Politics have never been my favorite subject. Everyone has an opinion; most of them stole their opinions from their parents or their friends, who got them from their parents, who got them from their friends and so on. No opinion is really anyone’s own. But in politics, someone always wins and someone always loses. It’s similar to life, only we don’t get to vote on our lives and we can’t strike a bad decision from the record. It’s there and we move on.
Like politics, we have many choices in life. We can choose where we work, how we dress, who leads us, where we eat, where we live–in most cases– and we can choose who we become. Every day is our own little government making executive decisions. They wake up and say, “All in favor of the red shirt day I, all apposed, same sign.” The red shirt it is. Yes, this is a minor example of a daily choice, but it is one of the first we make. Our miniature government has a more important job than our wardrobe. They decide our mood, our actions, our daily struggles. They do a good portion of work and never get paid.
It is obvious that I speak of imaginary politicians because I say they don’t get paid. A politician wouldn’t be what we know as a politician if his salary wasn’t double our own. How else would they pay for their Armani suits and expensive salads? But our internal dialog, which I formerly referred to as our miniature government, is important. Without them, we would stare blankly into the pantry every morning saying, “Um?” Instead we hear a battle of healthy fruits versus unhealthy sugary cereal.
Back to the opinion. Do we allow of mini government to decide it for us, or do we allow our peers and various other influences to form it for us? Our minds are probably one of the only things that aren’t currently controlled by government. Even that is fast coming, but that is another story. We shouldn’t sacrifice our opinions to people-please. That’s not why God gave us the power of choice, it was so that we may choose.
So choose, your voice or the world?
JD Hunt
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Fear Itself
A very wise man once said,”the only thing to fear is fear itself.” But if we fear fear, on top of all the other fears we have, we will always be scared. I am more than aware that this was not the intention of this phrase, it was meant to inspire bravery while coming into a new world. But since I am here in this same old world filled with lions and tigers and bears and spiders and muggers and rapists and murders and psychopaths, I believe I have the right to be a little scared of more than just fear itself.
Fear is what the universe feeds on. It is the fuel that makes the world turn around, partly so it can gain more fuel from those who fear the dark. Fear itself is scared of nothing. Fear itself knows no bounds. Fear itself breathes down the back of my neck when I walk down a dark road. Fear itself has no fears, so of course I plan on fearing fear itself.
As fear walks back and forth conjuring up new ways to make your skin crawl, it realizes how much harder it will have to work to make you scared. Our world is so corrupt that it takes just a little bit more to inspire fear in our hearts nowadays. Fear itself is growing too big.
Everyone fears the stock market’s crash. Everyone fears their houses will be taken away. Everyone fears they will be jumped while walking to eat lunch. Everyone fears death and everyone fears dying. They may not feel the same fears at the same time or all at once, but sooner or later, they are scared. They get so scared of everything, that they forget to be scared of nothing. They are so afraid of dying that they become afraid of living.
I have let fear rule my heart for far too long. I fear more than any reasonable person should. Fear itself has eaten away at my soul until there is nothing but the basics left. I have let fear prey on my mind until I am scared of everything and nothing. A strange noise is fear lurking in the distance. The silence is fear leaving me all alone. I fear fear itself.
This is no way for us to live. The worms that work their way into our brains are ruining our chances of truly living our lives like we should. We are too scared to go. We are too scared to stay. We are too scared to die. We are too scared to live. I have learned to fear fear itself and no one had to tell us we had to fear fear itself.
Wait! Don’t leave me here alone, I’m scared.
-Jessica D. Hunt
Fear is what the universe feeds on. It is the fuel that makes the world turn around, partly so it can gain more fuel from those who fear the dark. Fear itself is scared of nothing. Fear itself knows no bounds. Fear itself breathes down the back of my neck when I walk down a dark road. Fear itself has no fears, so of course I plan on fearing fear itself.
As fear walks back and forth conjuring up new ways to make your skin crawl, it realizes how much harder it will have to work to make you scared. Our world is so corrupt that it takes just a little bit more to inspire fear in our hearts nowadays. Fear itself is growing too big.
Everyone fears the stock market’s crash. Everyone fears their houses will be taken away. Everyone fears they will be jumped while walking to eat lunch. Everyone fears death and everyone fears dying. They may not feel the same fears at the same time or all at once, but sooner or later, they are scared. They get so scared of everything, that they forget to be scared of nothing. They are so afraid of dying that they become afraid of living.
I have let fear rule my heart for far too long. I fear more than any reasonable person should. Fear itself has eaten away at my soul until there is nothing but the basics left. I have let fear prey on my mind until I am scared of everything and nothing. A strange noise is fear lurking in the distance. The silence is fear leaving me all alone. I fear fear itself.
This is no way for us to live. The worms that work their way into our brains are ruining our chances of truly living our lives like we should. We are too scared to go. We are too scared to stay. We are too scared to die. We are too scared to live. I have learned to fear fear itself and no one had to tell us we had to fear fear itself.
Wait! Don’t leave me here alone, I’m scared.
-Jessica D. Hunt
Friday, March 20, 2009
Friendly Gestures
I have developed the bad habit of forming fictional relationships with people in my head. That and I bite my nails. But I’m best friends with several people who don’t even know I exist. Not only am I friends with teachers who have better things to do with their time than spend it on me, but I am also pretty tight with Johnny Depp. Brittany Spears and I were close a few years ago, but she quit speaking to me when I accused her of smoking crack. All joking aside, the purpose here is clear- I have to make up friends because I am so lonely. Of course I don’t really know Johnny Depp.
When I was little, my mother noticed that I was a different child. I could read at age three. I could draw a perfect horse that would probably make anything you could draw look like a moose running backwards through a field that was on fire because Brittany Spears threw a joint down in some dry grass. I was counting and memorizing anything people said around me. I was like a little rolodex with band-aids on my knees. Everyone knew I was going to be different.
My intelligence isn’t the only thing that sets me apart. I had- still have this innocence about me. I haven’t ever been able to do wrong, hold a grudge, receive criticism, misplace a pen, or lose a nickel without feeling guilty for a couple of days. It isn’t a quality that I necessarily enjoy. I can’t get away with anything for more than five minutes. Lies eat me alive. It kept me from being good at hide and seek, I felt so guilty when they couldn’t find me.
Because I haven’t ever been adventurous and outgoing I haven’t ever made a lot of friends. I don’t like to walk up to some stranger and introduce myself. Even if I do, within a few minutes I have them running in fear from my freakish, possessive personality. If you ever make the mistake of being kind to me, you’re mine until you die or really try to make me hate you. As my father says, “Like me and I will love you.” I apologize for following you home last week, I pretended that you invited me. I don’t have a lot of friends, let me have my fun.
The few real life friends I have- the palpable ones- they understand. They know that I own their metaphorical souls. They know to be wary of the jagged edge between me and crazy. It is a fine, fluctuating line between me and that moldy strait jacket that Brittany Spears broke out of so she could shave her head. They are too worried about me to allow me to fall over that edge.
I’m not asking for your sympathy. I am completely okay with my imaginary relationships. I am simply issuing a warning to those who encounter me. I just wanted to let you know that I am one of those people who take everything literal. “We should hang out,” means I will be outside your door in two minutes, so make sure you have some pants on. Don’t get me wrong- I love pretending that we are best friends, but it would be really nice to meet someone who really wanted to be friends.
Sorry to run off but Brittany is calling
-Jessica D. Hunt
When I was little, my mother noticed that I was a different child. I could read at age three. I could draw a perfect horse that would probably make anything you could draw look like a moose running backwards through a field that was on fire because Brittany Spears threw a joint down in some dry grass. I was counting and memorizing anything people said around me. I was like a little rolodex with band-aids on my knees. Everyone knew I was going to be different.
My intelligence isn’t the only thing that sets me apart. I had- still have this innocence about me. I haven’t ever been able to do wrong, hold a grudge, receive criticism, misplace a pen, or lose a nickel without feeling guilty for a couple of days. It isn’t a quality that I necessarily enjoy. I can’t get away with anything for more than five minutes. Lies eat me alive. It kept me from being good at hide and seek, I felt so guilty when they couldn’t find me.
Because I haven’t ever been adventurous and outgoing I haven’t ever made a lot of friends. I don’t like to walk up to some stranger and introduce myself. Even if I do, within a few minutes I have them running in fear from my freakish, possessive personality. If you ever make the mistake of being kind to me, you’re mine until you die or really try to make me hate you. As my father says, “Like me and I will love you.” I apologize for following you home last week, I pretended that you invited me. I don’t have a lot of friends, let me have my fun.
The few real life friends I have- the palpable ones- they understand. They know that I own their metaphorical souls. They know to be wary of the jagged edge between me and crazy. It is a fine, fluctuating line between me and that moldy strait jacket that Brittany Spears broke out of so she could shave her head. They are too worried about me to allow me to fall over that edge.
I’m not asking for your sympathy. I am completely okay with my imaginary relationships. I am simply issuing a warning to those who encounter me. I just wanted to let you know that I am one of those people who take everything literal. “We should hang out,” means I will be outside your door in two minutes, so make sure you have some pants on. Don’t get me wrong- I love pretending that we are best friends, but it would be really nice to meet someone who really wanted to be friends.
