Talks With God and Fortune Cookies

This morning I woke up to a ruckus. My mother came storming in and out of my room for only reasons God knows. She was mumbling something about the dentist. As her tornado continued down the stairs and out to the garage, I lied in bed to let my mind wake up. 

I received the reality of my dream being over, and real life coming back into play. As I did, my heart became heavy with this new day in my hands. I sat up in my bed and rubbed my eyes until they ached. I looked over to the mirror and saw my reflection which made my day that much worse. 

"Don't you see what I see?" A small voice said in my head. 

In disgust with my reflection and knowing this voice all too well, I decided to argue, "I see a girl with bed head and red eyes. I see a girl that gets in people's way. So if that's what you see, then yes. I see what you see." 

A chuckle brightened my heart. Louder this time, the voice explained, "That's not what I see. Look again." 

Afraid of being disappointed of my mirror image, I reluctantly looked up. 

"Don't you see what I see?" He asked me again.

I held my breath while I burned a hole into the mirror with my eyes. I was desperate to see what He saw.

"Don't you see the beauty in you? Don't you see the self depreciation washing off of you? Please tell me you see the fear being afraid of you, and the gossip not wanting to tempt you."  

I looked down to my hands with shame as questions of doubt swarmed my mind. Suddenly, curiosity kissed my heart. When I looked back at my reflection, I saw what he saw. 

In complete awe, and a new ambition to be that person, I leaned over to check what time it was: 8:30 AM. 

I got this fortune last night. I thought I'd be productive in the sense that I'd get something done, not in the sense that I'd find myself. The irony of the situation is that I've been praying for God to change me. I told Him no more than three days ago that I was sick of fearing everything but Him. Because I knew that in actuality, I shouldn't fear anything but Him. 

Yours until the pigs fly,

Alessondra Marie

Unwanted Phrases

Part of our problem is that your music makes me angry. I never told you that. But your music makes me furious. One time I was driving with my Dad. We were discussing our music taste. I told him spitefully with you in mind, "I like anything that has a lot of meaningful lyrics and good music." As soon as I said it, I wished to take it back. That happens to me a lot. Stupid. But I said it and we laughed at the absurdity of the statement; my rash giggles disguised the blush that was staining my cheeks. We rushed onto the freeway as I recovered from my idiocy. I further explained that I mostly prefer M&S or Blind Pilot. Not the angry raps like Eminem. 

I fantasize of being spontaneous with unreasonable ideas. M and I used to be, and maybe that's because he had the 'stang. We were hopeless idiots, driving in the backroads of Livermore, out towards Castro Valley, pit stopping at cemeteries, dancing under the stars to Owl City. I'd be a stubborn little girl each night, begging and pleading that he wouldn't take me home. M would give in, and take me to one more place. He understood my thrive to live a fairytale; to be nomadic and live on edge. He had the means to satisfy this desire, and the ideas to do it. As for us? We don’t have the means, you don’t have the desires, I don’t have the ideas to come anywhere close to being spontaneous. 

I cut my hair to a length you probably will hate. But that's how I cope with just about everything, I cut my hair. I chose not to ask your opinion after I carefully considered the way we discuss things. For instance, if I asked, "Should I cut my hair?" You'd probably reply, "How short?" and I'd say, "I'm not sure; maybe something like this?" and I'd show you another picture of Natalie Portman because I want so much to be as beautiful as her. Not knowing the simple desire of affirmation I seek, you'd probably say, "Yeah that looks good" with your half hearted smile that I knew meant, "I really hate it but I know that's the wrong answer, so I'll just give you this smile and nod my head and say yes." 

But that’s not how I want this conversation to go. You see, I imagine Jack Dawson and Rose DeWitt Bukater laying on my bed in a less contemporary version of my room. I saw Rose, the girl that longed to be saved, and was saved by Jack in every way a person could be saved, ask him the same thing. He'd look at her and say, "I hate it. I hate short hair, Rose, and you know it." With a look of something resembling a mix of frustration and devastation, Rose would quickly reply, "Well, Mr. Dawson, with all due respect, that was rather rude." and then they'd laugh because that's what they did. Jack would sit up and as her giggles continue to fill the room, he'd inch closer and closer to her face, examining nothing but her until her face was too close to see clearly. Her giggles would soon reside. Her breathing would get short, anxious to hear what he'd say next. He'd say quietly into her ear, "Rose, it doesn't matter to me how short your hair is. If you want to cut it, then cut it all off. I'll look at you you all the same, no matter how short or long your hair is. So cut it, Rose. I want you to cut it all off if that's what you want." 

But you're not Jack Dawson and I'm not Rose DeWitt Bukater. 

Yours until the pigs fly,

Alessondra Marie