from hell and beach in five months and one week.

Today marks the forty third day I have lived in my new apartment. 

Located in the foggy Sunset District of San Francisco I sit in my kitchen reminiscing. This view of the ocean from Rivera Street did not come easy. All summer long I desperately wrote email after email to the quirky, sophisticated, blunt, and often a little odd ads that I found on craigslist. At least ten emails a day were sent by me. At most, zero answers were ever received. Things were getting desperate. As I scrolled through numerous people renting their couches for $900 a month, their bed's for $400, and their garages for something in between, my sense of hope was slipping six feet under. Every once and a while a glimmer of hope would shine through. Someone would respond, there would be a perfect place, or a perfect roommate, but because of the distance between Salt Lake City and San Francisco I didn't stand a chance to the hundred already at the door with cash in their hands and "winner" on their foreheads. 

Five months later I found myself a week before school started and homeless. Shit. 

With the help of my Father, Mother, and Sister - we pounded the pavements of every neighborhood in SF. Open houses and interviews were continuous. I could not believe I was auditioning for a place to live. There I was standing in a living room with ten plus other homeless students trying to win the hearts of biology majors from SF State. I was listing my qualities left and right, even making some up. "Yes of course I can cook delicious meals." "Yes I love family game night." "That's my favorite TV show too!" It wasn't working and I was getting emotional. 

I think I can honestly say that I cried in every restaurant or cafe we sat down at. 

We were running out of time. The long weekend was coming to an end. My Mother and Sister were flying home in the morning. My Father had to change his flight in desperation to find his first born a place to live that wasn't on a bench in Union Square. Time was running out. I had one last open house of the day. 

I walked in to the apartment. It was quaint. Quite large in space compared to what I had been used to seeing for a similar offering. The host was a sweet Japanese couple. I felt like we hit it off when we first shook hands, but then again, I felt that way about every person who was offering a solution to my housing problem. Inside, and already filling out applications, were men and women who spoke Japanese with the owner. I didn't stand a chance. A native language is something personal - they were connecting and I was just here to witness it. Tears nearing my eyes as I filled out the application I exchanged a few words about my current educational situation with the land lord. He shared a similar experience with his daughter moving to LA. 

I didn't realize it then, but looking back now, that was my key in. Here I was - hopelessly trying to find a house, in order to continue my education, with my father, something that he had just been through. 

On the bus ride back to the hotel, feeling hungry and defeated, I received a call offering me the apartment. 

I almost screamed and then passed out in the smelly Muni bus bumping down VanNess street.

That night we celebrated and cried. I had a place to live. My Mother and Sister wouldn't get to see it or move me in - something all of us wanted to do together. It was a bittersweet toast over pasta in Little Italy. 

Forty three days later I have a new bed, dishes of my own, a few bottles of wine on the shelves for special occasions, a striped shower curtain, and even a walk in closet. I live a few blocks from the beach and can hear the waves roar back and forth against the sands early in the morning when the streets are still. To my left is the beautiful Golden Gate Park and to my right is SF State and The Zoo (sometimes you cannot tell the difference between the two.) It takes me forty minutes to get into the city, but it is an easy ride. I take this time to read books that I usually wouldn't make time to read. 

The walls in my apartment have many pictures hanging up, but still a lot of white space. I am going to take this opportunity to let you help me decorate. Send me letters, photos, anything! I am not asking you to go out and buy me an entire collection of Rolling Stone Magazine posters, but rather something that will make me think of you! (Unless you want to buy the posters - i am not stopping you.)

 If you do not feel like sending a letter, send a package, or better yet - come visit me! : ) 

Coming up next: How to deal with the best semester of classes you've ever had. 

Im here! Im here! Im really here!

Well here it is, the first post from my dorm room in San Francisco. Never thought this day would come? Neither did I. I do not really have much to say, because well, it has not really sunk in that I am living in one of the most beautiful and artistic cities possible. I will give you the brief low down.

I have a room on the fifth floor of an all girls apartment. A large, white, spacious, piece of a room it is. I share with three other girls: Phoebe, Savannah, and Kayleigh. Phoebe is here from New Zealand, studying graphic design, Savannah is a fashionista (and fashion studier) from Santa Cruz, and Kayleigh is originally located just out side of the city and will be joining me in the study of photography. So far, they all seem very nice – but hey, it is only the first night. ;)

I slowly have put my stuff together and decorated the walls. I even have a light up star, bought by my beautiful Mother in China Town, above my personal desk. Photographs to come, I promise.

I just wanted to give a quick shot out so you know I am alive and not swallowed by the big city life. So excited to start this adventure. Missing my salty street friends and family. Much love (mostly to my Mama, Father, and Sissy!)

Sweet dreams! Xoxo 

Carpe Diem.

This is one of those coming to age posts. I know that most of you will leave at this point because you were hoping for more naked men - I understand and respect that.

Lives are like novels. As cliché as it may sound, we spend each day writing a chapter. In each chapter we introduce new characters, dive deeper into others, take adventures, or just keep traveling on the same path. In Mrs. Funston’s freshman English class, I learned that the climax of a story is when something happens in the plot that changes it so dramatically that you know nothing will be the same after. In other words, everything will be different.