Sorry to run off but Brittany is calling
-Jessica D. Hunt
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Cloudy, Playful Skies...
Every time I speak, I pretend that the world stops to listen. Every time I’m sad, I pretend that the universe notices and helps to make me happy. Every time I enjoy something, I pretend that it is the only thing in the world, so I am happy longer. I live in this world under the delusion that people really truly care about every facet, every corner of my soul. I know they have more important things to tend to, but let me have my fun. My make-believe world is much kinder than this world we share.
My make- believe world never tries to hurt me. It never tries to crush my tiny little ego beneath its much bigger heel. It genuinely cares about me, because it’s my imagination, and I’ll do with it what I please. You’re welcome to join me in this perfect place. But you are required to leave your troubles at the door; no sorrow is permitted past this point.
The sky is never blue here. Why? Because that’s the way I like it. A cloudless sky brings me no joy due to the absence of shadows playing hide-n-seek in the white billows above my head. The grass is never cut because it lives, and it would hurt if someone cut your head off every time you began to grow. Trees are bare, all the leaves lie on the ground. They stay there to provide a nice place to play, and they allow the tree to have its own character. In other words, I love the imperfections because that’s the way that God intended the world to be. Not imperfect, but creative– his way.
It is sad that I spend so much time in this unpopulated wasteland. It’s pathetic that I have more friends there than in this huge world that we share. It isn’t your fault because you refused to talk to me, nor acknowledge my presence, nor say “sorry I stepped on your toes, I didn’t see you there.” It’s my fault because I have stayed withdrawn. It’s my fault because I painted myself invisible. It’s my fault because I stuck my foot in your way just hoping that you’d notice I was there. Don’t beat yourself up, the blame isn’t yours to own.
I speak here, hoping, praying that someone will listen. Hoping that someone will take interest in what I have to say. I stay sad because I haven’t found a person who knows how to make me happy. When I am happy, let me stay that way. It doesn’t happen often, and my laughter won’t bring you pain for more than a few seconds anyway. It’s not like I snort. The pretend life I live may be happier, but sooner or later, I will have to break into the real world, the cruel world, the world we have to learn to share.
Stop gluing the leaves back on the trees here!
-Jessica D. Hunt
My make- believe world never tries to hurt me. It never tries to crush my tiny little ego beneath its much bigger heel. It genuinely cares about me, because it’s my imagination, and I’ll do with it what I please. You’re welcome to join me in this perfect place. But you are required to leave your troubles at the door; no sorrow is permitted past this point.
The sky is never blue here. Why? Because that’s the way I like it. A cloudless sky brings me no joy due to the absence of shadows playing hide-n-seek in the white billows above my head. The grass is never cut because it lives, and it would hurt if someone cut your head off every time you began to grow. Trees are bare, all the leaves lie on the ground. They stay there to provide a nice place to play, and they allow the tree to have its own character. In other words, I love the imperfections because that’s the way that God intended the world to be. Not imperfect, but creative– his way.
It is sad that I spend so much time in this unpopulated wasteland. It’s pathetic that I have more friends there than in this huge world that we share. It isn’t your fault because you refused to talk to me, nor acknowledge my presence, nor say “sorry I stepped on your toes, I didn’t see you there.” It’s my fault because I have stayed withdrawn. It’s my fault because I painted myself invisible. It’s my fault because I stuck my foot in your way just hoping that you’d notice I was there. Don’t beat yourself up, the blame isn’t yours to own.
I speak here, hoping, praying that someone will listen. Hoping that someone will take interest in what I have to say. I stay sad because I haven’t found a person who knows how to make me happy. When I am happy, let me stay that way. It doesn’t happen often, and my laughter won’t bring you pain for more than a few seconds anyway. It’s not like I snort. The pretend life I live may be happier, but sooner or later, I will have to break into the real world, the cruel world, the world we have to learn to share.
Stop gluing the leaves back on the trees here!
-Jessica D. Hunt
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Dear McDonald's
Congratulations on your success across the globe. I hear you have more fast-food restaurant locations than any of the other mediocre companies combined. People groups everywhere recognize those brilliant golden arches and that friendly faced clown. Seeing a McDonald’s is like finding an oasis in the middle of the dessert for most people. But praising your success isn’t what I am writing to say- you know better than anyone just how productive your company is.
Your product is affordable for most families throughout the world. In fact, yours is the only restaurant where you can get a hamburger for 59ȼ and allow your child to play. You claim you serve six million customers a day. Your profits must be immense. Since you have so much money at your disposal and all that chemically “enhanced” food, here’s what I propose.
Instead of spending your profits in the media, promoting your product, feed a starving family in Africa. Here we are in obese America, eating away at our Big Macs that we can conveniently find every two miles, and there Africa is, with its starving minority tribes with their bloated bellies and boney legs. They have to walk almost six miles to get water and we have to drive in our expensive SUVs two miles to pick up a few happy meals and a supersized box of French fries. We intake more calories in one meal than they do in an entire week.
I’m not suggesting you totally annihilate your profits here. I am merely suggesting you really give back. Suppose for every three Big Macs you sell, you give one away in Africa. Not only would this give you media attention that money couldn’t buy, but it could inspire America, who really admires your product. You could feed a family and receive free advertizing. No, I suppose a Big Mac giveaway wouldn’t be free for you, but you would barely see the dip in your profits.
While the rest of the world is suffering from coronaries and the rising health cost of riding in a motor scooter, Africa prays for hope, for help from the more fortunate. I know you are probably sitting there in your plus size Armani suits thinking, who is this kid? Is she some health freak who boycotts fast-food hoping the rest of the world will catch on and loose a few pounds? Is she one of those customers who didn’t heed the warning featured in articles all over the internet warning you to be cautious of your fast-food consumption? The answer is, no. I am an average American who suffered an epiphany while washing her dishes.
We are fat and Africa is starving. You have more power than anyone else to do something about it. The choice is yours.
Would you like to Supersize that?
Jessica D. Hunt
*supersizing isn't listed as an option any longer.
Your product is affordable for most families throughout the world. In fact, yours is the only restaurant where you can get a hamburger for 59ȼ and allow your child to play. You claim you serve six million customers a day. Your profits must be immense. Since you have so much money at your disposal and all that chemically “enhanced” food, here’s what I propose.
Instead of spending your profits in the media, promoting your product, feed a starving family in Africa. Here we are in obese America, eating away at our Big Macs that we can conveniently find every two miles, and there Africa is, with its starving minority tribes with their bloated bellies and boney legs. They have to walk almost six miles to get water and we have to drive in our expensive SUVs two miles to pick up a few happy meals and a supersized box of French fries. We intake more calories in one meal than they do in an entire week.
I’m not suggesting you totally annihilate your profits here. I am merely suggesting you really give back. Suppose for every three Big Macs you sell, you give one away in Africa. Not only would this give you media attention that money couldn’t buy, but it could inspire America, who really admires your product. You could feed a family and receive free advertizing. No, I suppose a Big Mac giveaway wouldn’t be free for you, but you would barely see the dip in your profits.
While the rest of the world is suffering from coronaries and the rising health cost of riding in a motor scooter, Africa prays for hope, for help from the more fortunate. I know you are probably sitting there in your plus size Armani suits thinking, who is this kid? Is she some health freak who boycotts fast-food hoping the rest of the world will catch on and loose a few pounds? Is she one of those customers who didn’t heed the warning featured in articles all over the internet warning you to be cautious of your fast-food consumption? The answer is, no. I am an average American who suffered an epiphany while washing her dishes.
We are fat and Africa is starving. You have more power than anyone else to do something about it. The choice is yours.
Would you like to Supersize that?
Jessica D. Hunt
*supersizing isn't listed as an option any longer.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Broken Generation
This generation’s brains are spilling from their ears and down the sides of their necks. They use none of the knowledge that God has blessed them with. And the ones who use their knowledge convince themselves they are smarter than God. So either their heads are slowly emptying or they are rapidly filling with hot air. Bottom line, our generation, our youth, our future, are throwing their future away.
This generation would rather party than get good grades. Who wouldn’t? It’s way more fun to be drunk than smart. It’s way more fun to be high than valedictorian. This is our generation. This is who you, as the parents, have raised us to be. Was it the restrictions you placed on us? Was it the lack of concern when we came busting through the door at 4:00 AM on a school night, morning? Was it because their stepdads molested them, or their real daddies beat them? Was it because you cared too much, or was it because you forgot to care at all?
Today this generation, our generation, my generation, have absolutely no desire to succeed. They have never had anything be required of them. They haven’t had to work a day in their lives. I’m not saying this is true for all youth of today, just the majority of those who surround me. They come from money. They are under the delusion that it will always be available to them. What they don’t realize is that this time they are throwing away is the foundation for the rest of their lives. They don’t care right now, they are too high.
Can we blame the economic crisis we are going through currently on the slackers who decided to use their families’ money to get into a prestigious college? The ones who barely passed, and who only passed because they paid off the teachers or slept with them? Probably not, but that is what this world is coming to. Soon the world will rest on the shoulders of the slackers. It will be up to them to carry us. And parents, we will blame you.
Parents are the reason that today’s generation has no knowledge of right from wrong. Parents are the reason they are slackers. It’s because they didn’t punish them for coming home at 4:00AM. It’s because they didn’t allow them to make their own mistakes. It’s because they said nothing to their daddies when they beat them or their step fathers when they molested them. I’s because you cared too much, or not at all. Until they day that your children die, parents, their problems are your fault.
