Side Note

I kind of miss doing my themed blogs. I might have to start that up again.

It's Stupid, Contagious to Be Broke and Famous

Hey guys! Sorry I haven't posted all week. But, here I am now (and with a video)! It's a [Non]Fiction Friday vlog. Hopefully you guys enjoy it. I made another video, but it's not uploading at the moment, so I'll post it later.



[[EDIT]]

Here's the video:



So...there's that. I know, I'm a dork. Anyone notice the Victoria's Secret bag? I know I probably could have done more to differentiate between characters besides putting on a hat, but I was flying by the seat of my pants.

I got the idea when I was doing the the [Non]Fiction Friday video. I started off on a tangent about how the blurb on the back cover of the book has the feel of a movie trailer, so I made one. It was a good time. I messed up a lot. I mess up a lot in all of my videos--maybe I should post an "Outtakes" video.

Hope you all had a great Friday. Talk to you guys soon :)

Title Song: 'Punk Rock 101' - Bowling For Soup

Fathers, Be Good to Your Daughters

Daughters will love like you do.
Girls become lovers, who turn into mothers,
So mothers be good to your daughters, too.


Well, I'm back! I'm assuming I'll probably write more in the coming week because of the break from school and all.

Anyhoo, it's [Non]Fiction Friday, so here's a monologue I wrote in Kate Hawkes' acting class. I also performed it for one of her Performing Wellness events. I was waaaaaay nervous. More nervous than I can remember being for any show I've been in.

Well, it speaks for itself, so here it is:

Daddy's Little Girl (monologue)

[Non-Fiction]

by Moi

Your life? What about my life? What about my feelings? You left me. Before I even got a chance to know you, you left me. I didn’t get a second to see your face or hear your voice or to smell your cologne. I didn’t have any chance to pick up on any small detail that I could keep as a memory of you.

“My dad is a lawyer,” Susie said.

“My dad is a doctor,” Jenny bragged.

What was I supposed to say? “My father is a prick and I’m a bastard.”

That was the truth, but I couldn’t tell it. So, mostly, like any other imaginative child, I made up stories. Instead of using my imagination to fool my classmates into thinking my dog got taken by a UFO, I had to come up with stories about why you were never around when my friends came over.

Until I got older and I realized that, I didn’t need to lie. You had never done anything for me, so why should I have to cover for you? You left me; I didn’t leave you. I have always been here.  Year after year, I would sit around wishing to get a phone call from a perfect stranger. I wanted to know you. Why didn’t you want to know me? I wanted a dad and not a father.

When I was younger, I used to wonder, why is it that Jenny and Susie got dads and I got a father? All I ever wanted was to be “Daddy’s Little Girl” but really, I was just my father’s illegitimate child. Your actions made me ashamed to be me, and that is not okay. You took away so much of my confidence and you never even said I’m sorry.

But I’m all grown up now and I see that I didn’t need you to show me how to climb a tree, and I didn’t need you to teach me how to fix a car. I didn’t even need you to be my dad. I didn’t need you. I don’t need you and that is the greatest realization ever. Because now that I understand that, I understand who I’m not. But more importantly, I understand who I am.

Well, yet again, thanks for reading. Talk to you guys soon.

Title Song: 'Daughters' - John Mayer
(not usually a fan, but this is a decent song)

If She Can Find Daylight, Then She'll Be Alright

She'll be alright,
Just not tonight.

Well. Come.
For [Non]Fiction Friday I'm posting a short screenplay I wrote for class. Hopefully the formatting isn't strange, I'm just copy and pasting it from Word.

Untitled
Fiction

FADE IN:

EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD – DAY

The neighborhood is rundown. The rain is coming down extremely hard. The streets and sidewalks are covered in puddles being pelted by huge raindrops. There’s a low rumble of thunder.

There’s litter floating in the puddles and stuck to the sidewalks and grass. On one telephone wire, there is a pair of shoes hanging from it, dripping with rain. Even the trees look rundown.

GIRL’S VOICE
I once learned about the role that weather plays when it comes to story telling.

The houses are less than impressive. Many are falling apart. Some have boarded up windows or doors. There are missing shingles and chipped paint.

GIRLS’ VOICE
Supposedly, when it storms, it usually means something bad is about to happen.

