Tuesday, October 27, 2009

All nighters...ew

So, I am doing an all nighter because there's more things to do than hours in the day. Hoping to get all caught up tonight though. Let's just hope so..

So, random, but I want more followers!

Something about the more people reading what I have to say, the more accountable I am for things I say I'm going to do. Does that make sense? So, for those who read me on a daily basis (now that I'm blogging daily) mind giving me a shout out? I would do giveaways for it, but being a broke college student is no fun :(

But, thank you if you do. If not, it's fine, I love you anyway <3


I woke up this morning, and can barely move. I feel like a train has ran over me multiple times. So school is out of the question, but being productive ISN'T.

I'm going to do some meal plans, get my planner sorted, and hopefully make some applesauce.

Thank you, Lori (It won't let me link right for some reason so www.findingradiance.com) for the amazing answer to my commenting question. I am hoping to be feeling better by tomorrow, and hoping it's nothing more than a mini-stress related illness.

Monday, October 26, 2009

All Ready For Bed

I'm ready for bed, and looking back on today I realize how stressed I am. I had to sit down and just breathe multiple times today..

Need to find a way to calm down and still get everything done..any ideas?

Still no great advice on comments, how do you guys reply to comments?

Random Question

The wonderful Katie J has informed the blackberrying should not count because we all knew if I could, I would have been. Very true.

Okay, I have an important question for all of you. It's something that always kinda stumps me. If somebody comments on your blog, and you want to reply, do you reply on there? Do you go to their blog and leave a comment? Other?

Not really sure what to do there, lol.

Challenge #1 (6)

For those who don't know what I"m talking to refer to here.

Okay, so I'm not sure if this counts, but my blackberry is dead with no charger, therefore I am stuck on an old cell phone with no net, therefore I am technically not blackberrying. Yes it's by force, but I'm still not doing it!

As long as after I get a charger I still don't blackberry until I get home, we're good.

To be honest, I completely forgot I wanted to start this challenge today until I looked back on my blogs. But that's okay, I started without meaning too!

This weekend was really boring. Lately I have been major studying about Columbine, and I'm not really sure why, except it intrigues me. The signs, the aftermath, it all really intrigues me. Today I am FINALLY ordering Columbine by Dave Cullen.

I have been meaning to for awhile now, but thinks always come up. Like I went to buy it at Barnes N Noble, and they only had hard back and it was outrageously expensive. So, that will be ordered today, Thank God. I read some of it at Barnes N Noble and his insight is amazing, so expect a review on that one soon, as I will read it fast, I guarantee it.

But, I have a class coming up, so that is all for now. Will try to get a blog in this afternoon, no promises though!

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Lock and Key by Sarah Dessen

Lock and Key by Sarah Dessen.

“Ruby, where is your mother?” With that question from the social worker, Ruby knew the game is up. She’s been living alone in the old yellow house, waiting out the months until she turns eighteen and can finally be on her own legally. It certainly wasn’t in her plan to be reunited with Cora, the sister who left ten years before, and brought to live with Cora and her wealthy entrepreneur husband. Suddenly life is transformed: a luxurious house, private school, new clothes, and even the chance of a future Ruby couldn’t have dreamed of. So why is she wary, unable to be grateful, incapable of letting anyone close? Her old life has been left behind, but where does she fit in this new life? Only Nate, the genial, popular boy next door, seems to understand, perhaps because he’s hiding some secrets of his own.

This book was very young adult, but it was definitely worth the read. It begins with introducing us to Ruby, a 17 year old whom is months away from graduation, and has always been taught to make it on her own. Her mom has abandoned her, and she’s lived alone in the yellow house, with conditions that nobody should ever have to live in. One day, when the dryer breaks and the landlord comes to check it out, everything changes. She is shipped to live with her wealthy sister, Cora, and Cora’s husband, Jamie, and all of a sudden everything is different. She went from no running water, to a house with an in-progress pool in the backyard .But is this enough?

She misses her old lifestyle, and her old friends, and is determined not to fit in at the new school. So, how does she react when the cute neighbor boy, Nate, the twelve year old (gassy) senior, Gervais, and the girl who has nothing, yet everything, in common with her, Olivia, all decide to befriend her? Or when she begins to fall in love with Nate?

A girl who previously had no future suddenly has it all. A family, friends, and even a great job, working for Harriett, the saleswoman who makes her own jewelry, and hardly has time to breathe.

