Back when I was a wee high schooler, I was a painter. Like, took art every year, ended up in the AP Art class (yes, that actually exists) and painted every day.

Back then, I wanted to be a graphic designer, and my art teacher encouraged me to pursue it.

I applied to different schools around the country and ended up choosing between Virginia Tech and LSU. The difference was, I had applied (and was accepted) to VT’s graphic design program immediately. At LSU, I had to take art courses for a year, then apply.

I ended up at LSU.

And I ended up quitting graphic design when I almost sliced off my thumb while working on my portfolio. (I was rejected from the program twice, too.)

It all worked out. I’m not complaining because I would definitely have fewer fingers now than I did when I started school. And I ended up in a photography class after being rejected from the graphic design program the second time, figuring it would be my last hoorah in the art department, and I fell in love.

But the thing is, even though I didn’t graduate with a graphic design degree and even though I don’t do it every day, I find it fascinating.

So when we got engaged, I was hellbent on designing our save the dates AND invitations, as well as everything that came along with them.

I got the ball rolling tonight after being hit by the inspiration fairy that is commonly known as Martha Stewart Weddings. (Martha? If you’re reading this, I love you. Call me. I’ll totally be your photo girl for the rest of time.)

I’ve been working on the STD (save the date, not an actual one, y’all!) and the invite for about five hours, and I’m beginning to like what it is becoming. And while they still need a little work, I’m totally proud and impressed that I was able to utilize my creativity skills once again.

Score one for being an art major for a year!

…

Do y’all dabble in graphic design? Would you ever consider designing your save the dates, wedding invites and thank you notes? If so, why? If not, why not?

Happy Tuesday, friends!

                          

When I picked up my first camera in the fall of 2004, I just knew that was what I was supposed to be doing.

Ever since then, I’ve been chasing that dream of being a full-time, professional photographer.

I started work at the student newspaper as a staff photographer, and I loved it. I was challenged on most assignments, and I was getting a different perspective than the fine art photography I had come to adore.

At times, it’s seemed out of reach. Like my junior year when two pompous grad students told me I didn’t have the chops to be a photographer. I struggled and struggled because of their harsh critique, convincing myself to take a step away from people — my passion — and focusing more on natural beauty. I struggled with inspiration for the rest of the semester, and my final project was just OK because my heart wasn’t in it.

The following summer, I spent time in Italy. And I fell in love with photography all over again. I hesitantly embarked on a portrait project, and it spread like wildfire. Inspiration caught, and I was an artist again. I was connecting with people through my lens again. And, most importantly, I wasn’t dreading picking up my old Yashica twin lens anymore.

{One of the pieces from my “On the Radio” project that was completed in Italy.}

When I got back to the States, I continued work at the paper. I started freelancing for anyone and everyone I could, including a few local magazines. I tried to take another fine art photo lab, but my supplies didn’t arrive in time, and I had to drop the class.

I continued plugging away with my photo work up until I graduated in 2008. And then, I went to work for a paper, something I thought was my dream.

I left a year and a half later, bitterly disappointed.

I had some amazing experiences there and made some beautiful images, but more often than not, my creativity and spirits were squashed because of a certain someone not pulling his weight and someone who didn’t believe in “creative photos.” I didn’t have time to pursue any personal projects because I felt I was always running around.

I came to the realization this past fall that I wasn’t living my life: I was merely biding my time. And when circumstances took a turn for the worse, I put my foot down, packed up all my stuff and moved to a new town without a job in sight.

And that simple act made all the difference.

In January, I started working a job that has NOTHING to do with photography. It’s refreshing, and the work environment is top-notch.

I oftentimes find myself daydreaming about projects I want to embark on whenever I have a spare moment. Like documenting a couple battling infertility. Or a teenage girl overcoming an eating disorder. Or a farmer working on his crops and documenting the process he takes from the seeds to the harvesting. I think these would all be fascinating in their own regard, and I really look forward to having the time to start exploring these topics with my camera in hand.

I miss what I did at the newspaper. I miss running out in the newsroom after hearing the all-call sound over the scanner. I miss spending a day or two documenting a hard-hitting story with a reporter. I even miss people approaching me in the grocery store and saying they saw me on assignment earlier.

However, there are some things I don’t miss. And the things I do? I am beginning to build for myself here without the negatives.

This past weekend, I took my first assignment for a local newspaper and then I helped another photographer shoot a wedding.