One house in particular looks really pathetic. The yard is small with a once white picket fence. The fence starts at one corner of the yard and lasts about two feet. There’s only a few patches of grass throughout the tiny lawn; the rest is mud.

GIRL’S VOICE
Foreshadowing, it’s called.

The three steps leading up to the door are old and look like they’ve been marched on for years. The left-hand side of the second stair is missing and there’s a large hole in the middle of the third one.

CUT TO:

INT. BATHROOM – DAY

ALEXIS YOUNG (16) stands in a bathroom so small it should be marked “standing room only.”

ALEXIS’ VOICE
Stormy weather is also used to show times of suffering. You know, hard times?

She is wearing all black. She stares at her clouded reflection in a chipped, cracked and scratched mirror. She slowly fixes her hair, combing through it with her fingertips.

She makes eye contact with herself. Her eyes are slightly bloodshot and have bags underneath them.

ALEXIS’ VOICE
The rain cues the audience to feel a certain emotion—helps them understand the mood and the desperation of the situation.

She reaches down and turns on the faucet. There’s a slight clanking and the water starts to flow a weak, light brown stream. She sighs and watches until the water clears.

ALEXIS’ VOICE
I didn’t know that it happened in real life too.

Alexis puts her hands together and lets the water fill the makeshift bowl. She begins to bring the water to her face when a baby cries. She drops the water into the sink and lets out a slow, long sigh.

CUT TO:

INT. BEDROOM - DAY

Alexis is sitting on a mattress on the floor holding her sister, DESI YOUNG (5 months). She is rocking Desi, trying to calm her. After a moment, she hears a car horn and she peeks through a sheet covering the window to see a small, rundown car in front of her house. The rain is still pouring and the thunder rumbles again.

ALEXIS’ VOICE
It started raining the day my mom was killed.

CUT TO:

INT. CAR – DAY

Alexis puts Desi in the back seat of the car, in a car seat and closes the door, then gets into the front seat.

ALEXIS’ VOICE
And it hasn’t stopped since.

In the car is Alexis’ friend, TONI TYSON (17). When Alexis is buckled into the car she looks over at Toni, who gives a weak, sympathetic smile, puts the car into gear and drives off.

ALEXIS’ VOICE
I guess art really does imitate life.

CUT TO:

EXT. CHURCH – DAY

The car pulls up in front of the church. Toni turns off the engine, but Alexis doesn’t move, she just looks out the window towards the church doors.

Toni gets out of the car and goes to the backseat to grab Desi. Before she brings Desi out of the car, she puts up an umbrella to keep them both dry.

Alexis still hasn’t moved by the time Toni starts to walk towards the church.

CUT TO:

INT. CHURCH – DAY

The church is small on the inside. It is just one room with only a few rows of pews on either side of an aisle.

There is a modest, closed casket centered at the front of the church and very little flowers.

Toni walks in with Desi. There are about ten people scattered throughout the pews. Toni takes a seat in one of the empty ones.

The room is practically silent—the only sounds being heard are the shifting of the people in their seats and the rain and thunder outside.

After a few moments, Alexis walks into the church. Everyone turns to watch her. She stops in the middle of the aisle and stares back at them.

CUT TO:

The ORGANIST is playing a hymn. Faint sounds of crying are heard.

ALEXIS’ VOICE
Reverend Dixon told me that the casket should be closed because whoever it was that shot her, shot her in the face. He said she didn’t look the same.

After a few measures, Alexis gets up and walks very slowly and cautiously towards the casket.

ALEXIS’ VOICE
Reverend told me not to, but I had to see her face. When she was alive, it was filled with the sweetest beauty. I had to see what they did to it.

Alexis gets to the casket and runs her hands along the edges. Finally, she opens it. Small gasps are heard and the organist stops playing.

The room is silent again as Alexis pulls the casket all the way open. They all watch as she stares at her mother’s body.

Alexis looks at the puffy mess that used to be her mother’s face. She slowly she reaches into the casket and touches her mom’s face gently, as if trying to soothe her pain.

ALEXIS
(quietly)
Mommy.

She can’t hold back tears any longer and finally starts to sob. She sits on the ground in front of the casket, rest her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands as she continues crying.

Shortly, Toni, still carrying Desi, gets up from her seat, sits next to Alexis and puts an arm around her.

