As the reigning dominant species in this world (lol), we’re lucky enough to be able to control a lot of what happens in our lives.

We control where we live. We control who our friends are. We control what we believe in. We control which parts of this earth we treasure, and which we destroy.

Hell, we’ve even taken to adopting animals so we can control them.

One of the few things we can’t control, however, are our emotions.

In my own life, there are a lot of feelings I wish I could control. For example, I wish I didn’t fall in love with a man who lives in another country. I wish I didn’t feel hurt so easily over mundane things. I wish I wouldn’t cry every time someone of authority talks to me, even if they’re only expressing a compliment.

So often, I just wish I had the ability to dull my emotions. Other times, I wish I could make myself feel more. 

It’s like, I’ve come to terms with the things I can’t control: time, other people, etc. However, I just wish I could be in control of every aspect of my own body and personality.


Midnight thoughts

Have you ever had those nights where you just lie awake in bed, and every possible thought meanders its way into your mind?

Yeah. It’s one of those nights.

And tonight, my thoughts aren’t hopeful. I’m realizing that I’m not good at ANYTHING I’ve invested my time into.

I’m scared by the future, unsettled by the past, and overwhelmed by my present.


So today I had a very profound realization: we’re all human.

Yes, this is something we all learn by kindergarten, but today I realized it in a deeper sense.

I was thinking about idols, and how when we’re younger we all have at least one. The person we look up to, who we go to for just about everything, and who we know could never ever possibly be wrong.

For me, that person was my Dad. Now don’t get me wrong, my Dad is still a pretty intelligent guy and all, but I realized today that he doesn’t have all the answers.

And it was both the scariest and most inspirational thing I’ve ever thought.

Here’s the breakdown:
It was scary because for the first time in my 19 years, I realized that my Dad isn’t perfect and doesn’t have all the answers. No one does. We just like to pretend to we do to make the mysteries of life seem less big and scary. 
It was inspirational because today, I realized that one day, I will be someone’s idol. 

A long ways from now I will have a son or daughter and they will think I am the most brilliant person in the world. Of course I won’t be- I’ll just be a woman with a college degree and some life experience. But to him/ her, the limits of my knowledge will be unfathomable.

If you ask me, that’s pretty cool. 



Wanderlust is defined as “a strong desire for or impulse to travel and explore the world.” Boy, do I have wanderlust (catch wanderlust? experience wanderlust?)

Ever since I was little, I loved exploring other cultures. When the girls in my predominately white, italian, New Jersey town all bought the Samantha American Girl Doll, I had my sights set on Josephina, a girl growing up in her Mexican pueblo.

In sixth grade, when we were instructed to choose a famous historical man or woman to write a “book” (ok, it was 10 pages but still) about, I chose Sojourner Truth, an African American crazy feminist who flashed her boobs once during a speech. Atta girl.

Such has my life continued until now, where I am a sophomore at a New York State school, surrounded by the greatest diversity I’ve ever experienced (although according to my friends who comprise this “diversity,” New Paltz is pretty white. Oops.)

So, as you could gather, I’m pretty interested in different cultures and places. The issue, however, is that I’ve yet to experience the world.

I yearn to face culture-shock. I want to be so taken aback by surprise and wonder that I can break down my dormant ethnocentrism.

I want to feel the beauty of rituals, both old and new. I want to surpass the level of tourist and fully immerse myself in the people and places around me.

This world is so big, yet so accessible. I want to reach every continent, every country. I want to see what the world has to offer me, and give a piece of myself back in return.

Wanderlust. I need to explore.


Strong, muscular hands, calloused by the boyish undertakings of sports and guitar playing. Hands with long fingers, capable of anything. They are so skilled yet so dangerous.

My mom dropped me off, and, as soon as she exited, those hands were upon me, drawing me in. Soon, we are kissing, and soon those hands are leading me into the bedroom. His fingers are long and perpetually reaching, reaching for more. His hands give way to arms that are both skinny and muscular—a solid indication of the rest of his physique.

In retrospect, I think I mistook his abundance of confidence as the complement to my lack of the same quality. Within weeks of talking to him, I was hooked, and he had me wrapped around his long bony finger. And, he knew it. I had known that day that his hands would be upon me. We were 16 and had to plan these things out, after all.

I didn’t know how I should be feeling. I didn’t know why within seconds his hands were upon my breasts, and why he so angrily reacted when I asked him to slow down. I didn’t know if this was normal pace, I didn’t know what I was doing when he intertwined his fingers around mine and pushed them down to his pants. I didn’t know why he became so upset when I hesitated. And then, in shocking clarity, his hands were caressing my head with astonishing force behind the touch. A motive. A goal. He begins to push my head down toward his crotch, expecting me to comply. I yearn for my mind to go absent, but I can still fully comprehend what is happening. I ball my own hands into fists and, compelled by this subconscious act of strength, writhe my way out of his grasp. He is angry, he is yelling.

To this day, the first thing I notice whenever I see him is the placement of his hands. They are still strong. His fingers are still long and perhaps even more skilled, as I’ve understood from the idle handshakes we offer each other as our sole form of interaction.


Today I got rid of the dress.

I didn’t burn it. I didn’t rip it to shreds. I didn’t spit on it.

I simply tossed it aside with all the other withering pieces of fabric I decided to part with today.

Just as you tossed me aside time and time again.

With the disposal of this dress, I am cleansing myself from the unwavering control over me you’ve spoiled yourself with these past three years.

Three years. Three years of my life devoted to a boy who couldn’t spare me three minutes of his time.

When I throw out this dress, I am also throwing away your handprint that has stayed like a ghost on my shoulder all this time. I am throwing away all the faulty “I love you”s and broken claims of devotion.

I am throwing away that horrible time that was supposed to be the best day of my life. The day you instructed me to wear the dress so that you could take it off of me. The day, representative of so many others when I so easily let you control me because I thought you had a right to. I thought that’s what love meant.

I am throwing away the night we shared 3 years later. Once again you had requested that I wear the dress. But this time I didn’t give you the satisfaction.

And once more, you tossed me aside.

I am throwing away the dress that has been stationed in my closet for all these years. A dress that once represented beauty and hope, but later carried so many treacherous memories I couldn’t part with until now.

I am parting with the constant buzz of your voice in my head, just as my dress has remained a constant option in my closet.

I am parting with the bad dreams and the panic attacks.

I am parting with you.

So goodbye to the dress, goodbye to your disgusting rule over me, and goodbye to a closed chapter of my life.