Can Ruby survive the so called perfect life? Can she handle her own trials, along with try to fix Nate’s violent home-life? Sarah Dessen sends you through a vivid journey with Ruby, Nate, and Cora, with many twists that are never expected.

Final Rating: 4/5 stars.

Click to purchase!


I'm reading an old issue of Self Magazine (Feb 09 to be exact) and I just saw the article named "See Jenna Run". I am going to take it on, just as she did. I have two weeks. Not 10 days like is suggested, mostly because of school. So I will blog my process:

1. Make a healthy, tasty Crock-Pot meal
This will be a bit hard, but I'm sure I'll get it done :)

2. Dress in a fresh way for work
I don't have many clothes I don't wear on a daily basis, so I think I'm going to try pairing up different things, and I bought make-up so I will be counting that.

3. On a workday, go for a 20-minute jog
Shouldn't be too hard :)

4. Get eight hours of sleep.
Are you kidding me? I think this will be the hardest.

5. Reconnect with an old friend
This will be hard. But I have a few people from my junior high in a college class I had; I never ever speak to her because we weren't great friends in school. I think I'll just try to have a conversation with her.

6. For one day, don't Blackberry
Are you effing kidding me? Ouch!

7. On a workday, do 25 crunches
Easy Peasy

8. Curl up with a book and relax
I can so do that:)

So wish me luck, I hope to get all of these done, and as I said I will blog along the way :)

Wednesday, October 21, 2009


So, in psychology we were given a mini-assignment to write up a list of 10 things that describe me. This assignment wasn’t very easy for me, but I did it. Here’s what I came up with:

We talked about something after this. Self-perception theory means we want to see ourselves in a positive light. Three-fourths of the class had more positive than negative which to me was weird. Why are nine-tenths of mine negative? Submissive is the only positive, and it’s iffy. Awkward. I realized that it comes with low self confidence. So my “assignment” for you is to comment with 10 words that describe you, but try to focus on the positive!

We also talked about how we don’t know ourselves as much as we think we do. I don’t think we realize this as much as we should. We DON’T know ourselves the way others do. In some ways we see things they don’t, and in others they see things we don’t.

So leave your comments, how do you see yourself? If you don’t want to share publically, e-mail me!


Help me with my Comp paper?

Okay, I have to do a compare/contrast essay, and I have 14 ideas. Choose one, come up with your own, give input,anything? Lol

1. Marriage and Prison
2. Columbine and University of Texas Shooting
3. Columbine and Oklahoma City Bombing
4. Jillian Michels and Bob Harper
5. Condoms and Birth Control
6. Toddlers and teenagers
7. Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold
8. Working as a waitress vs porn star
9. Computers and pen/paper for writing
10. Twilight; movies vs book
11. Gun control in 1999 and now
12. Criminal psychologist and child psychologist
13. Rape and seduction
14. Smoking and alcohol

Help? Lol

Sunday, October 18, 2009

"I Will Never Know Why"

A decade after Dylan Klebold took part in the massacare at Columbine High School, his mother, Susan Kelbold, finally talks: about the horror of that day, the agony that followed, and her search for answers in the terrible place were murder and suicide met.

Okay, a lot of people reading this won't know me much, but I study gruesome history in my free time. Lately, Columbine has been what I've studied most, I want to understand why it happened. I decided to type up (Wow it took forever) an essay that Susan Klebold wrote for Oprah Magazine. All credit for everything below this point goes to Susan Klebold, Oprah, and the publishers of Oprah magazine.

Just after noon on Tuesday, April 20, 1999, I was preparing to leave my downtown Denver office for a meeting when I noticed the red message light flashing on my phone. I worked for the state of Colorado, administering training programs for people with disabilities; my meeting was about student scholarships, and I figured the message might be a last-minute cancellation. But it was my husband, calling from his home office. His voice was breathless and ragged, and his words stopped my heart. “Susan –this is an emergency! Call me back immediately!”

The level of pain in his voice could only mean one thing: Something had happened to one of our sons. In the seconds that passed as I picked up the phone and dialed our house, panic swelled within me; it felt as though millions of tiny needles were pricking my skin. My heart pounded in my ears. My hands began shaking. I tried to orient myself. One of my boys was at school and the other at work. It was the lunch hour. Had there been a car accident?

When my husband picked up the phone, he shouted, “Listen to the television!” –then held out the receiver so I could hear. I couldn’t understand the words being broadcast, but the fact that whatever happened was big enough to be on TV filled me with terror. Were we at war? Was our country under nuclear attack? “What’s happening?” I shrieked.