FADE TO:

INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

Alexis sits on the mattress with Desi lying next to her. Just a few candles light the room. Alexis uses a tiny flashlight to read a book. After a moment, Desi starts to fuss. Alexis picks Desi up, stands, and starts to rock and bounce.

ALEXIS’ VOICE
I don’t know what we’re going to do without her.

Desi just cries louder as Alexis continues to try to calm her.

FADE OUT.

Kind of a downer, I know, but I'm in a downer sort of mood.

Hope you're all well.

Title Song: 'Her Diamonds' - Rob Thomas

I'm Writing You a Dear John Letter

Hey all. Here's a piece for [Non]Fiction Friday!

To The Many it May Concern: A Small Collection of Letters
Non-Fiction

Doctor,

When I sat in the chair in your office, and you spoke to me as if my problems weren’t significant, I wanted to get up and leave. The problem was I had already paid, so I decided to have fun with you. You didn’t know it, of course, but I made a game out of making up the answers to the rest of the questions you asked me, just to see how many I could get you to believe. I made you worry about me and found extreme joy when I cancelled my appointment the next day and even more joy when I never returned your phone calls.

Dear Children,

For the last 3 years, I’ve had you all convinced that I am the older sister to the only other black children in the program. I only told you that because it made it so much easier to play favorites.

Sir,

I have to admit, you thoroughly creep me out. You remind me of a pedophile and, though they’re probably safe, I sometimes worry about your children.

Hello Richard (from the bus stop),

I know I promised I’d call you, but the truth is, you’re triple my age and I only said I would do so because you looked really lonely and I felt sorry for you. I always wonder if you knew that I wouldn’t call and if, for those 15 minutes at the stop, we both let ourselves believe that I would, just so we’d feel better. I hope you’re doing okay. Also, whenever I’m home, I make sure that if I use that bus line, I stand at the same stop, hoping to see you again.

Candyman,

Though I continually tell people you do not scare me anymore, I am still terrified of you. It took me a long time to get over a fear of using public restrooms after watching your movie and even still, I don’t go into the last stall because I am certain it will conjure you up. I’ll promise never to egg you on by speaking your name into a mirror, if you’ll promise to never show up in my nightmares again.

Dear Coach,

I’ve always secretly wished that you would divorce your wife and marry my mom, you two would be great for each other…and I could use a decent dad.

[I removed the last letter...not because I feel bad, but because you never who might read it. Haha.]

Best wishes,

Jamika

Well, I hope you guys enjoyed the letters. I'm thinking of making one of the themes of this blog letters--where I'll write a letter to someone/thing. It'll probably be Monday or Thursday.

Anyhoo, enjoy your weekend. I'll try to update soon.

Title Song: 'Dear John Letter' - Whitney Houston

Woe is Me. Baby, This is Tragic

Well, here we are at Friday once more. How are you all?

A couple things first. I absolutely cannot believe that it's been 8 years since 9/11. That's so crazy. I know exactly where I was and what I was doing when it happened. I won't bore you guys with the story though. I remember I used to think, 'How can everyone always remember the exact date that [insert some significant event here] happened?' when I was in history class. But, now, it's so apparent.

Also, as of today, I have 100 days of college left (including weekends). Crazy!

Shall we get down to it? I think so.

I'm sure you remember that it's [Non]Fiction Friday and so, as promised, here is the second half of last week's story:

What's in a Name?
(Fiction)
By Me

“Hey kid, d’ya wanna get me a refill?”

I walk over to the man sitting at a table for four all by himself. As I fill his cup, I look him over. He is like every other Los Angeles businessman that walks in here: suit, earpiece, newspaper and an obnoxious tone.

When I set his cup down, he flips a quarter off of his thumb and says, “there ya go kid, buy yourself something nice.”

I must have missed the memo that nice things were being sold for a quarter these days.

“It’s not the 1920s anymore, asshole,” I say under my breath as I turn from the table.

I walk back behind the counter and start wiping it off as I glare at the suited man. I bet he has a name like Brock or Mitch or Chad—or one of those other names common among jerks with fast cars and mistresses too young for them.

As I continue to sway back and forth, completely engulfed in the movement of wiping down the counter, I think of how long I’ve been here. It has been a year—not that long to some people. In fact, two girls were in here just yesterday going on and on about how fast the year has gone.