Go home and punish your teenagers
-Jessica D Hunt
This generation would rather party than get good grades. Who wouldn’t? It’s way more fun to be drunk than smart. It’s way more fun to be high than valedictorian. This is our generation. This is who you, as the parents, have raised us to be. Was it the restrictions you placed on us? Was it the lack of concern when we came busting through the door at 4:00 AM on a school night, morning? Was it because their stepdads molested them, or their real daddies beat them? Was it because you cared too much, or was it because you forgot to care at all?
Today this generation, our generation, my generation, have absolutely no desire to succeed. They have never had anything be required of them. They haven’t had to work a day in their lives. I’m not saying this is true for all youth of today, just the majority of those who surround me. They come from money. They are under the delusion that it will always be available to them. What they don’t realize is that this time they are throwing away is the foundation for the rest of their lives. They don’t care right now, they are too high.
Can we blame the economic crisis we are going through currently on the slackers who decided to use their families’ money to get into a prestigious college? The ones who barely passed, and who only passed because they paid off the teachers or slept with them? Probably not, but that is what this world is coming to. Soon the world will rest on the shoulders of the slackers. It will be up to them to carry us. And parents, we will blame you.
Parents are the reason that today’s generation has no knowledge of right from wrong. Parents are the reason they are slackers. It’s because they didn’t punish them for coming home at 4:00AM. It’s because they didn’t allow them to make their own mistakes. It’s because they said nothing to their daddies when they beat them or their step fathers when they molested them. I’s because you cared too much, or not at all. Until they day that your children die, parents, their problems are your fault.
Go home and punish your teenagers
-Jessica D Hunt
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Grow up to be you
When I asked my little sister what she wanted to be when she grew up, she answered, "You, sister." I realized then that little girls are under so much pressure to be like somebody else. They look in a magazine and see that their hair color isn't good enough, their freckles make them ugly, their boobs are too small, their face is unsatisfactory, they aren't tall enough. Fat. Skinny. Short. Tall. Ugly. Pretty. They see that they aren't good enough, never will be. Our world tells them that they have to look this way, dress this way, be this person. We are taking away their ability to decide for themselves. It's not fair that we ask them to be individuals. We ask them to make their personalities their own. Then we judge them because they don't look like everybody else. So, little girls, "a pretty face may get you a job or a second look, but a personality lets you keep the job, or the person's interest. Be individual. Your insides are more beautiful than anything you can see in a magazine."
To my little sister, "I'm not good enough for you to grow up to be like. Shoot higher, aim better. You and all the other little girls of the world have such a bright future ahead of you."
-Jessica d. Hunt
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
You're Still Here
I’ve spent six months waiting
For my life to change
For fate to take you away
But you’re still here
Everyday you suffer
With pain you’re unable to utter
You’ve stayed for me
And you’re still here
I’ll hold your hand
As you begin to fade away
You’ll leave me here
But that won’t be today
I know one day you’ll go,
But now you’ll stay
Your colors once were vibrant
But you’ve begun to fade
Your heart is ready to leave,
But now you’ll stay
It pains me so to watch you
And to see you cry
I know you’re ready to leave
But now you’ll stay
I’ll hold your hand
As you begin to fade away
You’ll leave me here
But that won’t be today
I know one day you’ll go,
But now you’ll stay
In my heart forever
No matter how time flows
I’ll let you walk away
But I wont let you go
I held your hand
As you began to fade away
You left me here
I miss you so today
I know that you have gone,
But now you’ll stay
And you’re still here
To Kelsey
You ask me if I understand
Almost everyday
But what you don’t realize is that I’ve been there.
Not only have I been there
I created there.
You ask if it hurt when I did it
But what you don’t realize is that I am numb to pain
I invented pain.
Yes I know.
Yes it hurt.
You ask me when it ends
But I still haven’t learned that.
It never ends.
Eternity is a long ride, honey,
Buckle up.
Eventually, you learn to give up.
You think you found the exit,
But it was just a bigger room.
I wish I could find a window.
I wish I had the courage to jump.
That’s how we get here-
Lack of courage.
Here we are still.
It hurts.
I understand.
This is how it will stay
How it’s meant to be
Life.
Live.
Teach me.
But what you don’t realize is that I’m turning out the lights.
The search party isn’t coming.
We will be here alone together
Forever.
Life.
Live.
Love.
I taught you all I know- knew- wish I knew.
This, this is why we are here.
We are here because we never learned.
We never learned to love, live.
Same thing.
2009 history class is boring
J. D. Hunt
Almost everyday
But what you don’t realize is that I’ve been there.
Not only have I been there
I created there.
You ask if it hurt when I did it
But what you don’t realize is that I am numb to pain
I invented pain.
Yes I know.
Yes it hurt.
You ask me when it ends
But I still haven’t learned that.
It never ends.
Eternity is a long ride, honey,
Buckle up.
Eventually, you learn to give up.
You think you found the exit,
But it was just a bigger room.
I wish I could find a window.
I wish I had the courage to jump.
That’s how we get here-
Lack of courage.
Here we are still.
It hurts.
I understand.
This is how it will stay
How it’s meant to be
Life.
Live.
Teach me.
But what you don’t realize is that I’m turning out the lights.
The search party isn’t coming.
We will be here alone together
Forever.
Life.
Live.
Love.
I taught you all I know- knew- wish I knew.
This, this is why we are here.
We are here because we never learned.
We never learned to love, live.
Same thing.
2009 history class is boring
J. D. Hunt
Identity Crisis
In the very beginning of life, we embark on a journey. We search our entire lives for the destination, the finish line of our life long excursion. Only a few are fortunate enough to stumble upon it. Only a few people in this world find who they are– where they belong.
Each character is a uniquely designed piece to the six million piece puzzle that makes up our world. They are cut distinctly, each corner precise. However, when it comes time to put a piece in its place, there are six million possibilities. Most pieces are set aside. They wait their turn to be put in their place, to find out what the big picture will be. Some pieces give up. They make their own place because they are just so tired of waiting. They lose sight of the overall goal of finding out who they are.
When I look down onto the puzzle that is earth, all I can see are the scattered, unorganized pieces. Unfortunately, this mess is our fault. Since when does a puzzle piece know better where it goes than the one putting it together with its mates? We are taking charge of a business that is not our own. We are denying God his wishes by putting our goals into a place He hasn’t destined. We chose a path that temporarily fits our needs. But what we miss is the long term potential destined for us from the beginning.
It is our responsibility to take instruction from those greater than us. If an edge piece to the puzzle says, “You don’t belong here,” we shouldn’t force ourselves into a mold that wasn’t fit for us. Each facet is designed for a specific responsibility. All that is left on our shoulders is to follow the instructions, to look at the bigger picture, and find where we are meant to be. What business does an artist have in politics? What business does a teacher have running a major corporation? Because of our impatience, we miss our true calling.
In those times when we sit and think, I mean really think, about where our lives will end, we must examine our shape. We must look to see if we are cut from the same fabric as those around us, before we launch ourselves into this success spree. Where will the success lead if we have no idea where our journey is supposed to end?
The ending destination is arguably the overall goal. But I’ll let you in on a personal secret. I believe that the journey is half the fun. It shapes us, builds character, it develops our independence. I am one of the stubborn pieces, one of the ones who think they know better than those who have gone before me. I have reshaped myself so I might fit into my place once I get there.
I don’t know your story. I can’t see your shape, only you can. Your life will be like blindly feeling through the dark until you figure out who you are. You must choose the correct path for the rest of your life– humanity depends on it. Whatever you do, make sure you don’t alter the finished product, the big picture.
Hey wait, you don’t fit here!
Jessica D. Hunt
Each character is a uniquely designed piece to the six million piece puzzle that makes up our world. They are cut distinctly, each corner precise. However, when it comes time to put a piece in its place, there are six million possibilities. Most pieces are set aside. They wait their turn to be put in their place, to find out what the big picture will be. Some pieces give up. They make their own place because they are just so tired of waiting. They lose sight of the overall goal of finding out who they are.
When I look down onto the puzzle that is earth, all I can see are the scattered, unorganized pieces. Unfortunately, this mess is our fault. Since when does a puzzle piece know better where it goes than the one putting it together with its mates? We are taking charge of a business that is not our own. We are denying God his wishes by putting our goals into a place He hasn’t destined. We chose a path that temporarily fits our needs. But what we miss is the long term potential destined for us from the beginning.
It is our responsibility to take instruction from those greater than us. If an edge piece to the puzzle says, “You don’t belong here,” we shouldn’t force ourselves into a mold that wasn’t fit for us. Each facet is designed for a specific responsibility. All that is left on our shoulders is to follow the instructions, to look at the bigger picture, and find where we are meant to be. What business does an artist have in politics? What business does a teacher have running a major corporation? Because of our impatience, we miss our true calling.
In those times when we sit and think, I mean really think, about where our lives will end, we must examine our shape. We must look to see if we are cut from the same fabric as those around us, before we launch ourselves into this success spree. Where will the success lead if we have no idea where our journey is supposed to end?