I fell in love with photography all over again. I fell in love with the impact you make on someone’s life after having spent your day documenting hers — her wedding day. I fell in love with chatting about a person’s craft and snapping photos as they explain. And I fell in love with holding a camera in my hands again for an entire day without a break.

I dream of the day where I can spend all my time and energy on photography again, but this time, be my own boss, be in control of my own destiny and be able to focus on the projects I find important to share.

This is my passion: documenting and sharing stories.

And, while it’s taken me a while to get to this point, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I know the direction I’m headed is the right one for me. And I cannot wait to see where it leads me.

                          

I wasn’t raised in Louisiana, but in my five years there, I was adopted by the amazing people of the state. By the people who only observe two seasons — football season and crawfish season.

I didn’t watch professional football growing up. My family didn’t have a team we supported, and neither did my city. I watched the Super Bowl solely for the commercials.

Something changed when I moved to Louisiana.

My junior year, Hurricane Katrina blew through New Orleans, leaving the entire city in shambles. And, again, something changed within me as I watched and helped the city rebuild itself. I started watching the Saints and hoped against hope that the team could invigorate a city in desperate need of a pick-me-up.

Since then, I’ve cheered on the Saints because, like the city they hail from, they have risen up against the odds. They’ve fought. And they’ve made so many people proud.

I watched the pregame show on ESPN this morning and sat on the couch with tears streaming down my cheeks as announcers showed clips of the city during Katrina and afterward. During the Saints’ season where they played their games elsewhere because the Superdome was damaged during the storm. During the first game back in the Superdome. And during this magical season.

I don’t know how to describe it, other than I’m in awe and cannot even grasp what unfolded tonight. It just seems so far-fetched. And if it’s far-fetched for me, an adopted Louisianan, you KNOW it has to be unbelievable for those fans who have been cheering for the Saints throughout the years.

The Saints won the freaking Super Bowl.

And I cried. A lot.

The only thing now is that I wish I was celebrating in the Crescent City tonight.

Good game, y’all, and good night.

                          

I received a surprise text message from my ex last night.

Drinking wine out of the Loretta Lynn coffee mug you and Liz brought me. Somehow, I feel you would approve.

It surprised me simply because he and I don’t really speak anymore. Sure, we’ve had GChat conversations in passing, but we haven’t seen each other or spoken on the phone in at least two-ish years.

It put a smile on my face, remembering those days, and I told him so. It also inspired me to have a glass of wine.

And he responded with:

And ‘Cento anni di salute e felicita’ to you, too.

An Italian blessing. Basically meaning 100 years of health and happiness to you.

And that was it.

(So those of you fearing a he-said-she-said back and forth post between my ex and me? Sorry to disappoint. It wouldn’t be too terribly interesting if it did happen, though, and it would probably end with me pulling out some of my hair and calling my boy to let him know how much I love him and how perfect he is for me.)

It got me thinking, though. Since I’ve had so much time away from him and the situation that surrounded our breakup, I’ve moved forward.

It feels nice.

So poured myself a glass of wine and turned on my iPod. A certain song started playing, and I was a junior in college again.

When I was a junior in college, I started work at the student newspaper. I was naive, and as a new photographer, I got the crappiest shifts. Monday nights. Friday afternoon and Friday nights.

I was in an unfortunate position because by the time I finished my afternoon shift Friday, I had to walk back to my car in the dark. I wasn’t a fan of that, but what was I going to do?

One of the copy editors/designers felt sorry for me as the semester wore on, and it became a thing for him to drive me to my car. (Nevermind that I had a HUGE crush on him, as only an innocent, newbie photog could.)

It was in his car that I first heard the opening chords to “Marching Bands of Manhattan.”

It was a brisk fall afternoon, and the sun was setting over the stadium, and we breezed through campus on the way to my car. I hadn’t ever listened to Death Cab before, but I fell in love in a matter of moments.

The next week, my editor burned the CD for me. We listened to it in the newsroom. A LOT.

The editor-in-chief, Scott, turned to me one day as I was editing images and listening to Death Cab and stated, “This is our song.” So whenever I hear “Brothers on a Hotel Bed,” I think of him. In fact, I still send him a text whenever I hear the song, four years later.

That fall semester was filled with a lot of firsts. I discovered photojournalism. I made quite a few friends from different groups. I had a MAJOR crush on a guy who wasn’t good for me. (It should be noted that he was the first of many.) I discovered alcohol, more than just in passing. And I met my ex, even though he and I didn’t get together until the following spring.