“I can’t believe it’s been a year,” the blonde one said in a tone that sounded more like a whine than disbelief. She looked like a girl I knew in eighth grade named Lesley; sounded a lot like her too. Though, the way she flipped her hair and popped her gum assured me that she was more of a Megan.

“Yeah, I know, it’s gone by so quick,” the brown-haired one said after a pause. She looked like she was given a girls’ name at birth but always went by the shortened, unisex version because she had always been a tomboy and Alexis was just too girly.
I think if I were the brown-haired one I wouldn’t want to be friends with the blonde—she seemed annoying.

It’s funny to think that they came to L.A. around the same time I did—I wonder if their mothers supported them.

Back in Bleecher, I knew so many girls like them: cute and whiney and always with common names or unisex names…or common unisex names. They probably came out here to be “discovered.” They probably sit at random outside cafés, flip their hair, and toss their heads back slowly when they laugh. Every move they make is for some invisible producer that is watching them from afar, or some talent scout sent out with a camera to capture the perfect picture of the next big thing. Every cutesy giggle or playful touch is overdone as if they’re at a photo shoot and someone is telling them to “Make love to the camera.”

I think the year seemed long to me because I spent everyday dwelling on how my mom might be feeling. I’ve used so much energy thinking about her, that in the past year I haven’t done anything to help my writing—the reason I came out here in the first place.

I can only imagine how great the winner’s reception was. When I let myself think about it, I picture tons of round tables with nice nameplates, all kinds of pastries, people in fancy clothes and a nice wooden podium for the winners to stand behind. When I let myself think about it, I smile. I don’t think about it much though, because after the smile comes the feeling of guilt for abandoning my mother.
It depresses me to think that I’m already a one-hit-wonder in this city. I doubt I’ll ever write something worthy of an award ever again. I figure, eventually, I’ll go home to see what’s become of my mother—I think I have to if I ever want to write with a clear mind again.

How ironic that I left to gain freedom, yet I’m more under her control than I ever was.

“Hey, Babe, can I get a slice of pie?”

Ah, here’s another Hollywood executive wanting to stuff his face. I want so badly to tell him not to call me Babe; to tell them all that I’m not Kid, Hun or Sweetie either. I want to stand up and tell them who I am, where I’m going. I want to, but instead I ask, “Cherry or apple?”

“Surprise me.”

He looks like a Darren. He probably has a wife who calls him “Dar”, a son he calls Junior and a dog, named Bruno. I bet he’s not as happy as he seems though—is anyone ever?

I wonder if I came into any one of these customers’ places of employment, what they would think my name was at first glance. Probably something ordinary and unexciting like Ashley or Jessica. I don’t blame them; I look pretty mundane and everyday. There’s nothing that stands out about me. I’m positive the one thing that set me away from my peers was my writing and I don’t have that anymore, so I’m pretty much just like every other empty shell lying on a towel on the sunny California beaches.

Maybe, if I go home, people will have been looking for me. Maybe they’ve been waiting a whole year for me to walk up to my mother’s door. Maybe there’s a great homecoming party planned just for me. It is a big maybe, and I don’t know if I could stand to leave the nothingness of my life in L.A. just to return to even more nothing. I’m sure my mom will be there waiting for me, if she didn’t die when she found out I took off. I’m sure she’s been waiting to see her only child reappear; her face contorted between disbelief, anger and excitement, her heart full of the love and concern of a parent.

It has been such a long time. So long, since I’ve been home, since I’ve felt comfort, since I’ve heard my name.

Could a mother forget her child’s name? God, I hope not.

Welp, there you have it. Hope you enjoyed it at least somewhat. I'll try to write a general update of things this weekend. Until then, lovers and friends.

Title Song: 'Knocks You Down' - Keri Hilson (Feat. Ne-Yo & Kanye West)

Introducing:

[Non]Fiction Friday!!!!

Alrighty, introducing the first of five themes I have come up with. This one is called, as I mentioned above, [Non]Fiction Friday. Friday posts will contain an excerpt from a piece of fiction or non-fiction. The excerpt will either be something by me or by some other famous (or obscure) author.