The ending destination is arguably the overall goal. But I’ll let you in on a personal secret. I believe that the journey is half the fun. It shapes us, builds character, it develops our independence. I am one of the stubborn pieces, one of the ones who think they know better than those who have gone before me. I have reshaped myself so I might fit into my place once I get there.
I don’t know your story. I can’t see your shape, only you can. Your life will be like blindly feeling through the dark until you figure out who you are. You must choose the correct path for the rest of your life– humanity depends on it. Whatever you do, make sure you don’t alter the finished product, the big picture.
Hey wait, you don’t fit here!
Jessica D. Hunt
Why Would I Call You Daddy
Man was God’s first choice, he saved the best for last and made man. He gave him reign over the entire physical earth. He said, “This is all for you.” He gave him a wife and said, “This is yours.” After Adam understood the purpose of a wife, he experienced fatherhood. This is the beginning of all the problems in the world. We could blame the first murder on Adam getting his family kicked out of the most beautiful place on earth.
Psychologists will relate any problem to the absence of a father figure in a child’s life. If they are doing drugs- the father wasn’t present in the home. If they are picking their nose- the father wasn’t present in the home. If they are killing cats- the father wasn’t present in the home. If they are having random spasms and flailing on the floor- well you get the point. Our entire development positions a great deal of responsibility on our fathers. Very few people grow up with their biological fathers. They generally have a step-father. Instead of dad, they generally call him Frank. If our fathers are borderline lethargic, we generally over compensate by responding to everything rambunctiously. If our fathers are violent, we flinch when pigeons embark on their flights. Whatever our father is or isn’t, we generally spend our whole lives trying to make up for it.
Now, somebody who is held responsible for all the psychotic mayhem in our lives- we call him daddy. We give him this adoration which he doesn’t deserve. Don’t get me wrong- not all fathers suck at being daddy, but most do. Most don’t fumble with a ponytail holder on the mornings that a mother had to go to work early. Most don’t read bedtime stories. Most don’t take us shopping- offer to buy us prom dresses. Most don’t want us to have as many friends as we possibly could have. But mine- mine does. And here’s the thing, I still don’t hold him up on this pedestal and give him soul responsibility for my entire development.
My “Daddy” isn’t my male role model. He hasn’t shown me what to look for in a husband. He isn’t ever home, has little to say that isn’t negative. I don’t base my ideal of a man on him. He is violent and spiteful. He loves drama. He loves to shed first blood. He loves to hurt. If it’s not his way, it’s the wrong way. I’m not complaining; you learn to live with it. But ironically, I still call him daddy.
He wasn’t always this way. I remember when he would take me to play at the park. I remember when he would take me for rides in the woods really early in the morning, before anybody was awake. He would try his best to put my hair up for me, and even though it always fell down within thirty minutes, I still said thank you. I remember him being my hero until I was about five- until I lost my innocence. Then he slowly turned into this monster. It just continued to get worse and worse. Every day, I did something new that was wrong. I lost more faith in him each day. This went on for eleven years.
Here I am now. I am a psychological mess. I develop more symptoms each day. Everyone can see it. I give a therapist the right to blame this on him. I make every attempt to overcome this road block, but everyday it grows larger. It is a wedge being driven into the center of my being and I’m beginning to break, crack right up the middle. So here is my decision. My daddy, he’s fired. He isn’t allowed to be responsible for me. I pass the buck to all the other respectable men in my life- Grandpa, GranDarryl, Bro. David, Sherbet, God- I saved the best for last. You can teach me what to look for. You can teach me how to be loved because you haven’t failed me yet.
“Daddy of ten years ago, I miss you. You were a good man. I don’t blame you for what you’ve become lately. Just promise me that you won’t forget to be all those things for Sarah. She needs you. Mom, she misses you too. We all miss you. I can’t wait until I get to see you again. I love you.”
You should call him mister-
Psychologists will relate any problem to the absence of a father figure in a child’s life. If they are doing drugs- the father wasn’t present in the home. If they are picking their nose- the father wasn’t present in the home. If they are killing cats- the father wasn’t present in the home. If they are having random spasms and flailing on the floor- well you get the point. Our entire development positions a great deal of responsibility on our fathers. Very few people grow up with their biological fathers. They generally have a step-father. Instead of dad, they generally call him Frank. If our fathers are borderline lethargic, we generally over compensate by responding to everything rambunctiously. If our fathers are violent, we flinch when pigeons embark on their flights. Whatever our father is or isn’t, we generally spend our whole lives trying to make up for it.
Now, somebody who is held responsible for all the psychotic mayhem in our lives- we call him daddy. We give him this adoration which he doesn’t deserve. Don’t get me wrong- not all fathers suck at being daddy, but most do. Most don’t fumble with a ponytail holder on the mornings that a mother had to go to work early. Most don’t read bedtime stories. Most don’t take us shopping- offer to buy us prom dresses. Most don’t want us to have as many friends as we possibly could have. But mine- mine does. And here’s the thing, I still don’t hold him up on this pedestal and give him soul responsibility for my entire development.
My “Daddy” isn’t my male role model. He hasn’t shown me what to look for in a husband. He isn’t ever home, has little to say that isn’t negative. I don’t base my ideal of a man on him. He is violent and spiteful. He loves drama. He loves to shed first blood. He loves to hurt. If it’s not his way, it’s the wrong way. I’m not complaining; you learn to live with it. But ironically, I still call him daddy.
He wasn’t always this way. I remember when he would take me to play at the park. I remember when he would take me for rides in the woods really early in the morning, before anybody was awake. He would try his best to put my hair up for me, and even though it always fell down within thirty minutes, I still said thank you. I remember him being my hero until I was about five- until I lost my innocence. Then he slowly turned into this monster. It just continued to get worse and worse. Every day, I did something new that was wrong. I lost more faith in him each day. This went on for eleven years.
Here I am now. I am a psychological mess. I develop more symptoms each day. Everyone can see it. I give a therapist the right to blame this on him. I make every attempt to overcome this road block, but everyday it grows larger. It is a wedge being driven into the center of my being and I’m beginning to break, crack right up the middle. So here is my decision. My daddy, he’s fired. He isn’t allowed to be responsible for me. I pass the buck to all the other respectable men in my life- Grandpa, GranDarryl, Bro. David, Sherbet, God- I saved the best for last. You can teach me what to look for. You can teach me how to be loved because you haven’t failed me yet.
“Daddy of ten years ago, I miss you. You were a good man. I don’t blame you for what you’ve become lately. Just promise me that you won’t forget to be all those things for Sarah. She needs you. Mom, she misses you too. We all miss you. I can’t wait until I get to see you again. I love you.”
You should call him mister-
There Are No Rules In Family
There are so many choices in the world today. You can choose where you live, where you work, what you do, and who you are; those are all up to you. Few things in life are not an option. Today even your hair color, eye color, and your name are your choice. But the one thing you can’t seem to permanently wipe off your shoes is your family. You can get emancipated, you can run, but unfortunately you can never really hide. Somehow, some way, they always find you in the end.
During your first days with your family, they seem totally normal. This is generally because you are an infant, or a new spouse. The odd habits, the skeletons in the closets, they usually wait a few weeks, months, years to surface. They take their time to rear their ugly heads. First, they have to hook you, use the eye candy to capture your soul. Once they have, you’re screwed for life. Forever you are stuck with your kleptomaniac aunt, your manic grandma, your enraged father, your epileptic mother, your alcoholic uncle, your brainwashed sister, cousins, grandfather. And only time will tell what your resulting psychological effects will be. But as longs as you stick around, share the love. After all we are blood.
Standing on the inside of this screwed up life, this is normal. This is what everyone experiences, right? See, this is where you are wrong. Not everyone is lucky enough to have both their mother and father present in their life. Even if all he ever does is push you into walls or she screams how much you suck– you could do better. At least they’re still together, right? It’s love, and I can’t wait to find it one day!
I don’t know which is worse, not noticing how screwed up your family is or truly loving every minute of it. Coming from a mentally disturbed family automatically give you a higher risk for “disabilities” or mental handicaps. It’s highly possible that you too are mentally disturbed. After all, you’d have to be completely blind, and deaf, to not notice the irregularities in your family. Even through all the drama– do you swear that you didn’t take money from my checking account? – you still possess a bond with them that just can’t be broken. Not even by a large dose of your grandma’s antidepressants and some of your uncle’s vodka.
Sitting at a dining room table with these people is a real event. It’s like supper time at the psych ward. You prepare a meal salted with Grandma’s tears and the pepper your aunt stole from your house. Your father can’t believe your aunt broke into his house once again, and how many times does he have to change the locks, so he storms out and isn’t seen again until you are about to go to bed. You ask your mom to hand you the pan of rolls, then ten minutes later, she responds with the pitcher of tea– don’t blame her, it’s her medication. Isn’t this dinner nice since your uncle isn’t here to spoil the evening? Then the phone rings. “I’m going to kill you all,” his drunken voice bellows from the other end of the phone. Isn’t he a nice addition to the family?
Still every night, despite the theatrics and all the debates on which hotel you should move into, you return home to this circus. You love these people because they are the only ones that love you. And that’s all anybody wants in this world– to be loved.
