Scrambled Eggs

There are these things I have, That everyone has really. Some people have more than others, Some people's are simple. I have alot. Mine are complex.

They're eggs.

I've had them for years (21years 7months and 28days actually). I don't seem to rotate through them, or get rid of any, but actually, add more to the collection. Every year there are more and more, and I find myself trying to figure out where to put them all. So I find random places to put them.

In bowls that were never meant to hold them.

On plates they sometimes roll off of.

Then the most extraordinarily wonderful peculiar thing happened...

I met someone with a basket.

Overly thrilled, Overly enthusiastic, and Overly eager, I gathered up all my eggs and threw them all in their basket... Agreeably too soon.

And of course, understandably, they became overwhelmed and dropped the basket. A few of my eggs cracked.

They didn't mean to, I know that.

We agreed though, maybe I should just add the eggs one by one.

So that's what I began doing. Softly placing eggs in the basket, one by one, and sneaking in an extra one from time to time.

They've occasionally handed me back an egg and said "not yet," to which they've always come back, found the egg, and placed it in the basket themselves.

I only have a few of them left now. They're just sitting there, and I'm just staring them. I know they're not ready for these eggs. Just like I'm not ready.

Will they be though? Will I be?

What if I give these eggs in the basket, these last few eggs, what if I put them in there, the basket becomes too heavy........ and they drop them? All of them. Again. Only...this time they wouldn't crack.

They'd break.

So. Completely out of fear of the basket being dropped again, I've begun to put the last of them back in bowls, on tables, and in drawers.

Trying to decide whether I'm supposed to give the eggs, placing them gently in the basket.

keep them to myself... keep them sitting.

...Or let them take the eggs themselves...

Absolute Occurrence is Irrelevant

Remember when we were little?

You liked baseball. I tried to play, because you told me thats what everyone played. I trusted you. I thought it was something that I was going to learn to like. But then I got older, and I went to school. I made friends, I had sleep overs, and playdates. My friends didn't play baseball. I watched closer, because that didn't make sense. Why did you tell me something, that nobody else seemed to believe was true.

I decided to quit baseball. You didn't like that. You took a bat and hit me hard on the hip. Hard enough for me to feel, but in a place no one could see. I played for another week. I said to you again, that I didn't like baseball. The pony tail you put in my hair for the game that night, ripped a chunk of hair out. I played another week. I'd quit. You'd "convince" me to play another week. Till one day I walked out to the pichers mound and screamed

"I DON'T LIKE BASEBALL! I DON'T WANT TO PLAY ANYMORE

I haven't played since.

Do you remember a few years ago?

You liked basketball. You have no idea that I liked it to. You'd play for hours, and I'd sit on the side lines. During your warm up, sometimes I'd come and shoot the ball. You never passed the ball to me. I waited patiently. I continued to practice, because one day you'd notice. We'd talk on our drives to the gym, and one day I told you "hey, I'm pretty good at basketball too." You looked at me, looked forward, and the next day picked up golfing.

And here we are today...

You're a swimmer. All you talk about is swimming. How I need to swim, how swimming is the only sport you can remember, how freeing it is. I look at the pool, and I don't trust it. I remember the times I've chocked on water, when I've needed water and couldn't find any, when I've trusted water and it turned out to be tainted.

But I walk catiously to the pool. I nervously extend my foot over the edge and emerse my toes. I bring my foot back out, still unsure if I want to swim. Or if I can. With you in the pool, constantly reasuring me of it's wonders, I slowly sit down. Putting my feet completely in, I realize the water is colder than what you described. I decide not to point that out, because part of me likes it. I begin to swirl my legs, almost splashing in the water. You keep telling me to get in. I remind you, look, my feet are in. You get mad at me, saying I need to swim, that I'm not swimming. I look at you and hiss "I'll get in when I'm ready." Irritated, I start to stand up.

You grab my arm and pull me in.

I wasn't ready to get in. I told you that. The water fills my lungs and stings my eyes, as I panic to climb to the surface. I kick to the edge. I desperately scramble to to climb out of the pool. My hair and clothes now soaked with freezing cold water. I continue to cough up the water that filled my lungs. My eyes are stinging and my throat is rough. You stand there in the pool, looking at me confused, you don't seem to understand why I don't want to swim.

Looking at you, my eyes thin into a glare. I bit my lower lip, while ringing out my shirt. Locking eye contact I fight back the urge to show you the bruise, the one that's still on my hip. Or the bald spot, on the back of my head. I fight the urge to scream, that I don't like swimming.

So I grab my coat and walk away.

No Known Cure.

...Ladies.... Gentle-Germs.... ...Stalkers... Loyal Fans.... First Time Readers....

I am suffering from something, and there is no known cure... It's called "Build a Clock Syndrome" Or BACS as it's used in the medical world.

I was first diagnosed with it at the tender age of 13. By my Grandmother. Although, I'm sure I showed signs much before then.

Here's what it is.

It starts with a thought, an idea if you will, and before you know it, it's been 15 minutes, in some cases... longer.

Need more explanation?

alright. People who suffer from BACS (Build a Clock Syndrome) Suffer from nothing more than a nasty habit.

Ask me "What time is it?" And I'll tell you how to build a clock.

I Basically just really like to tell stories. And... I feel like you need the WHOLE story.

Need Examples? ...Read my blog... Or talk to me for an hour.

Someday- My Prince Will Come.