He came back on the line and poured out what he’d just learned during a distraught call from a close friend of our 17-year-old son, Dylan: There was some kind of shooting at the high school… gunmen in black trenchcoats were firing at people..the friends knew all the kids wore trenchcoats, and all were accounted for except Dylan and his friend Eric…and Dylan and Eric hadn’t been in class that morning..and no one knew where they were.

My husband had told himself that if he found the coat, Dylan couldn’t be involved. He’d torn the house apart, looking everywhere. No coat. When there was nowhere left to look, somehow we knew the truth. It was like staring at one of those computer-generated 3-D pictures where the abstract pattern suddenly comes into focus as a recognizable image.

I barely got enough air in my lungs to say, “I’m coming home.” We hung up without saying goodbye.

My office was 26 miles from our house. All I could think as I drove was that Dylan was in danger. With every cell in my body, I felt his importance to me, and I knew I would never recover if anything happened to him. I seesawed between impossible possibilities, all of them sending me into paroxysms of fear. Maybe no one knew where Dylan was because he’d been shot himself. Maybe he was lying in the school somewhere injured or dead. Maybe he was being held hostage. Maybe he was trapped and couldn’t get word to us. Maybe it was some kind of prank and no one was hurt. How could we think for even a second that Dylan could shoot someone? Shame on us for even considering the idea. Dylan was a gentle, sensible kid. No one in our family had ever owned a gun. How in the world could he be part of something like this?

Yet no matter how hard I wanted to believe that he wasn’t, I couldn’t dismiss the possibility. My husband had noticed something tight in Dylan’s voice earlier that week; I had heard it myself just that morning. I knew that Dylan disliked his school. And that he’d spent much of the past few days with Eric Harris –who hadn’t been to our house for months but suddenly stayed over one night that weekend. If Eric was missing now, too, then I couldn’t’ deny that the two of them might be involved in something bad together. More than a year earlier, they had broken into a van parked on a country road near our house. They’d been arrested and had completed a juvenile diversion program that involved counseling, community service, and classes. Their theft had shown that under each other’s influence they could be impulsive and unscrupulous. Could they also –no matter how unbelievable it seemed –be violent?

When I got home my husband told me the police were on their way. I had so much adrenaline in my system that even as I was changing out my work clothes, I was racing from room to room. I felt such an urgency to be ready for whatever might happen next. I called my sister. As I told her what was going on, I was overcome by horror, and I started to cry. Moments after I hung up the phone, my 20-year-old son walked in and lifted me like a rag doll in his arms while I sobbed into a dish towel. Then my husband shouted from the front hallway, “They’re here!”

Members of a SWAT team in dark uniforms with bulletproof vests had arrived. I thought they were coming to help us or to get our assistance in helping Dylan; if Dylan did have a gun maybe they were hoping we could persuade him to put it down. But it seemed that in the SWAT team’s eyes we were suspects ourselves, Years later I would learn that many of their actions that day were intended to protect us; fearing that we could hurt ourselves or that our home might be rigged with explosives, they told us we had to leave our house. For the rest of the afternoon, we stayed outside, sitting on the sidewalk or pacing up and down our brick walk. When we needed to use the bathroom, two armed guards escorted us inside and waited by the door.

I do not remember how or when, but sometime that day it was confirmed that Dylan and Eric were indeed perpetrators in a massacre at the school. I was in shock and barely grasped what was happening, but I could hear the television through the open windows. News coverage announced a growing tally of victims. Helicopters began circling overhead to capture a killer’s family on film. Cars lined the road and onlookers gawked to get a better view.

Though others were suffering, my thoughts focused on the safety of my own child. With every moment that passed, the likelihood of seeing Dylan as I knew him diminished. I asked the police over and over, “What’s happening? Where’s Dylan? Is he okay?” Late in the afternoon someone finally told me he was dead but not how he died. We were told to evacuate for a few days so authorities could search our home; we found shelter in the basement of a family member’s house. After a sleepless night, I learned that Dylan and Eric had killed 12 students and one teacher, and injured 24 others, before taking their own lives.

As a young child, Dylan made parenting easy. From the time he was a toddler, he had a remarkable attention span and sense of order. He spent hours focusing on puzzles and interlocking toys. He loved origami and Legos. By third grade, when he entered a gifted program at school, he had become his father’s most devoted chess partner. He and his brother acted out feats of heroism in our backyard. He played Little League baseball. No matter what he did, he was driven to win—and was very hard on himself when he lost.