Please pass the mashed potatoes-
Jessica D. Hunt
During your first days with your family, they seem totally normal. This is generally because you are an infant, or a new spouse. The odd habits, the skeletons in the closets, they usually wait a few weeks, months, years to surface. They take their time to rear their ugly heads. First, they have to hook you, use the eye candy to capture your soul. Once they have, you’re screwed for life. Forever you are stuck with your kleptomaniac aunt, your manic grandma, your enraged father, your epileptic mother, your alcoholic uncle, your brainwashed sister, cousins, grandfather. And only time will tell what your resulting psychological effects will be. But as longs as you stick around, share the love. After all we are blood.
Standing on the inside of this screwed up life, this is normal. This is what everyone experiences, right? See, this is where you are wrong. Not everyone is lucky enough to have both their mother and father present in their life. Even if all he ever does is push you into walls or she screams how much you suck– you could do better. At least they’re still together, right? It’s love, and I can’t wait to find it one day!
I don’t know which is worse, not noticing how screwed up your family is or truly loving every minute of it. Coming from a mentally disturbed family automatically give you a higher risk for “disabilities” or mental handicaps. It’s highly possible that you too are mentally disturbed. After all, you’d have to be completely blind, and deaf, to not notice the irregularities in your family. Even through all the drama– do you swear that you didn’t take money from my checking account? – you still possess a bond with them that just can’t be broken. Not even by a large dose of your grandma’s antidepressants and some of your uncle’s vodka.
Sitting at a dining room table with these people is a real event. It’s like supper time at the psych ward. You prepare a meal salted with Grandma’s tears and the pepper your aunt stole from your house. Your father can’t believe your aunt broke into his house once again, and how many times does he have to change the locks, so he storms out and isn’t seen again until you are about to go to bed. You ask your mom to hand you the pan of rolls, then ten minutes later, she responds with the pitcher of tea– don’t blame her, it’s her medication. Isn’t this dinner nice since your uncle isn’t here to spoil the evening? Then the phone rings. “I’m going to kill you all,” his drunken voice bellows from the other end of the phone. Isn’t he a nice addition to the family?
Still every night, despite the theatrics and all the debates on which hotel you should move into, you return home to this circus. You love these people because they are the only ones that love you. And that’s all anybody wants in this world– to be loved.
Please pass the mashed potatoes-
Jessica D. Hunt
Don't Feel Bad
It isn’t a secret that I have given up on trying to be like you. I used to believe that it was required of me to fit the foot print that you left behind. Here’s the only thing I have to say to you, your feet are very small. There is so much more to life than you. Didn’t you know that we are equal, but at the same time, individual. Ironic, isn’t it? They tell us we are to be treated the same, then they say, be your own person. I don’t much enjoy this game. My entire life, I have strived to be different from you. Instead of taking what I’m given and pretending to be happy, I take what I’m given and make it better. I make everything personal. That breath, that one you just took, that’s fine for you, but me? I have to give my breath a rhythm. One- two- one. In, out, in.
It’s not a personal attack; it’s just that you are boring. There is no color in your smile, no bounce in your step. It’s fine for you, but me? Not so much.
My goals eat your goals for breakfast. Your goals aren’t even nutritious. Your goals are the sweet, rot-your-teeth, bog-you-down pop-tart. I eat your goals and then have to run a mile, just to kick them out of my system. If I was a club, my bouncers would have to mop you off the floor so they could make room for the people who need to be thrown out. It’s not that you are trash; you’re doing great things with your life, but me? I’m doing so much more. One day, you’ll wake up and say, “Hey, isn’t that, that weird girl, the one who just didn’t fit?” You’ll ask this, because I’ll be the one creating the foot print you just can’t fill. It’s not your fault; your feet are just too small. If I were you, I’d blame genetics. But I’m not. You.
It’s not a personal attack; it’s not your fault. It’s just that you’re not me. To you, that may be a good thing. But when the world goes searching for the next original thing, they won’t seek you out. Nope, you’re just too boring. Boring isn’t a standard for me. It’s a tragedy.
Your whole life, you’ve been average. Hey, that’s great, for you, but for me? Nope, average just won’t cut it for me. I have to be the best. I have to be the one that makes you turn your head as I walk by. You’ll say, “What was that? Did you see it?” Just for the record, that was me.
When you look in a mirror, I hope you like what you see. I hope you think your features are pleasing. Because you’re the only one. To everyone else you’re just a face. My face, it may be different. It may not be beautiful. But I’ll tell you what, it’s the face. The face you’ll always wish you could be. Be ready to live in this shadow. And believe me, it’s a big shadow.
This isn’t a personal attack, you’re just not me. To anyone else, this may be the best thing to ever happen to you. But to me, this is just sad. Your efforts are futile. You will try and try and try. But you will always fail. Because there is only one me. As sad as that is for the world, there is only one me. I quite like it this way.
I want you to remember, your mom, dad, aunt, uncle, cousin, partner, sister, brother, they think you’re special. And you are, for you, but me? You won’t ever be good enough. Don’t feel bad, it’s not that big of a deal. You don’t need to be unique. Your life can be just as fabulous as mine, if you make it. But it probably won’t be. I’m sorry, but my rise to power is now. Yours? Yours was twenty years ago with all the other beauty queens.
-Jessica D.Hunt
It’s not a personal attack; it’s just that you are boring. There is no color in your smile, no bounce in your step. It’s fine for you, but me? Not so much.
My goals eat your goals for breakfast. Your goals aren’t even nutritious. Your goals are the sweet, rot-your-teeth, bog-you-down pop-tart. I eat your goals and then have to run a mile, just to kick them out of my system. If I was a club, my bouncers would have to mop you off the floor so they could make room for the people who need to be thrown out. It’s not that you are trash; you’re doing great things with your life, but me? I’m doing so much more. One day, you’ll wake up and say, “Hey, isn’t that, that weird girl, the one who just didn’t fit?” You’ll ask this, because I’ll be the one creating the foot print you just can’t fill. It’s not your fault; your feet are just too small. If I were you, I’d blame genetics. But I’m not. You.
It’s not a personal attack; it’s not your fault. It’s just that you’re not me. To you, that may be a good thing. But when the world goes searching for the next original thing, they won’t seek you out. Nope, you’re just too boring. Boring isn’t a standard for me. It’s a tragedy.
Your whole life, you’ve been average. Hey, that’s great, for you, but for me? Nope, average just won’t cut it for me. I have to be the best. I have to be the one that makes you turn your head as I walk by. You’ll say, “What was that? Did you see it?” Just for the record, that was me.
When you look in a mirror, I hope you like what you see. I hope you think your features are pleasing. Because you’re the only one. To everyone else you’re just a face. My face, it may be different. It may not be beautiful. But I’ll tell you what, it’s the face. The face you’ll always wish you could be. Be ready to live in this shadow. And believe me, it’s a big shadow.
This isn’t a personal attack, you’re just not me. To anyone else, this may be the best thing to ever happen to you. But to me, this is just sad. Your efforts are futile. You will try and try and try. But you will always fail. Because there is only one me. As sad as that is for the world, there is only one me. I quite like it this way.
I want you to remember, your mom, dad, aunt, uncle, cousin, partner, sister, brother, they think you’re special. And you are, for you, but me? You won’t ever be good enough. Don’t feel bad, it’s not that big of a deal. You don’t need to be unique. Your life can be just as fabulous as mine, if you make it. But it probably won’t be. I’m sorry, but my rise to power is now. Yours? Yours was twenty years ago with all the other beauty queens.
-Jessica D.Hunt
Monday, March 9, 2009
Amber Alert
Death hasn’t ever been part of my life. The closest living being I have ever lost is a dog, and I’m not an animal lover so it didn’t strike me intensely. I’m not prepared to lose something, let alone someone who is close to me.
It’s difficult to admit, but I am scared. I try to be strong, hide my fears, but my face betrays me. The fear lives in my eyes. It sits on my tongue. The wrinkles in my forehead get deeper every day. There isn’t a mask big enough– thick enough to cover up what my face refuses to hide.
My Grampa is my hero. He’s my male role model. He’s my replacement dad. He’s my everything. At the adolescent age of sixty-three, he is a walking miracle. He has died twice, once from hypothermia, once from a hospital dropping him on his head. He was in a coma for a period of time which caused brain damage and loss of use of appendages. His voice box was damaged in the midst of all this. His face was ripped from his skull. He has had three major cardiac arrests. He has eleven stents in his heart. He has lost everybody who was ever close to him. He married the devil, then assisted in the reproduction and upbringing of her children, one of which turned out just like her. And even through all he has endured, he is the kindest, most considerate man I have ever met. He is my Grampa.
Finding out he had cancer the first time around was rough on me. It never quite sank in due to the eighty-five percent chance that the chemotherapy would kill off the bad cells. It did. A year had passed before he let anyone know he was getting sick again. Here I will mention that this man wishes for no one to fuss over his health. Anyway, he allowed himself to get to the point of severe internal bleeding before informing his wife that he wasn’t feeling well. Four days in a hospital and many tests later, his freakishly tall doctor came and began with the words, “I’m sorry.” This time, there was no hope for recovery. Six months go home and die. My world crashed.
I watched this man cry or a few days. He watched the Christian Health Network and begged his wife for every herbal cure they thought they had found. He was really scared and it was written all over his sallow face. My Grampa didn’t have six months to live, he had six months to die. And the second that the goliath doctor told him he was dying, he died. I was mourning the loss of Grampa while his heart was still beating– his heart is still beating.