His text last night jolted me, but not in a bad way. It took me back to a time of innocence. Of learning. Of passion. Of liking someone so much your cheeks hurt from smiling. Of liking that person so much that you might (maybe) consider kissing them. (And then not.) Of falling in love with music over and over again as one CD spun ’round and ’round.

For whatever reason, the entire CD reminds me of autumn. Plans struck a chord with me four years ago, and the only time I listen to the album is during the fall. The opening ballad, “Marching Bands of Manhattan” takes me back to a crisp morning walk to an early morning class. I remember driving around and holding onto every word of “I Will Follow You into the Dark,” hoping one day, I would find a love like that.

I never realized how important “Different Names for the Same Thing” would become a year later, after my time in Italy. I loved it more when I knew what it was like. I also never realized how “Your Heart is an Empty Room, “Someday You Will Be Loved,” and “What Sarah Said” would effect me a year later.

I took the album off repeat when the days got even shorter and January rolled around. I had other mixes playing in the spring and summer. I had almost forgotten, but then the fall showed up, and the beautiful weather reminded me of an album I fell in love with the previous year.

That fall, the ex and I had our messy, drawn-out and public breakup. I took comfort in a lot of the songs on Transatlanticism, but as the days got shorter and the temperatures dropped, I found Plans in my CD player. Again. But for different reasons.

The fall of 2006 was a time of loss. Sure, my ex and I had broken up, but the biggest blow came when I learned one my grandmother, who had ovarian cancer, had taken a turn for the worse and was placed in hospice. That 5.5 hour ride home was hell, and I spent most of the drive frantically calling family members, friends or anyone else who would talk to me. I also listened to music, and “What Sarah Said” took on a new meaning. I had always loved the song, but it became personal as I sped home to hold my Memother’s hand and to spend some time with her as the cancer worsened.

I took solace in Ben Gibbard’s lyrics. Every plan IS a tiny prayer to Father Time. And whenever I hear the opening lines to that ballad, I tear up a little because it takes me back to those moments.

In the fall of 2007, it played as I started dating my boy. In the fall of 2008, it was the background music as I worked night shifts and day shifts and everything in between at my new job.

This album got me through so many bests and worsts, and the weather has finally cooled down enough (at night and in the early mornings, at least) to start playing it on repeat. And I wonder what new significance it will take on as this autumn slowly takes hold in the South.

Only time will tell, friends.

                          

Four years ago today, I woke up to a relatively normal Sunday morning. I showered, dressed, and headed out of the house to attend church with a former roommate.

After the service, she and I grabbed lunch with the boy I was kind of talking to at the time and headed to the grocery store to pick up some last minute supplies.

“Supplies?” you ask.

Hurricane Katrina was bearing down on the Gulf Coast that very moment, and we wanted to make sure we had enough food and water in case something horrible happened with the storm. We wanted to be prepared, and so did everyone else in the city of Baton Rouge.

My friend, Nicki, and I had made arrangements with Bryan, her boyfriend, earlier in the day to stay at his apartment for the duration of the storm.He had everything lined up, including a generator, and we took him up on the offer without hesitation. Since I lived in the Garden District of Baton Rouge, I was worried about an ancient oak tree falling on my home. And since Nicki lived in the sorority house, she was worried about the walls falling down.

The evacuation orders for New Orleans came the day before, and my roommate Liz’s brother and his roommate took shelter in our home after waiting in traffic for more than seven hours. They just brought clothes for the weekend, thinking they would head back to the dorms Monday or Tuesday.

We all thought wrong.

At the grocery store, I picked up ingredients to make a huge pot of spaghetti and meatballs, along with some water and other hurricane essentials, so I had been told. This was my first real hurricane, and I was nervous. And a way I calm my nerves is by cooking.

So that afternoon, I made a batch of homemade spaghetti and meatballs for anyone and everyone who was staying at Bryan’s apartment. After the marinara was done, I loaded my car and met up with Bryan, Nicki and some more of our friends at an abandoned shopping center. He wanted us to leave our cars in a place where they wouldn’t be flooded or be threatened by falling trees or limbs.

We dropped off our cars and headed over to Bryan and his four roommates’ small apartment. It wasn’t much, but it would do for the storm. And Bryan had already locked the generator up to a post and placed sandbags in front of the door.