His adolescence was less joyful than his childhood. As he grew, he became extremely shy and uncomfortable when he was the center of attention, and would hide or act silly if we tried to take his picture. By junior high, it was evident that he no longer liked school; worse his passion for learning was gone. In high school, he held a job and participated as a sound technician in school productions, but his grades were only fair. He hung out with friends, slept late when he could, spent time in his room, and played video games on a computer he built. In his junior year, he stunned us by hacking into the school’s computer system with a friend (a violation for which he was expelled), but the low point of that year was his arrest. After the arrest, we kept him away from Eric for several weeks, and as time passed he seemed to distance himself from Eric of his own accord. I took this as a good sign.

By Dylan’s senior year, he had grown tall and thin. His hair was long and scraggly; under his baseball cap, it stuck out like a clown wig. He’d been accepted at four colleges and had decided to go to the University of Arizona, but he’d never regained his love of learning. He was quiet. He grew irritated when we critiqued on his driving, asked him to help around the house, or suggested that he get a haircut. In the last few months of senior year, he was pensive, as if he were thinking about the challenges of growing older. One day in April I said, “You seem so quiet lately –are you okay?” He said he was “Just tired”. Another time I asked if he wanted to talk about going away to college. I told him that if he didn’t feel ready, he could stay home and go to a community college. He said, “I definitely want to go away.” If that was a reference to anything more than leaving home for college, it never occurred to me.

Early on April 20, I was getting dressed for work when I heard Dylan bound down the stairs and open the front door. Wondering why he was in such a hurry when he could have slept another 20 minutes, I poked my head out of the bedroom. “Dyl?” All he said was “Bye.” The front door slammed, and his car sped down the driveway. His voice had sounded sharp. I figured he was mad because he’d had to get up early to give someone a lift to class. I had no idea that I had just heard his voice for the last time.

It took about six months for the sheriff’s department to begin sharing some of the evidence explaining what happened that day. For those six months, Dylan’s friends and family were in denial. We didn’t know that he and Eric had assembled an arsenal of explosive and guns. We believed his participation in the massacre was accidental or that he had been coerced. We believed that he did not intend to hurt anyone. One friend was sure that Dylan had been tricked at the last minute into using live ammunition. None of us could accept that he was capable of doing what he did.

These thoughts may seem foolish in light of what we now know, but they reflect what we believed to be true about Dylan. Yes, he had filled notebook pages with his private thoughts and feelings, repeatedly expressing profound alienation. But we’d never seen those notebooks. And yes, he’d written a school paper about a man in a black trenchcoat who brutally murders nine students. But we’d never seen that paper. (Although it had alarmed his English teacher enough to bring it to our attention, when we asked to see the paper at a parent-teacher conference, she didn’t have it with her. Nor did she describe the contents beyond calling them “disturbing.” At the conference –where we discussed many things, including books in the curriculum, Gen X versus Gen Y learners, and the ‘60s folk song “four Strong Winds” –we agreed that she would show the paper to Dylan’s guidance counselor; if he thought it was a problem, one of them would contact me. I never heard from them.) We didn’t see the paper, or Dylan’s other writings, until the police showed them to use six months after the tragedy.

In the weeks and months that followed the killings, I was nearly insane with sorrow for the suffering my son had caused, and with grief for the child I had lost. Much of the time, I felt that I could not breathe, and I often wished that I would die. I got lost while driving. When I returned to work part-time in late May, I’d sit through meetings without the slightest idea of what was being said. Entire conversations slipped from memory. I cried at inappropriate times, embarrassing those around me. Once, I saw a dead pigeon in a parking lot and nearly became hysterical. I mistrusted everything –especially my own judgment.

Seeing pictures of the devastation and the weeping survivors was more than I could bear. I avoided all news coverage in order to function. I was obsessed with the thoughts of the innocent children and the teacher who suffered because of Dylan’s cruelty. I grieved for the other families, even though we had never met. Some had lost loved ones, while others were coping with severe, debilitating injuries and psychological trauma. It was impossible to believe that someone I had raised could cause so much suffering. The discovery that it could have been worse –that if their plan had worked, Dylan and Eric would have blown up the whole school –only increased the agony.

But while I perceived myself to be a victim of the tragedy, I didn’t have the comfort of being perceived that way by most of the community. I was widely viewed as a perpetrator or at least an accomplice since I was the person who raised a “monster.” In one newspaper survey, 83 percent of respondents said that the parents’ failure to teach Dylan and Eric proper values played a major part in the Columbine killings. If I turned on the radio, I heard angry voices condemning us for Dylan’s actions. Our elected officials stated publically that bad parenting was the cause of the massacre.