He traveled to a cancer test center to see if they could help him. They decided to toy with our emotions, saying that our hospital had been mistaken and there was no cancer. Our hopes started breathing again. I saw my Grampa’s green eyes shine once more. After swallowing a video camera confirming his miraculous recovery, we celebrated. We told all our friends that he was healed. Then they decided to make sure they hadn’t missed anything. The drove a tube down his nose into his small intestines, the cancer’s home, and confirmed their mistake. They are preparing to biopsy, they assume it may be worse than we thought. The three tumors have a high probability of being malignant. And I am scared again.
I’m sick of this. I’m sick of everyone being sick. I’m sick of being scared. I’m sick sick sick. I’m going to lose my Grampa, my replacement daddy, my everything. My world is going to shatter into a million pieces. And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men are going to have to work really hard to put it back together again.
Pull out the super glue-
Jessica D. Hunt
It’s difficult to admit, but I am scared. I try to be strong, hide my fears, but my face betrays me. The fear lives in my eyes. It sits on my tongue. The wrinkles in my forehead get deeper every day. There isn’t a mask big enough– thick enough to cover up what my face refuses to hide.
My Grampa is my hero. He’s my male role model. He’s my replacement dad. He’s my everything. At the adolescent age of sixty-three, he is a walking miracle. He has died twice, once from hypothermia, once from a hospital dropping him on his head. He was in a coma for a period of time which caused brain damage and loss of use of appendages. His voice box was damaged in the midst of all this. His face was ripped from his skull. He has had three major cardiac arrests. He has eleven stents in his heart. He has lost everybody who was ever close to him. He married the devil, then assisted in the reproduction and upbringing of her children, one of which turned out just like her. And even through all he has endured, he is the kindest, most considerate man I have ever met. He is my Grampa.
Finding out he had cancer the first time around was rough on me. It never quite sank in due to the eighty-five percent chance that the chemotherapy would kill off the bad cells. It did. A year had passed before he let anyone know he was getting sick again. Here I will mention that this man wishes for no one to fuss over his health. Anyway, he allowed himself to get to the point of severe internal bleeding before informing his wife that he wasn’t feeling well. Four days in a hospital and many tests later, his freakishly tall doctor came and began with the words, “I’m sorry.” This time, there was no hope for recovery. Six months go home and die. My world crashed.
I watched this man cry or a few days. He watched the Christian Health Network and begged his wife for every herbal cure they thought they had found. He was really scared and it was written all over his sallow face. My Grampa didn’t have six months to live, he had six months to die. And the second that the goliath doctor told him he was dying, he died. I was mourning the loss of Grampa while his heart was still beating– his heart is still beating.
He traveled to a cancer test center to see if they could help him. They decided to toy with our emotions, saying that our hospital had been mistaken and there was no cancer. Our hopes started breathing again. I saw my Grampa’s green eyes shine once more. After swallowing a video camera confirming his miraculous recovery, we celebrated. We told all our friends that he was healed. Then they decided to make sure they hadn’t missed anything. The drove a tube down his nose into his small intestines, the cancer’s home, and confirmed their mistake. They are preparing to biopsy, they assume it may be worse than we thought. The three tumors have a high probability of being malignant. And I am scared again.
I’m sick of this. I’m sick of everyone being sick. I’m sick of being scared. I’m sick sick sick. I’m going to lose my Grampa, my replacement daddy, my everything. My world is going to shatter into a million pieces. And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men are going to have to work really hard to put it back together again.
Pull out the super glue-
Jessica D. Hunt
Friday, March 6, 2009
Digest This...
Obesity is a disgusting word. The sounds roll out of your mouth like vomit. You say you feel sorry for them, the obese people. You pity them. You’re concerned about their health. But the second a 600 pound man rolls by on a motor scooter, you can help but snicker at the way his fat jiggles when he passes over a crack in the concrete. I secretly hope that he turns around and sits on you.
Not only is obesity unhealthy for your physical health, it is unhealthy mentally as well. Many psychological problems come from being obese. An obese woman is more self conscious than any other person in the world. All she can sit and think is, I make that elephant look small. And every time you poke fun at an oversized individual, I hope you gain five pounds.
America is obsessed with outward appearances. I honestly can’t blame them, they have just seen too many beautiful people. At least, they think they are looking at beautiful people. They don’t see the work– the sweat, blood, plastic, collagen, and makeup– that goes into these “beautiful people”. They only see the finished product, the retouched picture, the filtered movie. That “beauty” is pounded into us until we realize that we aren’t good enough. We aren’t perfectly gorgeous, so we must be hideous.
The bigger people, not even the obese, but the slightly overweight men and women of our nation, they tell themselves everyday that they aren’t good enough. They wake up and look in the mirror to say, I am apologizing in advance to any children I make cry today. If this is how the slightly overweight feel, imagine how the obese feel. They avoid mirrors. They avoid McDonald’s if there is anyone within a two block radius of the building. There is no one that wants to be beautiful more than they do.
Obese ladies and gentle men, to you I say, ‘Forget what America has to say. You are beautiful. You may not be pictured on the cover of a fashion magazine, but you shouldn’t be forced to hide.’ They shouldn’t be subjected to the cruel punishment and the malicious jokes of “the beautiful.” For every time you said a cruel thing about an overweight person, I hope you feel our pain.
My entire life, I’ve been overweight. I’ve been the “ugly” that walks by and knocks something off the table with their rear. I’ve been subject to cruel jokes. I’ve given myself an eating disorder, because you just couldn’t accept me– my beauty– for what I was. I wasn’t you, so that makes me disgusting. For every ounce I loose, I hope you gain two.
Next time you see a 600 pound man riding on a motor scooter, I hope you think twice about snickering. That disease he has, it’s not funny to him. He has to worry about his heart giving out, his sugar soaring, every minute of every day. Obesity is no joke, and you’re working your way up there with all the weight you’ve started gaining.
Would you like a dessert menu?
Jessica D. Hunt
Not only is obesity unhealthy for your physical health, it is unhealthy mentally as well. Many psychological problems come from being obese. An obese woman is more self conscious than any other person in the world. All she can sit and think is, I make that elephant look small. And every time you poke fun at an oversized individual, I hope you gain five pounds.
America is obsessed with outward appearances. I honestly can’t blame them, they have just seen too many beautiful people. At least, they think they are looking at beautiful people. They don’t see the work– the sweat, blood, plastic, collagen, and makeup– that goes into these “beautiful people”. They only see the finished product, the retouched picture, the filtered movie. That “beauty” is pounded into us until we realize that we aren’t good enough. We aren’t perfectly gorgeous, so we must be hideous.
The bigger people, not even the obese, but the slightly overweight men and women of our nation, they tell themselves everyday that they aren’t good enough. They wake up and look in the mirror to say, I am apologizing in advance to any children I make cry today. If this is how the slightly overweight feel, imagine how the obese feel. They avoid mirrors. They avoid McDonald’s if there is anyone within a two block radius of the building. There is no one that wants to be beautiful more than they do.
Obese ladies and gentle men, to you I say, ‘Forget what America has to say. You are beautiful. You may not be pictured on the cover of a fashion magazine, but you shouldn’t be forced to hide.’ They shouldn’t be subjected to the cruel punishment and the malicious jokes of “the beautiful.” For every time you said a cruel thing about an overweight person, I hope you feel our pain.
My entire life, I’ve been overweight. I’ve been the “ugly” that walks by and knocks something off the table with their rear. I’ve been subject to cruel jokes. I’ve given myself an eating disorder, because you just couldn’t accept me– my beauty– for what I was. I wasn’t you, so that makes me disgusting. For every ounce I loose, I hope you gain two.
Next time you see a 600 pound man riding on a motor scooter, I hope you think twice about snickering. That disease he has, it’s not funny to him. He has to worry about his heart giving out, his sugar soaring, every minute of every day. Obesity is no joke, and you’re working your way up there with all the weight you’ve started gaining.
Would you like a dessert menu?
Jessica D. Hunt
Gossip Girl...
I have only one secret left. I haven’t ever said it out loud- to anyone. I haven’t even written it out- not in a journal, nor an article. It is the only thing I have left to cling to. It is the one thing I have kept from you.
Secrets don’t make friends. This statement, it is the most bogus statement in the world. What is friendship based on, you ask? Oh, well allow me to shed some light on the subject. The reason you have friends, not acquaintances, but true friends? They want your secrets. They want to know what no one else does. It makes us feel special. Don’t lie and say you aren’t curious what your “best friend” is thinking right now. Yes, I know you are. That’s why your friends.
We pick our friends based on who has the juiciest stories. We search out an individual and say, “Ooh, she’s the one. She looks like she has a lot on her mind. I want to know what she does.” And it’s true, we can’t wait to know what she does.
Truly, when you think about it, friendship- secret searching- is practically a never ending quest for knowledge. It is our own twisted way to learn. Sure, it’s not math, it’s not world history, but it’s fresh information that we didn’t have ten seconds ago. We are a taking society. We take and take. We eat up the tragedies, the mistakes, the humor, the gossip. We love it.
Don’t say you don’t. You know you do, you can’t help it. Even I love it. We all love our taking- our consumption- right up until we are asked to share. Wait a minute! I just got this fresh information, why would you want to know about me? The truth is, your friends, they are secret searchers too. They want to know what you know.