We were prepared.

My kind of boyfriend and his friends came over for dinner. So did my roommates. After dinner, everyone parted ways, unsure when we would see each other again.

Those of us gathered at Bryan’s apartment sat huddled in front of the television set. I wrote in my journal, send out a few e-mails and made a couple phone calls, in case it was hard to get in touch with everyone after the storm blew through. And then I went to bed, bored of waiting on the hurricane to wash ashore.

I woke up early the next morning, and strolled into the den to find my New Orleans friends, Jessica and Eric, glued to the TV. The city made it through the night, but levees were breaking. And the city was flooding. Jessica was freaking out, crying. She couldn’t get in touch with her family, who evacuated to middle of nowhere Mississippi. (They were actually pretty close to where I live now.)

That day was a complete daze, and I couldn’t tell you what we did, other than watch and listen to the news about New Orleans. Jess and Eric left to find her family, but I couldn’t tell you when that was. And I couldn’t tell you who was left at that apartment.

I do know that someone offered us a six pack in place of our generator. We turned him down.

The night of the 30th, we volunteered at the Pete Maravich Center on LSU’s campus, which was transformed into a shelter. We spent that night helping elderly people from a bus into the building.

Before they arrived, we were briefed on what to expect. To say that I was scared shitless would have been an understatement. I was LITERALLY shaking when I heard the conditions these people may be in. I didn’t know if I could handle it.

From my journal:

I cannot do justice to what I’m about to say; the situation, in and of itself, is completely too much for words. To say that the past few days have been challenging is an understatement.

Things are New Orleans are chaotic and watching the news isn’t making things any better. The city is under martial law and somehow, looters are shooting at police/national guardsmen and the people who they are rescuing. How screwy is that?

My old roommate’s house is completely underwater. She went to find her family (who evacuated to the middle of nowhere Mississippi) this morning. She hadn’t heard from them since before the storm. I really hope that she found them and that they’re all okay.

We volunteered at the PMAC and took care of the first group of senior citizens rescued from New Orleans on Monday night (from midnight to 7 am). I helped take care of a man who was originally from Memphis and we ended up talking about our high schools and what brought us to Louisiana. I was so scared before the people got to us because I thought that for sure we’d have to take care of people bleeding, etc. It was a blessing to talk to Mr. Bill about Memphis – he definitely made my evening and I’d like to think that I made his a little better.

Yet, in all the chaos, hope springs eternal in the fact that so many people in and around BR are wanting to help and are volunteering. Liz and I will probably be volunteering somewhere tomorrow or making sandwiches or doing something to help the 45,000 refugees in Baton Rouge alone.

… Things are still so unbelievable.

The next week was also a blur. As a photographer (a new one, at that), I was supposed to work at the student newspaper, but there were rumors of armed men running around, stealing things from people and raping women. I didn’t want to take that risk, especiallywith the fancy pants new camera, and four years later, I regret that decision. I would have been OK, and I would have had the chance to document one of the mostheartwrenching, painful events I have ever lived through. I could have also captured little triumphs, too, that I so often saw.

It’s shocking to me that four years ago, I spent a good portion the day before the worst hurricane to ever enter the Gulf making spaghetti and meatballs. I truly had NO idea what was coming for us and how something as simple as a storm could shape my life and play a part in who I am today.

Four years ago, I had no idea what to do with myself after the initial impact of the storm. I didn’t realize that picking up my camera and a reporter’s notebook was what I needed to do. I didn’t realize that I needed to document what was going on around me. I didn’t realize that the simple decision of not picking up my camera would haunt me.

I didn’t realize, but now I know the truth. While I may or may not have another go at a hurricane, I know that Katrina has shaped me as a photojournalist. I know what to expect, I know how to hold myself, and, most importantly, I know what I need to do during any emergency situation.

A lot can change in four years, and for that, I am thankful.

                          

Yesterday, I drove 2.5 hours to my college town to attend my friend and sorority sister’s husband’s funeral. Yesterday was no walk in the park for me, friends. It was heartbreaking. The service itself was heartbreaking, the graveside service was heartbreaking (even though he is being cremated) and the fellowship afterward was also heartbreaking.

I cannot imagine how she is putting one foot in front of the other, let alone pulling herself for a funeral. She is a much stronger woman than I think I would be in the same situation. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think I would be able to move, let alone mingle with hundreds of people after the funeral of the love of my life. (Writing that makes me tear up. Sad face.)