Through all of this, I felt extreme humiliation. For months I refused to use y last name in public. I avoided eye contact when I walked. Dylan was a product of my life’s work, but his final actions implied that he had never been taught the fundamentals of right and wrong. There was no way to atone for my son’s behavior.

Those of us who cared for Dylan felt responsible for his death. We thought, if I had been a better (mother, father, brother, friend, aunt, uncle, cousin), I would have known it was coming. We perceived his actions to be our failure. I tried to identify a pivotal event in his upbringing that could account for his anger. Had I been too strict? Not strict enough? Had I pushed too hard, or not hard enough? In the days before he died, I had hugged him and told him how much I loved him. I held his scratchy face between my palms and told him that he was a wonderful person and that I was proud of him. Had he felt pressured by this? Did he feel that he could not live up to my expectations?

I longed to talk to Dylan one last time and ask him what he had been thinking. I spoke to him in my thoughts and prayed for understanding. I concluded that he must not have loved me, because love would have prevented him from doing what he did. And though at moments I was angry with him, mostly I thought that I was the one who needed his forgiveness because I’d failed to see that he needed help.

Since the tragedy, I have been through many hours of therapy. I have enjoyed the devotion and kindness of friends, neighbors, coworkers, family members, and strangers. I also received an unexpected blessing. On a few occasions I was contacted by the parents of some of the children killed at the school. These courageous individuals asked to meet privately so we could talk. Their compassion helped me survive.

Still, Dylan’s participation in the massacre was impossible for me to accept until I began to connect it to his own death. Once I saw his journals, it was clear to me that Dylan entered the school with the intention of dying there. And so, in order to understand what he might have been thinking, I started to learn all I could about suicide.

Suicide is the end result of a complex mix of pathology, character, and circumstance that produces severe emotional distress. This distress is so great that it impairs one’s ability to think and act rationally. From the writings Dylan left behind, criminal psychologists have concluded that he was depressed and suicidal. When I first saw copied pages of these writings, they broke my heart. I’d had no inkling of the battle Dylan was waging in his mind. As early as two years before the shootings he wrote about ending his life. In one poem he wrote, “Revenge is sorry / death is a reprieve / life is a punishment / other’s achievements are tormentations / people are alike / I am different.” He wrote about his longing for love and his near obsession with a girl who apparently did not know he existed. He wrote, “Earth, humanity, HERE, that’s mostly what I think about, I hate it. I want to be free…free… I thought It would have been time by now, the pain multiplies infinitely. Never stops. (yet?) I’m here, STILL alone, still in pain…..”

Among the items police found in his room were two half-empty bottles of Saint John’s-wort, an herb believed to elevate mood and combat mild depression. I asked one of Dylan’s friends if he knew that Dylan had been taking it. Dylan told him he hoped it would increase his “motivation.”

Each year there are approximately 33,000 suicides in the United States. (In Colorado, suicide is the second leading cause of death for people ages 15 to 34.) And it is estimated that 1 to 2 percent of suicides involve killing of an additional person or people. I will never know why Dylan was part of that small percentage. I will never be able to explain or excuse what he did. No humiliating experience at school could justify such a disproportionate reaction. Nor can I say how powerfully he was influenced by a friend. I don’t know how much control he had over his choices at the time of his death, what factors pushed him to commit murder, and why he did not end his pain alone. In talking with other suicide survivors and attempters, however, I think I have some idea why he didn’t ask for help.

I believe that Dylan did not want to talk about his thoughts because he was ashamed of having them. He was accustomed to handling his own problems, and he perceived his inability to do so as a weakness. People considering suicide sometimes feel that the world would be better off without them, and their reasons for wanting to die make sense to them. They are too ill to see the irrationality of their thinking. I believe it frightened Dylan to encounter something he did not know how to manage, since he had always taken pride in his self-reliance. I believe he tried to push his negative thoughts away, not realizing that bringing them out in the open was a way to conquer them.

In raising Dylan, I taught him how to protect himself from a host of dangers: lightning, snake bites, head injuries, skin cancer, smoking, drinking, sexually transmitted diseases, drug addiction, reckless driving, even carbon monoxide poisoning. It never occurred to me that the gravest danger –to him and, as it turned out, to many others –might come from within. Most of us do not see suicidal thinking as the health threat that it is. We are not trained to identify it in others, to help others appropriately, or to respond in a healthy way if we have these feelings ourselves.