I was recently asked who my favorite Prince Charming was. This person was, what seemed to be, surprised, shocked even, when I replied "I don't know." I didn't know. I sat there and racked my brain, thinking of every Prince. The Prince (Snow White), Prince Eric (Ariel), Prince Charming (Cinderella), Prince Phillip (Sleeping Beauty), Prince Adam (Beauty and the Beast...... yes I looked up his name....), and Prince Ali (Fabulous is he, Ali Ababwa (Aladdin)). I thought about each one, who they were, how they were with their princess, the works. And sadly, I didn't want any one of them as MY prince. I didn't want my Prince to think everything was fixed with a kiss, that it was ok to fall in love with someone else (even when under "a spell"), that he could kiss me after our first dance (where we hardly even talked). I don't want someone who loves me (or doesn't) because their parents say, with such a bad temper, or someone with such a bad habit of lying.

A few days later I made a phone call and informed my friend with my choice....

This... Is Phoebus.

He's the Knight In Shinning Amour from Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Why would I pick him over a Prince? Over instant wealth, fabulous clothing, and zero facial hair (which we all know, while kissing it irritates the skin). Why would I pick this... average guy? Here are just a few bullet points.

- He pursued her.

-Fantastic sense of Humility

-Willing to go against something he'd worked so hard for, to be apart of good.

-Even in crummy situations, he talks it out.

-Allows her (his princess) to take care of him.

-Pretty silly at times

-And... Lets be honest... I've got a thing for light hair and scruff.

My reasons for wanting him are actually much deeper than what I'm posting. But to it's most basic form, he's her friend. He doesn't hold her higher than him, he also doesn't look down on her. He see's the good in her, hears her out, and discusses ideas with her. He also just has a good heart. Which would be really hard in his position... or maybe not hard, just easier to ignore I suppose.

Also... I kinda have a thing for this guy:

This is Tarzan.

But I mean really...

Who doesn't love a guy who

-Speaks another language

-Has such a strong love for his family

-Is that determined

-Combs the hair out of your face

-Can't help but stare into your eyes

-... Has those nice of pecs...

Like with Phoebus, my reasons for wanting this Jungle man are much more complex than what I'm sharing over the world wide web. But, here is my biggest reason for wanting this hairless ape: their (Tarzan and Jane's) desire to learn from each other, and to teach each other. They were both content in their worlds. Both understood their own worlds. Yet, they yearned for each other's knowledge. They were both smart enough to teach the other, and humble enough to learn from one another. Through their friendship, and willingness to let each other into their lives, they fell in love.

So there you have it my friends and Internet stalkers. I'm looking for a Knight in Shinning Armour, who may have originated from a jungle in Africa. Or... more simply put... the man I've said I've been looking for for a while now... My Best Friend, Who I Just Happen to Wanna Make Out With.

Working It Out, With Working Out.

With everything I go through, I find a way to relate it to another. To make it more manageable. More of something that can be done. I try to watch the game, and play the game.

With my latest endevor, it has become a work out video. Everything that has been said- I have a work out that corelates to what is going on. Whether it makes it more hopeful, or simply puts things into a perspective that tells me to walk away.

The first work out metaphor that came about was bench pressing. I said that, when you bench press too much, too fast, it hurts. There is a major discomfort. But when you stop... there is comfort. There is a sense of relief. This sense of relief however has absolutely NOTHING to do with the act of bench pressing. Bench pressing is still a good, important part of your work out. You possibly may need to do it at a lower weight, and slower. But you still need to bench press.

That was my sense of hope.

However, tonight, the second round of working out came about. We however are not weight training now... we are simply doing cardio now. Who knew comparing a late night jog to a part of life could have me up at 12:30 blogging.

When you run, there is a sense of discomfort. (I don't know about anyone else, but rarely am I ever COMFORTABLE in working out. But as put in "LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE".... it's in the discomfort that we grow. Or as Elder Uchtdorf put it- It's after our pain, or adversity, that we get our "Happily Ever After") Anyway- that was a big side track. Back to the story. Running. You're Running. Your chest starts to hurt. Your heart is pounding. Your lungs just can't seem to fill up with all the air that you feel you need. You try to puff out your chest and breath deep but you can't. Most of the time... if you run through this... You'll be fine. Eventually your heart will continue to beat hard, but it doesn't hurt. And your lungs will stop ceasing and will begin to fill with the crisp air it so desperately needs.

But- when you don't run through it. When you feel like you simply CAN NOT continue... you convince yourself that "if I just simply walk for a minute, allow my lungs to calm, allow my heart to slow, I will be fine." So thats when it happens. Your steps get loud and heavy, your arms moving dramatically as you slow to a stop. You put your hands on your waist and you take a gasp in. You know that if you don't continue moving, you'll get a side ache, so you keep walking forward. After your body has returned to a COMFORTABLE state, you say to yourself "at the end of this song" or "when I reach the lamp post" "I will begin to run again." You start to run again. But you can't quite get back into it. Your feet feel heavy. Your knees are locking up. Your hips aren't seeming to find the rhythm that they had before. You think in your head "Why didn't I just keep going?" The new found discomfort wins, you slow to a stop, turn around, and walk home. Frustrated that you missed out on a run that you didn't need to. You just stopped because something was uncomfortable, but then when you tried to get back into it... other things fell apart.

So that's where I'm at. I feel as if even if we began to run again, because... running is good, and we know it. It may have reached a point where starting again, the knees will lock, the feet will be heavy. If you stop once because of fear, pain, discomfort... why wouldn't you stop with the next set of discomforts, that are PROMISED to come, if for no other reason then you stopped jogging. Every jog that has ever ended because my lungs hurt... I walk home upset that I didn't just... try to keep going. No matter how painful it got I should have kept going. Because... I would have been fine....