She had a smile on her face. She was gracious. She spoke to everyone. She looked gorgeous. And she was excited to see me. She wanted to know how things in my town are going, how my relationship with the boy is going (“I was asking N the other night what she thought about y’all, and we were both wondering what lies in the future. You think there’s something there?”), and how she was so thankful that I got to meet Ben and spend some time with him. We reminisced how she and Ben, me and my boy and two other couple friends were the “party table” at another sister’s wedding. We laughed about it. But then I realized that we’d never have another chance to spend a dinner with them again.

Y’all, it broke my heart.

So many of my sorority sisters came back in town for the funeral. Despite the sadness of the day, I was overjoyed to be able to catch up with so many of them (and one of their families!)

I spent time with former roommates and girls who were honorary roommates and girls who lived down the hall from me at the house. Girls who set me up on blind dates. Girls I supported through makeups and breakups. Girls who did the same for me. Girls who stood by me through thick and thin. Girls who rejoiced in my triumphs, but encouraged and supported me after defeats. Girls I could have never expected to meet through a sorority.

We talked about relationships, weddings (since a lot of them are already married or getting married SOON), work, school, our families, things that make us happy, things that make us sad, etc. It was incredible that such a sad occasion drew so many of us back to the place we all met. I just wish it hadn’t taken a tragedy like this to bring us back together once again.

I left the church still sad for my friend, but oddly thankful.

Yesterday was a day of realization. I need to make more time in my life for the people who are important to me; the people who saw me grow as a young woman into the person I am today. Sure, we’ve all had our disagreements, but when it gets down to the nitty gritty, we spent some of the best times and worst times together, which creates quite the bond. A bond that remains, despite a lack of communication.

Yesterday was also a realization for me to count my blessings. You never know when your life is going to change — for better or worse — and I need to take advantage of all these moments in between because, in all honesty, I’ve been coasting. I’ve been looking for something to get me out of this town without taking the time to ENJOY being in this town.

So friends? I’m resolving to be more in touch. I’m resolving to be all here. (Again.) And I hope that I can appreciate every little thing I encounter along my path.

                          

If you have been following me on Twitter, you already know what this is about. I just cannot get it out of my mind or off my heart, and writing has always been a way for me to sort through emotions and make sense of the senseless.

Wednesday morning, a friend and sorority sister’s husband disappeared from work. He went in early. No one saw him all day. He didn’t pick up his phone. His truck was in the company garage. He wasn’t spotted leaving the building from the video cameras. And the police were searching for him.

The story, itself, shook me. But it was the news this morning that makes my heart ache.

He was found dead in the bushes by the building late last night. He either fell or jumped from the top of the 10-story building. No foul play is suspected.

I never really knew him, but his wife? She and I go back to my freshman year of college. While we aren’t close anymore, she’s one of those people who would go out of her way to help me (or anyone else) if I needed it. I constantly hung out in her room at the sorority house. She and her roommate helped fit me into my toga for my first collegiate toga party. She introduced me to my big sis. And we spent a lot of time together during my first two years of college. She was such a bright, positive influence on my life.

For this to happen to ANYONE is tragic enough, but for it to happen to her makes me even sadder. Their relationship was a dream, and we were all so excited when they started dating. (I remember having a conversation with a friend about this at the tennis courts at LSU one day.) They were so happy together. They got married last July. Now? Her life, as well as her family and his family’s lives, have been turned completely upside down.

This news shook me to my core this morning. It makes you think because no one would have expected this. No one saw this ending coming.

I don’t know if we will ever learn what happened on that roof. I hope my friend can find peace. I hope she can lean on her friends, family and God for support during this challenging time. And I hope we can all learn something from this tragedy.

The friend who broke the news to me sent me a message that said, “I love you and am always here. Just know that.”

I think we all need a reminder like that, and I am going to strive to remind my friends and family that I love them and am always there for them even more than I already do.Because I would hate to see another brilliant, young life cut short that could have possibly been prevented.

                          

I was a sophomore in college when I first heard of wedding party dances. I was living in the sorority house — an experience where I gathered quite a bit of useless/fascinating information — but that’s a different story. I don’t know if I was sheltered, naive, or if people where I’m from just don’t do that kind of thing, but my roommate and sorority sister turned me on to all these CRAZY videos on YouTube, playing some at least once a day and dreaming about white weddings.