In loving memory of Dylan, I support suicide research and encourage responsible prevention and awareness practices as well as support for survivors. I hope that someday everyone will recognize the warning signs of suicide –including feelings of hopelessness, withdrawal, pessimism, and other signs of serious depression –as easily as we recognize the warning signs of cancer. I hope we will get over our fear of talking about suicide. I hope we will teach our children that most suicidal teens telegraph their intentions to their friends, whether through verbal statements, notes, or a preoccupation with death. I hope we come to understand the link between suicidal behavior and violent behavior, and realize that dealing with the former may help us prevent the latter. (According to the U.S. Secret Service Safe School Initiative, 78 percent of school attackers have a history of suicide attempts or suicidal thoughts.) But we must remember that warning signs may not always tell the story. No one saw that Dylan was depressed. He did not speak of death, give away possessions, or say that the world would be better off without him. And we should also remember that even if someone is exhibiting suicidal risk, it may not always be possible to prevent tragedy. Some who commit suicide or murder-suicide are –like Eric Harris –already receiving psychiatric care.

If my research has taught me one thing, it’s this: Anyone can be touched by suicide. But for those who are feeling suicidal or who have lost someone to suicide, help is available –through resources provided by nonprofits like the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, and the American Association of Suicidology. (If you are having persistent thoughts about suicide, call the national suicide prevention lifeline at 800-273-8255 to speak with a counselor. And if you are dealing with the loss of a loved one to suicide, know that National Survivors of Suicide Day is November 21, with more than 150 conferences scheduled across the United States and around the world.)

For the rest of my life, I will be haunted by the horror and anguish Dylan caused. I cannot look at a child in a grocery store or on the street without thinking about how y son’s schoolmates spent the last moments of their lives. Dylan changed everything I believed about myself, about God, about family, and about love. I think I believed that if I loved someone as deeply as I loved him, I would know if he were in trouble. My maternal instincts weren’t enough. And the fact that I never saw tragedy coming is still almost inconceivable to me. I only hope my story can help those who can still be helped. I hope that, by reading of my experience, someone will see what I missed.

I would put my thoughts down here, if I had any. I feel for Susan Klebold, and the other parent's of victims, because no matter how some people look at it, Dylan was a victim too. I really wish the parents of Eric Harris would write too, so let's cross our fingers for the future.

Saturday, October 10, 2009


I have 18 followers! Yay!

So for biology extra credit today I had to count squirrels in a nearby town, not only that but at 7:30am. It was the equivalence of torture.

So, I haven't actually told anyone how I've been lately. Well I guess I have, but anyway.

I have been pretty good, very in love, you will probably hear about William a few times, for those who haven't already.

Anyway , today has been cold, but pretty relaxing:

Me relaxing, reading Lock and Key;

Yum hot chocolate! Can't wait to start reading again, but will be online for awhile, catching up on more blogs, and facebook :) Going to start watching Glee soon.

Friday, October 9, 2009


I went to the library, they didn't have any books on my list, but I got a few I have been wanting to read:

Right now am reading Lock & Key by Sarah Deesen, so far it's pretty good :)

Not much to blog about today, had a pretty bad morning but don't wanna talk about it

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

List of Books to Read

I finally decided to make my "Books to Read" list. Please comment with any book ideas, I am into almost everything.

List so far:
The Cinderella Society by Kay Cassidy
My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult
IT by Stephen King
The Man with the Golden Torc by Simon R Green
Breaking the Bank by Yona Zeldis
Undiscovered Gyrl by Allison Burnett
Columbine by Dave Cullen
The Cupcake Queen by Heather Hepler

The Plan

So, this blog is going to become way more multi-purpose. I think if it's not ONLY focused on weightloss I'll blog even when I fall off the bandwagon.

But the weightloss plan is going to be as soon as I finish the drinks I already bought I am going to work on cutting out sugar and caffeine. Anyone that knows me knows how hard this will be, I am completely addicted to caffeine. Then after I get a job I am going to try to go GF, and going to look to Karen for support and recipes. I know she'll be there for me as much as she possibly can.

But, I always meant for this to be a multi-purpose blog, but I've always ended up going back to weightloss. So from now on it's my life, my journeys, my plans.

Monday, October 5, 2009

Why do I always disappear?

*pokes the written comp papers, the given speeches, and the psych tests*

Why must they always make me disappear around this time?

I am determined to beat them this time though, I have time to blog I'm just always too tired to.

My eating isn't horrible, my exercise is still way down, but I shall overcome it :)