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(Written April 6th)

My terribly vexing dream, soon to become a story.

*story in progress*

I am young. The year is 1965, and spring explodes in tiny bursts out of the tiny yellow flowers popping up in trees all around Paris. Sadly, I am allergic to these colorful blooms, so I spend a large part of my time outside sneezing and taking care of my runny nose. I continue to go outside because I cannot avoid beauty. I learn to cope. I learn to not breathe so much.
I have never experienced this flower-filled season before with such great ambivalence. Before, I would lie in the rolling fields of grass surrounding my neighbor's home in my home of Wisconsin, awkward limbs sprawling about, my mouth breathing in in the fresh air of the fields clear and even. Though it felt wonderful, I did it to avoid my parents. But at the moment I have no reason to.

Grandmother is taking care of me right now. Both me and Mari, that is. Mari and I do not know when mother and father will return, but Grandmother assures us that they will be back within the month. I trust Grandmother, with her big, crinkly face and leather eyes that squint and wink at me whenever she is telling a joke. I don't laugh at her jokes, but I trust her. Mother and father will return.
Mari and I stay with grandmother or elderly relative for a month or two.
Lots of exploring, lots of character development.
Fancy architecture everywhere. Why is this important?
See two staircases frequently but never take the one on the left leading to who knows where. It looks like it leads to a double-door that goes beyond somewhere. I am intrigued by it. It looks exotic because I do not know where it leads. The entire veranda and staircase area is downright gorgeous, the base of the veranda is covered in vines and the handles of the staircase is made of dark wood (between chocolate brown and black), but the base of the veranda and the steps of the staircase are made of either stucco or warm cream wood/material covered in that color paint.
Also am towards end of tale followed by man and posse. About 5-6 of them. Leader is tall, but not too tall, blonde, kind of like the man in Moulin Rouge. Angry face, but crazy. Very variable. He and his men surround me as I am going to the staircases alone to decide which one to take by myself. I am scared. I try to get away, I try to say mean things to make them go away, finally I try to fight them off, but their leader gets the best of me. The other men are there to solely intimidate, and it works. He forcefully wraps around my mouth and head with a single fraying thin strip of duct tape a couple times. I am bound and voiceless. I cannot do anything. I am full of so many words. But he hurts me and begins to rape me. I do not know if he continues to rape me or if his men had a turn as well, for I have blocked out this memory. But I awake afterwards in my bed and it is like nothing has changed but I. I am afraid and bear a body and heart full of pain. I am ashamed and lack the ability to speak. My grandmother and sister do not know.
At the end of the tale, I return to the place with my grandmother and sister, hoping that their presence will spare me from the men who inflicted such pain and suffering on me. We are there and I still cannot make a decision. Finally, I choose to go up the mysterious staircase because what lies beyond intrigues me. And it cannot be as bad as experiencing the same fate of these men over again, a monotonous life, a life that is predetermined for me. But as I am standing on the raised veranda, my grandmother and sister start to go down short set of stairs to the courtyard below (with gardens and walkways and large areas to congregate in) and a man appears, pushing past my grandmother and sister. They object but have no idea why he is here. I do not either, but I may vaguely place him as one of Andre's henchmen. He is slightly round in his face and he looks at me as if I am a piece of meat. I now know what he wants and I become very afraid. I try to side step his thorough moves to get to me. In my dream, I know what may soon be repeating itself and I forcefully wake myself because I cannot live through the same hell of such a real version of rape again. However, the dream could have gone either way. It could've been that I was raped and subjected to the same fate yet again as my grandmother and sister looked on in fear, powerless, or were also raped, or ran away in fear. I'd like to hope that this time, since I had made my decision, I was able to push past the man's huge, grabbing hands, and run up the straight stucco staircase, push the large wooden doors open, and go into my future in some unknown place that I hope is better than the one I was experiencing.