This girl told me and our other roommate that her bridesmaids would do a dance, preferably to “Thriller” or something equally entertaining at the reception. Which is fine and dandy, unless you’re like me and feel HORRIBLY awkward dancing in front of others without the help of A LOT of alcohol, something I had yet to discover sophomore year.

I was mortified when I realized I would be forced into shaking my booty with other bridesmaids and groomsmen at my friend’s reception. In her defense, she was a dancer throughout high school and loved to go to clubs in college simply to break it down. In my defense, I had a lot of growing up to do. And while I’m still not much of a dancer, I will occasionally make my way on the dance floor to have some fun, especially when all my girlfriends are with me.

One of my favorite wedding party dances?

Click here to view the embedded video.

As a point of reference, I’m like the girl walking down the aisle spinning her bouquet, but more awkward.

To be honest, all the videos she showed us made me smile (and still do, for that matter), but me being in one? Umm, not so much. Some of y’all have SEEN me dance, and you know my dancing skills are… eh. Also, I highly doubt my friend would have appreciated a drunken bridesmaid jamming/stumbling down the aisle.

When I moved away from the house, she and I had a falling out. We didn’t see each other much anymore. She graduated and moved away. I stayed in school longer, then moved to another state. We talk occasionally, but we will never be as close as we once were. And I forgot about all those fears until a few months ago.

I was surprised when I received a Save The Date from this old roommate, announcing her long-time-coming wedding this August. Needless to say, I wasn’t asked to be a bridesmaid or do any kind of group dance, minus possible swaying and singing for a sorority serenade or two.

But at the same time I received that photo magnet, I was talking to a bride. A bride who I’d “known” for quite some time. A bride who I absolutely adore. A bride who was looking for a wedding photographer in August. A bride who was willing to be a guinea pig with a relatively inexperienced wedding photographer.

So instead of breaking it down at that sorority sister’s wedding? I’m going to be at yours, photographing to my heart’s content. And as the night wears on, you might spot me on the dance floor, camera in hand, breaking it down with everyone else, albeit awkwardly. There is nowhere else I would rather to be that day.

It’s hard for me to grasp how blogging has connected me with so many wonderful people. When I first started StyHand, I had NO idea how close I would become to so many other bloggers. And I never could have guessed that I would fly to a random city to meet 25 friends from the Internet and have it turn out so wonderfully. I just met you officially in June, even though I feel like I have known you for years. And it’s hard to believe you are getting married in about two weeks!

I am honored to be the one documenting your wedding and, more importantly, to call you a friend. I am ecstatic that I will be there on your wedding day, and I cannot wait for every part of it. August needs to hurry up already!

Much love,
E.P.

                          

This post is a part of 20SB’s Looking Back Blog Carnival, and Ben & Jerry’s is awarding free ice cream to lucky bloggers and readers! More information can be found here.

Senior year of high school, I started blogging with a Deadjournal. After I graduated, I quit that blog and then started a Livejournal freshman year. I did the same again sophomore year (though I kept the LJ.) And then my (second) senior year, I started writing at Stylish Handwriting.

While I realize it’s probably not kosher to post from every one of these blogs, I had a fantastic time reading all my old blogs and thought I’d share. If nothing else, I promise you’ll get a laugh about some of the things I wrote.

Let’s look back, folks, and see what a long way I have come.

First off, from my very first online journal. This was written a few weeks after my parents separated. (Note: Most of this journal was dealing with the separation and my tumultuous senior year of high school.)

“life, or something like it…”
november 22, 2002

today. wow. even though today was a friday, it dragged by. painfully. that’s the way to describe it. it’s like, every minute that passed was just kinda moving by. no, time did not fly today. perhaps it was because i wasn’t having fun? (even though the in-school wrestling match was… well, interesting.)

i hate tests, i must admit in total honesty. especially ones with 5 paragraph essays AND a question part. we don’t even have enough time to make the essay sound nice and we’re wanted to take a 50 question multiple choice thingy along with it. i mean, that’s just cruel. doncha think so?

so i’m talking to a friend right now and we’re talking about our days. and about how he’s always happy because life is too short not to be. i’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. i mean, life is full of pain, but there’s no reason why we shouldn’t smile and just enjoy our time here. we never know when it’s gonna end. and to tell you the truth, i don’t want to know when it’s gonna end. he made a good point and it reminds me of something another friend said last year, “life’s too short to be nervous” and leads me to my conclusion of, “life’s too short to have any regrets.” i haven’t been very good about any of these lately and i’m thankful they’ve been brought to my attention. yeah… carpe diem, my friends.