Few of us are selfish with our limited knowledge. We never find ourselves saying, “No, I don’t know any fresh gossip. I have never made a mistake, I’ve never been embarrassed, I’ve never had a secret.” We wouldn’t dare deny our inquirer this information. They care, they are curious about me!
This secret though, it’s mine. I refuse to share with you. It’s tragic really. I bet you don’t have a secret as painful as mine. What’s that you say? Nope! Mines better. I bet you want to know why it’s better than your tragedy. Well, here’s my secret to my secret- It’s still a secret. And now I know yours, so that’s why mines better.
Oh! Don’t you worry not one little bit- your secret, it’s safe. I don’t keep many friends. I never have liked to share. What’s mine, well that’s mine. What you do with your belongings, that’s your business.
Go secret searcher, go find your next human encyclopedia. They are chock full of information they are just dying to spill into some new subject. Loose lipped America- she’s ready to share.
Did you hear…?
Gee thanks for sharing,
Jessica D. Hunt
Secrets don’t make friends. This statement, it is the most bogus statement in the world. What is friendship based on, you ask? Oh, well allow me to shed some light on the subject. The reason you have friends, not acquaintances, but true friends? They want your secrets. They want to know what no one else does. It makes us feel special. Don’t lie and say you aren’t curious what your “best friend” is thinking right now. Yes, I know you are. That’s why your friends.
We pick our friends based on who has the juiciest stories. We search out an individual and say, “Ooh, she’s the one. She looks like she has a lot on her mind. I want to know what she does.” And it’s true, we can’t wait to know what she does.
Truly, when you think about it, friendship- secret searching- is practically a never ending quest for knowledge. It is our own twisted way to learn. Sure, it’s not math, it’s not world history, but it’s fresh information that we didn’t have ten seconds ago. We are a taking society. We take and take. We eat up the tragedies, the mistakes, the humor, the gossip. We love it.
Don’t say you don’t. You know you do, you can’t help it. Even I love it. We all love our taking- our consumption- right up until we are asked to share. Wait a minute! I just got this fresh information, why would you want to know about me? The truth is, your friends, they are secret searchers too. They want to know what you know.
Few of us are selfish with our limited knowledge. We never find ourselves saying, “No, I don’t know any fresh gossip. I have never made a mistake, I’ve never been embarrassed, I’ve never had a secret.” We wouldn’t dare deny our inquirer this information. They care, they are curious about me!
This secret though, it’s mine. I refuse to share with you. It’s tragic really. I bet you don’t have a secret as painful as mine. What’s that you say? Nope! Mines better. I bet you want to know why it’s better than your tragedy. Well, here’s my secret to my secret- It’s still a secret. And now I know yours, so that’s why mines better.
Oh! Don’t you worry not one little bit- your secret, it’s safe. I don’t keep many friends. I never have liked to share. What’s mine, well that’s mine. What you do with your belongings, that’s your business.
Go secret searcher, go find your next human encyclopedia. They are chock full of information they are just dying to spill into some new subject. Loose lipped America- she’s ready to share.
Did you hear…?
Gee thanks for sharing,
Jessica D. Hunt
Hold on like a Zebra
Say you have an open wound that is in the healing process and you place something in it- something that doesn’t belong there- and leave it there until the wound heals. It becomes a part of you. It is trapped under the flesh. It cannot be moved. Not that this is something you should do, it’s simply a metaphor, a symbol. So here we are, with some foreign object trapped under your skin. What does this relate to?
Say you have this tire and this huge luscious lawn. Drop this tire onto the flowing green grass and don’t touch it for a month. When you come back and pick up this tire, move it someplace different, you leave a dead patch. This tire killed the life underneath it by smothering it. It held it down, kept it quiet, until it lost its breath- lost its color. This isn’t me telling you to go and vandalize your gorgeous lawn, this also is a metaphor. What does this symbolize?
Go back to the healed wound, pretend it didn’t scar. All you have is this lump from where you left this foreign object- say this is a mini army man in your skin- just stay with me here. It doesn’t belong, everyone can see it. It makes you different, not in the good way, but the “Oh my God, that man has a giant penis shaped birth mark on his eye!” kind of way. Okay, so a lumpy green place on your skin isn’t as bad as a penis shaped birth mark, but you get what I mean. You want this out. You regret your stupidity and want this army man that you stole from your little brother out of your skin. The way you remove this is up to you. You can do it the right way- the doctor and a scalpel, or the wrong way- digging with a fork. The way you remove this makes no difference to the overall metaphor. Bottom line, you now have a hole in your arm.
Now our two subjects- the wound and the dead grass- are cousins. They have come full circle and now have a relation to each other. They are both ugly oddities that stick out.
Here is your relation- replace the grass with you and the tire with a deep, painful experience. Replace your skin with your heart and the army man with this experience of your choice. You’ve held onto this for a while. Your tire covered it and your skin hid the truth. But now you have removed it- revealed your soul and poured out your harbored hate and pain. But see, they left scars, evidence. You tried to get rid of them, make them seem like they weren’t ever there. But let’s face it, a random tire sitting in a pretty yard and a lumpy green man under your flesh- they stick out, you notice them. So we can’t leave that. And now, you’ve given up hiding them and you have a seeping wound and dead grass.
You don’t really have a seeping wound after revealing your secret, your experience, no one can see it. It feels like everyone can see the hole in the middle of your chest, but they really can’t. You. You are the only one who can see it. You’re the only one who can feel the absence of the army man, the tire, the pain. It’s like when someone looses their arm. They can see it’s gone, and see that is doesn’t work. But they still feel it itch sometimes. You still feel the aching pain even after you removed what doesn’t belong. You feel like you wasted your time. Not only does it still hurt, but now someone else knows your pain.
If you break a bone and let it heal with medical attention, you have to break it again before it can heal properly. So this new pain isn’t really new. It’s the same old pain just brought to the surface and to your attention. It was there all along and you just got used to it. But now- here’s the good part- now your grass can grow back. Your arm skin can be lump-less. Your pain will fade away. You have to look back at something before you erase it, and now that you’ve brought this up it can go away for good.
See, doesn’t that feel better-
Jessica D. Hunt
Say you have this tire and this huge luscious lawn. Drop this tire onto the flowing green grass and don’t touch it for a month. When you come back and pick up this tire, move it someplace different, you leave a dead patch. This tire killed the life underneath it by smothering it. It held it down, kept it quiet, until it lost its breath- lost its color. This isn’t me telling you to go and vandalize your gorgeous lawn, this also is a metaphor. What does this symbolize?
Go back to the healed wound, pretend it didn’t scar. All you have is this lump from where you left this foreign object- say this is a mini army man in your skin- just stay with me here. It doesn’t belong, everyone can see it. It makes you different, not in the good way, but the “Oh my God, that man has a giant penis shaped birth mark on his eye!” kind of way. Okay, so a lumpy green place on your skin isn’t as bad as a penis shaped birth mark, but you get what I mean. You want this out. You regret your stupidity and want this army man that you stole from your little brother out of your skin. The way you remove this is up to you. You can do it the right way- the doctor and a scalpel, or the wrong way- digging with a fork. The way you remove this makes no difference to the overall metaphor. Bottom line, you now have a hole in your arm.
Now our two subjects- the wound and the dead grass- are cousins. They have come full circle and now have a relation to each other. They are both ugly oddities that stick out.
Here is your relation- replace the grass with you and the tire with a deep, painful experience. Replace your skin with your heart and the army man with this experience of your choice. You’ve held onto this for a while. Your tire covered it and your skin hid the truth. But now you have removed it- revealed your soul and poured out your harbored hate and pain. But see, they left scars, evidence. You tried to get rid of them, make them seem like they weren’t ever there. But let’s face it, a random tire sitting in a pretty yard and a lumpy green man under your flesh- they stick out, you notice them. So we can’t leave that. And now, you’ve given up hiding them and you have a seeping wound and dead grass.
You don’t really have a seeping wound after revealing your secret, your experience, no one can see it. It feels like everyone can see the hole in the middle of your chest, but they really can’t. You. You are the only one who can see it. You’re the only one who can feel the absence of the army man, the tire, the pain. It’s like when someone looses their arm. They can see it’s gone, and see that is doesn’t work. But they still feel it itch sometimes. You still feel the aching pain even after you removed what doesn’t belong. You feel like you wasted your time. Not only does it still hurt, but now someone else knows your pain.
If you break a bone and let it heal with medical attention, you have to break it again before it can heal properly. So this new pain isn’t really new. It’s the same old pain just brought to the surface and to your attention. It was there all along and you just got used to it. But now- here’s the good part- now your grass can grow back. Your arm skin can be lump-less. Your pain will fade away. You have to look back at something before you erase it, and now that you’ve brought this up it can go away for good.
See, doesn’t that feel better-
Jessica D. Hunt
Turn on th lights
I want to take you somewhere. It’s the kind of place you don’t really want to go, like a history field trip. It’s not as boring as a war memorial. But can be compared evenly with the emotion of a war memorial. It’s not as vibrant as an art exhibit, but you will find the strange there. So go on this journey with me. It won’t take too much of your time, I promise.