Natural beauty

I discovered a new reading/chilling/connecting with the earth spot on campus on Sunday... It's this gorgeous tree in a grove of trees, beyond this fence by a walking path and the lagoon, that overlooks the lagoon and the ocean and campus all at once. It has a giant branch that is growing completely horizontal to the earth, allowing one to sit or lay on the branch in peace. You can sit there and see all, or look up and see thousands of tiny intricate branches and leaves weaving together into a beautiful puzzle of sky and tree. It makes me happy.

I am ready.

I am proud of myself and my body.
I ran every single day this month (besides one day a week for break). I am glad I'm motivated to do that. Now, can I get on the track for eating less and seeing actual weight loss? We'll have to see. But I'm proud of my mental commitment to greatness.
I also applied to the managing editor position for the Bottom Line (to fill Jenny's position, since she had to graduate early, lol.) I'm quite excited and terrified at the same time that I have a pretty good chance at getting it. I've thought about it a lot, and today while I was thinking about it in the car ride back from camping all weekend, I decided that even though I'm rather young, I'm mature enough to handle a position like that. The responsibility is a little intimidating, but I think I would love to be in a leading position, especially if my co-workers show me the ropes of the position and generally what I need to do. I'm ready and willing to learn. I think I can finally handle something important like this. I think the only thing that frightens me is the time commitment, but I think generally I will be able to handle it because I love The Bottom Line and what it's done for me and this campus. I think I would love to be in the position where I can raise the paper to a level where everyone at UCSB can be proud of our publication, rather than half of the people supporting our growth and half of the people scoffing at even the idea of having another paper besides the Nexus. I would like to be a part of the movement.
Shit, I've even convinced myself.
I'm awesome. I'm glad I feel like I can handle my life lately. I'm taking 19 units right now but I'm going to be dropping my Music 8 class or changing to a pass-no pass class, cause I would like to minor in Music, but I don't need it for the minor. Plus, I think 17 units will be enough, that with the Managing Editor position and all. I can do it, though :)
I've just got to keep my perspective. And I have a pretty steady awesome group of friends now, so I won't have to worry about maintaining my social life. Every once in a while, I'll just take a break from all of the crazy business that keeps me alternately sane and insane and relax and have a good time with friends or take some time for myself. I can do it.

Meh, break.

I'm kind of over break right now. I enjoy the Christmas parties, but my parents are stressing me out. I just can't wait until my online traffic school is over. Then I'll have less to worry about, hopefully. And then I won't feel obligated to my parents. I'm glad I can finally pay them back now.
I just wrote an entire long post and then my internet was dead so it was deleted. Don't you hate it when things like that happen? I feel like my time was wasted away. But it wasn't really wasted, I guess it was good personal reflection. Plus, I think I'm still a little buzzed, so I was just rambling about visiting Leslie in Berkeley (super fun! she bought me a hookah for my birthday! we smoked it! I slept over and interesting things happened with her cute guy friend, hooray) and about my parents being retarded and rude to me.
I swear, my family is quite dysfunctional. Why won't my parents get divorced? I feel like they both would be a lot happier.
I just think they're afraid of change and growth. Well, my mother has just settled for disappointment, while my father is afraid of change. This is the bond that holds them together. Plus money. My mother would be very financially unstable without the financial security my father brings.
Sigh.
I hope to never become trapped in a loveless marriage, bickering and name-calling my partner, resenting their presence, and treating them as more of an enemy rather than a loving ally. Please, please, please. This is why I fear marriage. And commitment, to an extent.

Recipes for Successful Nutrition and Delicious-osity (Part One)

I love making up recipes with ingredients that just seem to kind of go together naturally. Sometimes they don't even seem like they'll jive together but they totally do. It's all a part of getting really bored with certain repetitive foods, trying to dress up foods that I always have lying around, and trying to be healthy by avoiding dry and packaged foods...

I think I may start posting a couple of my recipes on here, just so I can remind myself what they are so I can try them again if I ever want to repeat them. Odds are, they're delicious! At least, to me. Yes, they may have already been made somewhere online or in someone's cookbook... but I've never had the pleasure of discovering them myself. So it feels like I did.