tonight is the first basketball game and i’m probably going to it (who knows?). i used to play for the girls’ varsity team and i am exhilarated because i am at home right now while they’re driving out to the boonies (yes, the game is about 45 miles away from here). i don’t miss the coach or not playing, but i miss my friends on the team. but its all good. every girl who has quit the wshs girls’ team in the past 4 years is playing on a rec team together and we’re gonna have so much fun. two of our guys are “coaching” us and at our first practice on wednesday, we beat a guy’s team. oh yeah. and for the first time in about two years as i walked into the gym, a sense of dread didn’t overcome me. and i had fun. real fun on the basketball court with my friends, not worrying about the next thing coach was going to make us do or bothering to do the 20 minute run or even running a few 16′s. yes, it was a good day and it will be a good season. we’re out to have fun and we are no longer playing basketball in hell.

and, on a closing note, today is the first day of the rest of my life. peace out.

Poetic, I know.

Let’s zoom to the freshman year of college. This was the first actual post after my obligatory, “I’m blogging again” entry.

“Last Night”
November 10, 2003

I had an incredibly tough night. Things in my life definitely are not what one would consider ‘good,’ by any means or standards. I am just so confused and the circumstances make my heart ache every time a fleeting thought of them crosses my befuddled mind.

All that I am going to say is thank God for friends who will do anything to see you smile, watch The Emporer’s New Groove in the middle of the night just to hear you laugh, bake you two cookies (instead of the entire batch) and offer them to you when you’re on the phone outside then running back into the apartment before you can refuse their sugary goodness, offer to cook for you really late into the night, make you listen to country music to hear you whine and to convince you that ‘it’s not all that bad,’ give you massages when they don’t want to, want to learn about your life and how they can help you, let you sleep on their couch with no questions asked, and listen to what you say, offer some advice, then empathize with you, offering their shoulder for you to cry on. And so many more things that I can’t even begin to list…

I have such amazing friends. I honestly don’t know where I would be without them right now.

Maybe the college newspaper friends were right when they called me emo? (Even though I kinda make up for it by talking about my awesome friends. And even though this was written closely after the divorce was finalized.)

And then one of the first entries from the sophomore year Xanga.

“no title”
January 15, 2005

after five and a half hours in the car, i’m finally back in baton rouge.  i’m rather excited about this upcoming semester (i am officially a dork).  my class schedule doesn’t seem to be too challenging (right now, at least) and i’m taking classes that i actually want to take, so that all helps.

i’m feeling… disoriented tonight and i can’t quite put my finger on it.  while i know what it’s vaguely about, i don’t know why those feelings have swelled up right now.  *shrugs*  perhaps it has something to do with me being deleriously tired, having driven a long distance today, and not have gotten a good rest last night?

we went and saw in good company tonight.  it was good, in a surprisingly different way.  it didn’t turn out the way i thought it would and that was kind of refreshing.  once again, though, i found myself mirrored somewhat in a screwed up movie character.  … sensing a trend here, anyone?

“what you got?”
“i have a little bit of a buzz, too.  … and i like you.  so i have that.  i guess i have that.”

why can’t most people be this honest to each other?  i hate how i’ve been under the horrible assumption that putting yourself out there gets you hurt.  but then again, if you never put yourself out there, you’ll never know.  … i can say that i’ve put myself out there, at least somewhat, and i did get hurt.

keeping in line with that, i stood up for myself tonight.  i’m not particularly happy with one boy and i don’t particularly care about being nice because he wasn’t.  chalk one up for me.  ’cause this never, ever happens.  yessssss.

back to square one.  but really, this is a good thing.  … love comes softly, though, and i have a feeling that it will surprise me whenever/if it does happen.

And the love thing? It totally did sneak into my life quietly. Good call, 20-year-old self!

Then we get back to StyHand. The following is my third post.

“Umm, excuse me?”
February 13, 2008

A few weeks ago, I photographed at a music store on assignment.

When I went to ask a kid his name for the cutline, this conversation ensued:

ME: “Hey. Could you spell your name for me?

CHILD: “H-u-c-k-a-b-y.”

ME: “OK, thanks.”