 In life stories, I don’t think the climax is one certain event. It may be in yours, but not in mine. In my life, my climax is a series of events. I think the climax of my life, so far, was this last year. I learned so much about myself, I grew up, I took chances, I felt risks, and I accepted consequences – good and bad.

Before I moved to Italy I had never been on my own. I had not been to camp and I rarely had sleep overs, always making up excuses on why I could only have a late over or calling my mom in the middle of the night to pick me up. I had gone on the skateboarding tour for months away from home, but I always had (at least) my Father present. I graduated from high school and leaped into a surreal experience. I went from always holding my family’s hands, to flying my way to a foreign country where I did not know anyone, the language, where to go, or what to expect. I was pushed out of my comfort zone. I was scarred, but never did I ever regret doing it. Italy changed my life. Of course the culture and aspects of a foreign country were striking and eye opening, but suddenly I was forced to make decisions between good or bad, motivate myself to succeed at school, fix my own meals, and wash my own clothes. It sounds silly, but I was forced to grow up. Forced to experience. Forced to find out who I really was. In Italy I realized what mattered, what made me who I was, what I wanted to be, and how lucky I am.

 

This summer I discovered a lot about myself. I took my mindset from Italy and become conscious of where I stood. I had my first real job - and Market Street will never be the same. I made new friends and created stronger friendships with the old. I also lost a few. I gained confidence as I stood up for myself. In my favorite book The Perks for Being a Wallflower, Charlie says, “We accept the love we think we deserve.” I finally learned what that meant, that I deserve the world and not to let people pull me down or make me think otherwise. I realized who made me feel good about myself, who I could be myself around, who I could trust - and who didn’t/couldn’t.

In Love is a Mixtape, Rob Sheffield wrote “She worried way too much what people thought of her, wore her heart on her sleeve, expected too much from people, and got hurt too easily. She kept other people's secrets like a champ, but told her own too fast. She expected the world not to cheat her and was always surprised when it did.” It was on page thirty-one that it dawned on me that this is exactly who I was.

Now look at me.

(please note that the stress from packing did not result in alcoholism.) 

 Ha. But really. Tomorrow I leave to San Francisco to study at the Academy of Art University.

When you are little you talk about what you want to do when you grow up. You draw pictures of your dream room in notebooks, you plan your prom dress, go from wanting to be a princess, to Hannah Montana, to a teacher. Then one day, you realize that you REALLY can become anything you want. I cannot tell you the exact day I figured out that I could be a photographer as a career, but I can tell you that once the seed was planted in my head I could not stop feeding it nourishment. I kept telling myself the negatives: the lack of pay, the uncertainty, what will people think of you choosing art as a job? Will they think you took the easy way out? All of those are still in the soil of my ambition, but they are pushing me harder. Prove them wrong. Be happy every time you go to work. Put your best out there. Make someone notice. That small seed that once sat in the back of my mind is now a tangled vine, large and ever growing. Consuming.

Some gardens grow forever without being taken care of. I sit here saying that I am so fortunate to have the full support of my family to chase this crazy dream of mine. I hear the stories from people who graduated from high school with me about how they went to college because that is just what is expected of them, status quo, what else would they do? My parents sat me down when I graduated and told me to enjoy it. They believe that education is important, but take my time. If I don’t go to school right away, that is fine, but make sure that whatever I am doing, I am doing with my whole heart and taking advantage of every day. How many people can say that their parents want them to be nothing but happy? My Mother comes from a family where the in state University was the only choice and if she wanted to go, she was going to pay for it. My Father moved across the country because he wanted to ski and Utah had better slopes then Michigan. Two completely different outlooks, backgrounds, and stories – but they both agree on doing whatever they can to make sure my life is perfect. I could not be anymore grateful for what they have done. My parents have (and constantly continue) to support me finically, emotionally, and confidently. Here is a shout out, because I could never thank them enough for everything they do for me. I want to be them when I grow up. 

Thank you for the constant support, love, friendship, and help from my family and friends. You are the true reason that I have the opportunities I do in life.

San Francisco: I hope you are ready.

Here is to this crazy thing called life and how addictive it is to live it with arms wide open, Carpe Diem. 

call it A.D.D but I call it lack of motivation.

My hiatus from writing was not because I did not have anything to say. Due to the redesign of my template for this blog, I could not find out how to re login. A pathetic blonde moment mixed with my inability to understand technology for more than a few minutes. Call it A.D.D but I call it lack of motivation.

I started my job. With burned fingertips, sweat, and hair sprayed bangs, I have been doing my job as breakfast waitress. Good news is that they have not fired me yet, bad news is that I am not very good at this whole get up every morning and go to work like normal people who want an income. I ride the train downtown each morning before the sun winks behind the mountains. Dressed in a men’s shirt, fish tie, and a black vest, I report for duty. Only one piece of toast has been dropped in the two weeks I have been considered an employee. I have yet to be asked for my number, but I hope my movie moment will appear one day.