I made a delicious quesadilla today, but it had only one typical ingredient of a quesadilla.. the tortilla.
I normally HATE quesadillas (think they're TERRIBLE!) because of all the icky, fake, goopy, sticky, messy cheese in the center of it. It makes me want to hurl. But last week I was forced to eat a quesadilla with some nicer quality cheese and chicken at a party... and I got to thinking that they weren't really all that bad.

Melissa's quesadilla for those who hate quesadillas:
One tortilla
A handful of feta cheese (mine comes in little crumbly chunks)
A handful of sliced tomatoes (about a half of a tomato)
Lettuce (preferably shredded)
*optional* Chicken or other meat (I didn't put any in myself, but I imagine it would be pretty tasty)
Shred lettuce and chop up tomatoes anyway you like.
Stick feta cheese and tomatoes in the tortilla. Fold tortilla over the ingredients.
Roast the tortilla with feta cheese and tomatoes (and meat, if desired) over the stove quesadilla style. When the feta cheese has melted a lot but not to a sticky, goopy mess take it off the stove, open it up, stick the lettuce in, and enjoy!
I find it is a panini-like quesadilla that's not actually a panini. And isn't as spicy. It's actually pretty nice and sweet, especially if the tomatoes are ripe. Mmmm. And I don't even like tomatoes normally either! So this meal was a win-win.

Healthy tip: Eating more tomatoes boosts the Lycopene in your body. Lycopene is good for you because it reduces inflammation, fights zits, and creates healthier, clearer skin. You can also rub raw tomatoes on your face to clear pores, allegedly. Perhaps the phrase "tomato-face" could become a good thing in the future!

I am a book.

You rifle through my pages, soft like silk, desperate to discover and curious to uncover.

Quite a few have casually flipped through, adding a slightly worn crease to my edges, and a curvaceous bend to my spine. I do not mind these casual readers, for they have turned my pages all the same, but the memory of their vaguely interested touch fades quickly. But their coffee stains do not fade as fast, leaving little dark brown residues that blot out the corners of words, misconstruing my witty dialogue.

Therefore I do not like to be considered light reading. This is not to say that you do not want to read me for fun, for my text is chock full of wondrous and amusing situations and ideas. You just might have a bit of trouble getting through the dramatic sections, or you might be afraid of committing to so much reading, regardless of the pace you choose. Perhaps you might hear about me from a friend, check me out, set me on your nightstand for a couple months, and nothing ever happens besides a few short, sleepy encounters because you never find the time and effort to read me. So if you decide to pick me up for a short while, you may find yourself returning me to the shelf if the endeavor is too much to handle.

To read me chapter by chapter is to devote countless hours to an endlessly increasing novella, fresh pages stacking up by the day. You are never obligated to read me, for you will read for your own pleasure, but once I’m in your hands you will find you cannot put me down, especially in the dark hours of the night, reading me under the covers by the light of the moon.

I am constantly growing and changing, adopting new characters, scenarios, scandals, values, conflicts, ideas, and resolutions. You may find yourself addicted to the interactive adventure of reading me. And you don’t even have to read my story in sequence to enjoy its magnificence.

Those passionate for my material find my prose engaging and my plot thick with tremendous twists and turns. The main heroine of my story is decidedly real, analytical, curious, beautiful, and humorous, but quirky and unpredictable. Chances are you’ll find yourself identifying with her. And you’ll want to read her regardless because she’s so goddamn intriguing.

A quick word to the wise: Be careful you don’t turn a page too fast or in a haphazard manner, or you’ll get cut. At an awkward angle, my seemingly innocuous paper can make you bleed. You’ll wonder what you did to deserve such a wound. And I don’t want your blood on my pages. I’m not that vindictive. But I also don’t want to be treated with disrespect.

I just want you to read me if it brings you pleasure, great joy, and fulfillment. Perhaps my story will even help you figure out your own life and philosophies. Maybe a passage or two of my prose will resonate so strongly with you that you consider them quotes to guide yourself on the path of life. Maybe I won’t mean anything to you. But with the chance that I could give meaning to someone’s life through my own existence, I am here, an open book resting on the shelves of the world’s library.