I won't necessarily post something every Friday, but I think this is a fun theme, so I'll try. I won't be writing everyday, most likely, but eventually you'll learn what each theme is. The basic idea of the themes is to give me something specific to talk about, thus (haha, thus) making it more likely for me to write more frequently.

I'll still do general life updates on the weekends for those of you who care to know what I'm doing with my life.

Now, without further ado, I give you [Non]Fiction Friday:

What's in a Name?
(Fiction)
by Me

Sometimes I think back to the day, one year ago, when I left.

**********

It was one of those hot summer nights where the only comfortable place to be was sitting out in your front yard. At that time, I was stuck with my mother, who spent so much time on our couch she sometimes blended in with its cushions.

She called herself a homebody; always told me it was nice to stay at home because everything was familiar. I was always the one who went out to the grocery store, the Laundromat, or to pay the bills that could not be sent by mail. She always said, “It’s easier for me to get things done around this house if I don’t have to go off running crazy errands.”

If you ask me, or anyone, the real reason was not convenience. She would not step a foot outside our door because her previous years of drugs use made her paranoid—her paranoia turned into agoraphobia.

The night I left is still so vivid in my mind—it’s almost as if it happened just yesterday. I came home from school a bit later than usual, but before I could explain, my mom was on me about not being around to get the food she needed for dinner.

When I finally got a word in, I told her I was late because I was in a meeting with my school principal and English teacher. An essay I had written for class won a contest and I had been invited to the winners’ reception in California. Before I could give any more details, she cut me off.

“No! We can’t afford it.”

I told her that everything was taken care of, food, hotel and airfare costs.

“Well…you’re just too young to fly halfway across the country.”

I argued with her. I argued that she never let me experience anything, never let me go anywhere worthwhile or participate in life.

“What’s wrong with your life here? You feel like you have to pack up and leave?”

I told her that I would only be gone for four days and again, that everything was free for us. I even pointed out that my principal and teacher would be there to chaperone.

“Its four days now. But next time it will be a week, then a month and then you’ll be gone and I’ll only see you when you come visit me for four days!”

I stared at her, unmoving, silent. I realized then that she never wanted me to leave. She wanted me to stay and be trapped inside that house, like her, forever. I looked at her face again; her forehead was wrinkled with worry and her eyes were glazed with tears; she was expecting a heartbreaking argument from her only child.

I knew if I gave in, I would become a lifer. I would be one of those girls who forgoes college and a career to work at the corner market and marry the son of some well-off townie.

It broke my heart to think that my mother had become so dependent upon me. Instead of arguing, I hugged her and went up to my room. I lied on my bed, stared at the ceiling and waited.

I waited until I heard her shut off the television and close her bedroom door. I waited until I thought she was sound asleep and when I figured she was, I grabbed a duffle bag, packed some essentials and snuck out the house.

As I walked down the street, I tried my hardest not to look back. It was tough though, I kept thinking about my mother’s face—how it looked earlier that night and how it would look when she realized I had gone AWOL. It upset me to picture her face when she figured it out.

I wondered what would clue her into it. When I didn’t walk through the door on time, would she go to my room and discover the random pictures missing? Would she see that I took the good luck charm she gave me on my seventh birthday from its resting place? Maybe the fact that I made my bed that night would be the first thing to confirm it for her.

Yes, it pained me so much to think of how she would react. Her only child gone—disappeared like a faint dream. The probability of her dropping dead upon realization was high. However, as selfish as it sounds, it pained me more to think of “living” in Bleecher, Oklahoma for the rest of my life.

My mom moved us to this town so I could avoid all of the temptations that she couldn’t. When I was younger, during a school break, my mom took me to see a play in the city. I fell in love with how fast paced and big everything was. For days, all I could talk about was going back. My mom saw the hunger in my eyes—we didn’t ever go back to the city, she wanted to keep me away from it as long as she possibly could.

I never was a small town girl, we both knew it, but knowing that didn’t make my leaving any easier—for either of us.

Well, there's about the first half of the story. Hope it didn't bore you, and if it did...you can suck it. I'm mostly kidding ;)

Hopefully you guys enjoyed the first [Non]Fiction Friday. Stay tuned for the next themed blog: Moral Monday. I will be talking about a life lesson I'll be sure to teach my child (if I ever have (and by 'have', I mean adopt) one).

Stay tuned.