CHILD: “Yeah, in case you were wondering, I’m kinda related to the guy running for president.”

ME: “Oh.”

… More than anything, I wanted to tell the boy to try and impress someone his own age. I also didn’t have the heart to tell him I think it’s crazy how many votes his ‘relative’ has garnered in the South, let alone my home state. Another point? The boy’s name is spelled differently, so he can’t really be that related to the candidate.

I also was tempted to come back with, “Well, in case you were wondering, I’m kinda related to Sarah Jessica Parker.”

Because we have the same hair, the same eyes, and… no, wait.
We just share a name. Hrm.

Aaaand that’s it, folks.

Have you looked back at your old entries recently? Do they make you laugh? Because I know mine do!

                          

Last Thursday, I awoke from one of the strangest dreams I had in a while.

(For the record, I totally blame this dream on me re-reading the second Southern Vampire series book in celebration of True Blood’s new season, and then waking up to think aboutcutlines and how ones from the previous day could potentially be incorrect because of twins.)

I was playing baseball with some players on a local team. And Miley Cyrus. (Y’all know I am NOT a baseball fan, or really a Miley fan, either.) It was cloudy outside, and I was happily playing first base. It was just like the good ‘ol days, minus the fancy pants baseball players who actually knew what they were doing.

The sun started to peek its way out from the clouds, and I was grabbed by two players and dragged into a shed. There, they explained I was now a vampire, and I couldn’t go out in the sunshine. I had questions about what happened, and they had no clue, but they were vampires as well, and we had to stay in the shed until the sun went back behind the clouds or it was night. They also mentioned thatMiley was also a vampire. She didn’t come into the shed, and we heard her screaming from the field minutes later.

So what did these two guys and I do? Get your minds out of the gutter, folks. We chatted. About life, about my fear of baseballs, about everything. Then, one of them looked me in the eye and told me I needed to get laid. Umm, what?! I shrugged it off awkwardly and asked about my boy. They didn’t have any information, so I decided to brave the elements to find him.

The last scene of my dream was one of the guys saying, “No, E.P!” and then I woke up.

What’s up with that, folks?

As someone who lives by herself in a small town, I read a lot of books and watch a lot of television. Are they influencing me too much? Should I take a break or really stop and think about what I’m reading before I do?

I started thinking about it, though, and I have always somewhat applied the television I watch to my life. Or found weird comparisons. Or something along those lines.

Prepare yourselves, folks. This post is about to prove my geekiness and could potentially be TMI. (But not in a bad way.)

Dawson’s Creek
Apparently, I’m the Joey of the photo staff. That awkwardness was compounded when Pacey declared his feelings for me. And, a little less than a year later, it’s still horribly uncomfortable.

Roswell
Since my town didn’t have The WB, I had to wait until Dawson’s Creek showed at midnight on ABC. I had stayed up late and stumbled upon this show after DC. The first thing I realized was two of the main characters shared a last name with me and my crush. Was that a sign? No way, but apparently, he wants to date me now. Ten years later…

The O.C.
I was in college, and I would happily admit that I loved Seth Cohen. Boys like Seth didn’t exist at my school (or I just didn’t ever meet them.) However, I found the perfect studious, funny and handsome guy at the student newspaper, and I haven’t looked back, despite the fact that he will not listen to indie rock with me.C’est la vie.

Weeds
I once had a roommate who smoked a lot. He introduced me to the show. My allergies couldn’t deal with all the fumes, so I moved, and he still dislikes me to this day. I also want Mary Louise Parker’s hair. But other than that, that’s it. No other comparisons here.

Greek
I was a member of a Greek organization in college. I never hung out with fraternity guys because they were bad news. But I love this show, despite the fact that it’s either dead-on or horribly incorrect about everything in the Greek system. I’m a fan ofCappie and Casey, and I even got my mother addicted to this show. She asked me if the characters reminded me of people I knew in college, and I had to admit that they do, even after she pointed out that my boy’s fraternity was probably more like Evan’s than it wasCappie’s. That is OK, because the only guy who was anything like Cappie (carefree, fun, a party animal) in my own life? He turned out to be an asshole. And no one wants to associate with those.

So there you have it, folks. Are you completely freaked out by my nerdiness? Are you thinking I have entirely too much time on my hands? (You might be correct on this one, especially today since it is my Saturday.)

And, lastly, am I the only person who draws comparisons from television to their own life? … Please tell me I’m not.