The air is incredibly dry today. Gaping like fish without water I sweat and watch as my eyeliner makes it way from my eyes down my cheek. 

everyday is so wonderful. suddenly it's hard to breathe.

I am sitting in the “family room” area of the apartment. Both Joanna and Rachel are in bed, but my mind is full awake with constant thoughts that the idea of putting it to rest seems distant and unrecognizable. Today was good. Nothing new to report, other than I succeeded in Italian class without being corrected every word. Therefore, I would call this day productive simply for that reason.  My stomach kind of aches, but it can’t be because I had three cookies instead on my usual two.  Italian treats just do not work that way.  I haven’t really been getting any sleep lately. My mind has been working over time, a constant clock, ticking through the hours without a water break. I have been thinking of everything. Of going home, of leaving, of what I missed, of what is to come. My family, my friends, my choices, my art, how I have changed, what I want to become. I have been thinking of all the people I never told how much they mean to me and how much it worries me that I will never get to say it. Sometimes I forget how fragile life is until a death strikes close to home and rattles everything into place. 

won’t find your spirit In a lost and found

I have been in a bit (that is kind of an understatement because it depends on what time of day it is really.) of a funk lately. Since Thursday last week i have wanted to cry- for no reason. I feel depressed and I shouldn't because i have more than anyone could ask for. I cant cheer myself up. When i am by myself i feel completely alone and I need to be with someone, but when i am with people i want to be alone. I hear people talking to me, but it doesnt feel like i am really there. I am physically, but not mentally. I may be going on about nothing and complaining and this is one of those posts you just skip by- but writing makes me feel better. (I lied. But it is nice to just rant sometimes is it not?)

 I think i need to be kissed. In movies the girl is always depressed and then this beautiful boy comes and they kiss and magic happens. Its like the film is in black and white and then KISS it is in color. The girl looks overwhelmingly happy. I think that is my problem. I need a Ren from Footloose, or a Johnny from Dirty Dancing, or even  jake Ryan from 16 Candles. Good luck with that right? Seriously.

 I just do not know why i feel this way. I have been eating healthy, i have been exercising to give me endorphins and endorphins are supposed to make you happy so you do not go and shoot your husband (name that movie...) I am living a perfect life. I am just stuck in the phunk and I want to get out.

anyways. Goodnight. xoxo

*Title: Mika "Blue Eyes" 

We accept the love we think we deserve.

I finished the novel "The Perks of Being a Wallflower" by Stephen Chbosky, today and it has easily become one of my favorites.  (Yes, the title is from this story. Yes I know I am supposed to put quotation marks around it or else it is called plagiarism.. but it looks funny and presentation is everything. So get over it.) For those who have not read this amazing tale of fiction, I suggest going to the local library and borrowing it. And if you can/ wish- you may go to the book store and actually purchase it. (If you are like me.. I like to write in and highlight my books. I do not know why.) Every page was a new surprise. The story had me afraid, nervous, happy, laughing, crying, hoping, dreaming, wondering, and never gaining boredom from it. 

About the Book: 

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to receive letters from someone you've never met? In the novel, Charlie, a 14 year old boy- just entering high school, writes to a mystery person about life, love, and all the other things involved with growing up. He stands on the outside of life, making beautiful observations about how life doesn't always make sense. The people surrounding him make many efforts to have him "live his life" rather than sit on the sidelines. These attempts, along with the pains of growing up help Charlie to come to shocking realizations about his past. Stephen Chbosky created an amazingly, amazing, accurate picture of an introverted teenager growing up. Charlie is one of those rare charaters who feels like a friend you never want to lose. This novel paints a beautiful picture that everyone should see. So go read it. 

One of my favorite parts was a poem that Charlie read and shared throughout the novel. 

Here it is: 

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
 he wrote a poem
And he called it "Chops"
 because that was the name of his dog
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
 and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
 and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
 took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
 with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X's
 and he had to ask his father what the X's meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
 he wrote a poem
And he called it "Autumn"
 because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
 and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
 because of its new paint
And the kids told him
 that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
 with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
 when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
 his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
 when he cried for him to do it.

Once on a paper torn from his notebook
 he wrote a poem
And he called it "Innocence: A Question"
 because that was the question about his girl
And that's what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
 and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
 because he never showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
 of the Apostle's Creed went
And he caught his sister
 making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
 or even talked
And the girl around the corner
 wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
 but he kissed her anyway
 because that was the thing to do
And at three a.m. he tucked himself into bed
 his father snoring soundly

That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
 he tried another poem
And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"
Because that's what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
 and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
 because this time he didn't think
 he could reach the kitchen.

"It's kind of like when you look at yourself in the mirror and you say your name. 

And it gets to a point where none of it seems real. 

Well, sometimes, I can do that, but I don't need an hour in front of a mirror. 

It just happens very fast, and things start to slip away. 

And I just open my eyes, and 

I see nothing. 

And then I start to breathe really hard trying to see something, 

but I can't. 

It doesn't happen all the time, 

but when it does, 

it scares me." 

- Charlie, The Perk of Being A Wallflower