpower, can they?

Counting Them Down

The science of failure down deep in our hearts

Marilyn searching in fields of gold

And staring at the stars 

Counting them down

One by one.

All these praying eyes

Watch mesmerized

As raindrops drench their faces

And assuage their anxious hearts.

This is not all that we are.

I get it,

Now I need you to know.

Marilyn is searching in fields of gold.

We all sing like saviors
When we're on our knees
And find ourselves praying
In the hours between.

The love of attention, the love of release

You promised to be

Counting the stars

One by one.

The sword swings at you

Cracking the heart of ice.

The more you deny it,

The more you believe.

You promised to be

Counting them down. 

One by one. 

Far beyond space,

Where the planets glimmer

And the stars shine

The echo of a voice

Travels with the silence

Reminding me of the 

Promises they never kept.

Information Overload

I'm at a loss for words. My mind is utterly, strangely, incompetently blank. It feels as if I've somehow exhausted it from thinking too much. As if I've overloaded it with ideas until it sputtered and stopped. Or maybe I've been spending too much time online. Yes, that's it! I've arrived to the root of the problem! The massive influx of information from the Web has sent me into an information overload. The brain is best designed to focus on one task at a time, but when we switch between tasks we become less efficient. I guess I haven't allowed my brain to process new intellectual input; I've pushed to its limit and now I'm suffering from the consequences: mental sluggishness and hampered creativity. Hmm, interesting.

Writing

Have you ever been mentally blocked? Are you sitting at your computer, pretending to tap out words on your keyboard but still wondering what you're going to write about? Yup, that's me.

The terrifying, overwhelming writer's block has decided to pay me a much anticipated visit. But should I blame it for my inability to craft real, intelligible words and phrases? Of course not. I'm at fault here. 

I'm blocked because I'm a perfectionist. I can't embrace "good enough" because I'm striving for excellence. That's not happening right now. It won't happen unless I practice and study the craft extensively, passionately, and meticulously. It takes roughly 10,000 hours to become an expert, so how do I get better at writing? I write. 

I once read that good writing takes time, and it's true. Don't expect to become a talented writer overnight. That doesn't happen in real life. Sure, you may have been born with writing genes, but unless you put them to use, they will only be diverted into fields of inactivity. We are all born with a special talent, but it is our job to rouse it from hibernation. It's similar to baking bread. We knead the dough to give it shape, texture, and appeal, right? Well, if we don't take the time to mold our raw talent into a gift, we will never be fully aware of our potential.

So, what are you waiting for? Write!