I Could Never Hate Vera Whitefern

i need u Jesus

Where are all my girlies that walk in other people's footprints in the snow so they don't ruin it more ):

first world problems

My current first world problem is that I'm so close to being a first generation college student

*my mom is from Natchez Mississippi, a pretty poor area, no one on her side of the family graduated college except her mom (I think she did a short teaching program) and cousin (went to a random school in mississippi).

*my dad is from virginia. his dad went straight to the military and didn't go to college, and his mom dropped out of college (story for another time)

My mom joined the Army after high school to pay for college and my dad went to West Point and joined the military. For graduate programs they went to Troy State. I am grateful for this because it allowed them to get better jobs, access to secure military bases, and slightly more respect in the world. BUT I refuse to become a service member. SOOO I don't have any parent connections at any school that I would be a good fit for.

tl;dr

both of my parents are first-generation college students with army-based careers but that story DOESN'T HELP ME AT ALL because being a second-gen student doesn't mean squat and i don't have a family connection in fields outside the army ):

Like I don't want to join the army or even work as a civilian member of the army workforce. I'm sick of it. I want to be a biochemist, d.o., or environmental scientist! And yes I could do those within the gov but I'm sick of the US government. I don't want to help the government. I want to help the world.

“When you stop talking to people, stop talking about them too.”

— Unknown

why i hate english class

I like the words in my head

But as soon as I type them out

The black 12-pt letters mock me

Nana nana, boo boo

We don’t like you

That’s when the letters begin to move:

Darting across the page

Every direction

Bumping into each other

Transferring energy

Making an incoherent mess

I reach for a blanket

I catch them in one fell swoop,

swing the bundle over my head,

throw them in the can

That’s when the letters begin to cry:

Wailing through the metal

Very loudly

Falling on their knees

Claiming to be sorry

They didn’t mean it

Too bad! 

Now I have a new thought

To take out of my head

And onto the page

And off the page again

Being called pretty

People tell me I'm pretty, and it makes me smile. I call other girls pretty, models pretty, instagrammers pretty. I never see the girls in the pictures move but I swear it makes them smile too. I think it's a compliment.

After being called the magic word, pretty, I wonder if I still am pretty. Someone commented how pretty I was on the pic I posted last week. How much have I aged since then? Am I still pretty? Will people dissapointed when they see me at school tomorrow? I'm not as pretty as the girl on their phones. And I'm certainly not as pretty as the other girls walking around.

Everyone calls them pretty too. And they have boyfriends that call them cute, or hot, or amazing, or beautiful. I want that too, but for now I just want someone to call me pretty again.

when I was pulled under the waves

my eyes stung

it felt like when the shampoo drips in the shower

my mouth got salty

it felt like when I get fries from the place I hate

my body dragged

then rolled

it felt like nothing

nothing good

nothing bad

there's nothing under there

they would say noot noot if they could

I knew poinsettias "faked" having big flowers by just turning some leaves red but I didn't know the real tiny flowers in the middle looked like such idiots

When I die you have permission to turn me into a frankenstein monster, donate my blood to a vampire, put a tree in me, feed me to the rats, use my bones for tools, put my skin over a drum, or let birds nest inside me. Just don't go through my search history.

I think we’re going to be together forever.

“Don’t say that”, said the older woman in the car. Hand on the steering wheel, her eyes remained fixed on the narrow one-lane road ahead of her. “I know you love him now, but what if someone better comes along?”

The younger woman stuttered in protest, “What if? Someone better? What?”

There was no one better. They belonged together. She was healing, and he was gentle. He laughed with her and the sense of humor she had developed, loved the jokes that made her the “funny one” because she was soft and small and wouldn’t be heard when she wasn’t being funny. He appreciated every thought she had and loved her for being alive. 

A fire burned hot in the young woman’s heart as she looked back at her mother. Her lips were barely parting as she finished her sentence “…probably not going to get married.”