The trip isn’t a long one, just a few seconds and you’re there. Now close your eyes– not really, because you can’t read with your eyes shut. But I want you to imagine we are in this place. It is a room, no windows no doors. There is no way out, no way in. There are no lights, no vents, no electricity. Don’t worry, I can get you out of this place just as easily as I brought you here. The room is divided in two parts, like two people live here. But since there is no way out, and no way in, it is obvious that no one does live here.
On one half of the room there is a set of shelves. They are filled to the point that a feather too much weight would send them crashing to the floor. The things on the shelves are clean, organized, alphabetical, chronological, shortest to tallest, tallest to shortest– perfect. Having never seen the shelves nor the information on them before, you could still find what you are looking for in seconds. The conditions are immaculate, like nothing encountered by man.
On the other side of the room, you see a calamity. Nothing is where it belongs and everything is out of place. The floor is piled high with everything and nothing. The items here are unrecognizable. Colors spew randomly and shapes are unpredictable. You can’t tell what you’re looking at, but you can’t look away. It’s beautiful. It’s flawed– perfect.
These halves are polar opposites. Seemingly unrelated. A world of pure well-preserved confusion. Standing here looking in, you know nothing more about anything you see than you would if you had never seen it. Enough of the turmoil, you have my permission to leave this place. But I bet you are curious as to where you have gone. And how you can leave?
You cannot leave a place which you cannot enter. You, my blessed friend, are experiencing a snippet of my mind. Unfortunately, the tour stops here. I can show you no more, for once you’ve seen these things you are never permitted to leave– that’s why I’m still here. But what you can know is what you have seen.
You have witnessed the battle of my creativity and my intelligence. One side fights for order and control while the other rebels and refuses to conform. With all intelligence comes the sacrifice of flaws. You must be willing to give up something else in order to possess the knowledge God has blessed me with. What I gave up was the control of my emotions– the ability to fight my inward battles. It is a small sacrifice to make as an artist. It was well worth the many outbreaks I have suffered, but I tell you this so you won’t be alarmed next time I withdraw. I am simply retreating to clean up the mess from where one of my inhabitants crossed the line.
I won’t be gone long-
Jessica D. Hunt
The trip isn’t a long one, just a few seconds and you’re there. Now close your eyes– not really, because you can’t read with your eyes shut. But I want you to imagine we are in this place. It is a room, no windows no doors. There is no way out, no way in. There are no lights, no vents, no electricity. Don’t worry, I can get you out of this place just as easily as I brought you here. The room is divided in two parts, like two people live here. But since there is no way out, and no way in, it is obvious that no one does live here.
On one half of the room there is a set of shelves. They are filled to the point that a feather too much weight would send them crashing to the floor. The things on the shelves are clean, organized, alphabetical, chronological, shortest to tallest, tallest to shortest– perfect. Having never seen the shelves nor the information on them before, you could still find what you are looking for in seconds. The conditions are immaculate, like nothing encountered by man.
On the other side of the room, you see a calamity. Nothing is where it belongs and everything is out of place. The floor is piled high with everything and nothing. The items here are unrecognizable. Colors spew randomly and shapes are unpredictable. You can’t tell what you’re looking at, but you can’t look away. It’s beautiful. It’s flawed– perfect.
These halves are polar opposites. Seemingly unrelated. A world of pure well-preserved confusion. Standing here looking in, you know nothing more about anything you see than you would if you had never seen it. Enough of the turmoil, you have my permission to leave this place. But I bet you are curious as to where you have gone. And how you can leave?
You cannot leave a place which you cannot enter. You, my blessed friend, are experiencing a snippet of my mind. Unfortunately, the tour stops here. I can show you no more, for once you’ve seen these things you are never permitted to leave– that’s why I’m still here. But what you can know is what you have seen.
You have witnessed the battle of my creativity and my intelligence. One side fights for order and control while the other rebels and refuses to conform. With all intelligence comes the sacrifice of flaws. You must be willing to give up something else in order to possess the knowledge God has blessed me with. What I gave up was the control of my emotions– the ability to fight my inward battles. It is a small sacrifice to make as an artist. It was well worth the many outbreaks I have suffered, but I tell you this so you won’t be alarmed next time I withdraw. I am simply retreating to clean up the mess from where one of my inhabitants crossed the line.
I won’t be gone long-
Jessica D. Hunt
Edible Paste
Five is the perfect age. You are innocent and mischievous all at the same time. You can get away with anything. You can run through your living room naked and nobody say a word. You can spill grape juice all over the green carpet in your bedroom and have you mommy-maid clean it up for you. You can destroy your best outfit, and it’s no big deal because it came from target. You don’t get embarrassed. Five is the perfect age.
My younger sister has been five for about four months now. She is precious, happy, flawless, messy, adorable, snakelike, rambunctious, sleepy. It’s like kindergarten menopause. She’s going through this great change in life. She loves you one minute and she swears that you stole Fluffy, her cherished stuffed dog, the next.
When a five year old gets sick, it doesn’t annihilate their world. They don’t stop dead in their tracks. They drink some Pedialite and admire the odd shade of purple their vomit was last time they regurgitated. “Honey, are you okay?” the mother will ask. “Did you throw up?” And with a smile the child will reply, “Yes. It was purple.”
When you’re five, a band-aid can fix anything. “Mom, I have a head ache, can I have a bad-aid? “Mom, I sprained my ankle, can I have a band-aid?” “Mom, I think I just cut off my foot, can I have a band-aid?” I wish my world still revolved around band-aids and purple vomit.
When you’re five, McDonald’s is your hero, along with Smokey the Bear and the girls in pretty dresses on the TV. It is so easy to earn a child’s respect when they’re young. It’s when they grow up that you really have to try to impress them. For now they don’t care that your clothes came from K-Mart or that your minivan has a purple vomit stain in the back seat. Just buy them a Swiss roll or some ice-cream and you’re suddenly their hero.
When you’re five, you meet no strangers. Every face is a potential friend. That strange hobo on the park bench covered with the local real estate lady’s face on it, could be a good friend. They scantily clad young lady whose skin is clinging desperately to her face seems like a good acquaintance. A five year old can light up a homeless man or crack whore’s spirit. They haven’t prejudged them because of their status. They love them unconditionally.
When you’re five, all colors match. When you’re five, glue is a delicacy. When you’re five, a balloon is an essential. When you’re five, a trampoline can entertain you for hours. When you’re five, “be quiet” means “just how loud can you be.” When you’re five, life is easy.
Here is my dilemma, I am no longer five. Kindergarten menopause is not my biggest problem. That crack whore makes me a little nervous. My clothes have to come from a popular store. A band-aid fixes nothing. That purple vomit stain grosses me out– a lot. Smokey the Bear is a disappointingly fake and I could swear I saw him smoking a cigarette, which he threw onto the ground, on his break between pre-schools. As a secret between you and me, if I had a time machine, I would go back to when I was five. All I left behind would be wholly worth the innocence of a five year old.
Pass the paste and grape juice-
Jessica D. Hunt
My younger sister has been five for about four months now. She is precious, happy, flawless, messy, adorable, snakelike, rambunctious, sleepy. It’s like kindergarten menopause. She’s going through this great change in life. She loves you one minute and she swears that you stole Fluffy, her cherished stuffed dog, the next.
When a five year old gets sick, it doesn’t annihilate their world. They don’t stop dead in their tracks. They drink some Pedialite and admire the odd shade of purple their vomit was last time they regurgitated. “Honey, are you okay?” the mother will ask. “Did you throw up?” And with a smile the child will reply, “Yes. It was purple.”
When you’re five, a band-aid can fix anything. “Mom, I have a head ache, can I have a bad-aid? “Mom, I sprained my ankle, can I have a band-aid?” “Mom, I think I just cut off my foot, can I have a band-aid?” I wish my world still revolved around band-aids and purple vomit.
When you’re five, McDonald’s is your hero, along with Smokey the Bear and the girls in pretty dresses on the TV. It is so easy to earn a child’s respect when they’re young. It’s when they grow up that you really have to try to impress them. For now they don’t care that your clothes came from K-Mart or that your minivan has a purple vomit stain in the back seat. Just buy them a Swiss roll or some ice-cream and you’re suddenly their hero.
When you’re five, you meet no strangers. Every face is a potential friend. That strange hobo on the park bench covered with the local real estate lady’s face on it, could be a good friend. They scantily clad young lady whose skin is clinging desperately to her face seems like a good acquaintance. A five year old can light up a homeless man or crack whore’s spirit. They haven’t prejudged them because of their status. They love them unconditionally.
When you’re five, all colors match. When you’re five, glue is a delicacy. When you’re five, a balloon is an essential. When you’re five, a trampoline can entertain you for hours. When you’re five, “be quiet” means “just how loud can you be.” When you’re five, life is easy.
Here is my dilemma, I am no longer five. Kindergarten menopause is not my biggest problem. That crack whore makes me a little nervous. My clothes have to come from a popular store. A band-aid fixes nothing. That purple vomit stain grosses me out– a lot. Smokey the Bear is a disappointingly fake and I could swear I saw him smoking a cigarette, which he threw onto the ground, on his break between pre-schools. As a secret between you and me, if I had a time machine, I would go back to when I was five. All I left behind would be wholly worth the innocence of a five year old.
Pass the paste and grape juice-
Jessica D. Hunt
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
