Old Testament 

What’s hard about reding the Old Testament is that it pretty much feels like a history lesson, and not a spiritual lesson. I’m a history buff.i like knowing about the past as much as the next guy, but I cannot ignore that when I desire a spiritual experience (on days when my rational side is overcome by emotion) the Old Testament is not exactly the place I want to look. 
I started reading the Old Testament at the beginning of the year. I’m currently in Ezra, going very slowly, because I’m awful at following through. I struggle to read the Bible, because I have a very rebellious spirit, and would rather be doing other things. Needless to say, God is constantly making it very apparent to me that I need to be investing more in my spiritual life and my relationship with Him. So I’m trying. Stopping and starting a bunch. Mainly because of lack of hunger and desire. I often feel burned out, or angry at God for one thing or another. I keep coming back though, humbled and scolded spiritually. 
I’m reading the Old Testament for a singular reason…I’m lazy. I didn’t want to go through a particular study or book. I didn’t even know where to start. So I started from the beginning. Genesis. I’m finding it a challenge, not just because of the history lesson it’s become, but because much of the names and dates confuse me and go over my head. That and often, events are talked about, and Gods opinion isn’t offered like in the New Testament. The New Testament has Jesus proclaiming God’s will pretty much in its entirety. Jesus has Gods opinion on His lips. The Old Testament has a bit of that too, but there are occasions where I want to throw the book down and ask God his feelings on the matter, because it mentions events that happen, but not how God felt about them. Unless some prophet has a dream or speaks Gods will, events of the Old Testament are just that, events. 
I suppose God does have feelings on all matters, but has His reasons for not revealing them at the time. I find it hard for my very human and opinionated mind that I have a God that can so easily choose silence. I sure wouldn’t have. I’d be shooting off my mouth left and right about how an event made me feel, how it didn’t make sense, how foolish and petty the people were. I project that on God a lot. Assuming He would be just like me. Alas, I am humbled more and more by the fact that He is perfection and I am only a resemblance of His image, something that sin has distorted and corrupted since my conception. I am made in his image, but a faded and broken version. 
Still, I press on. 


My Sister

Yesterday was my sister’s birthday. She would have been 23. 

I mourn not because I really knew her, but because I wished I had gotten the chance to. I suppose that’s kinda selfish, but it’s the truth. She passed away at only seven days old, and I was young. I remember the day though. Everyone sad and upset. The hospital. My brother only a few months later when we went back to the town she was born in, asking if we were going where “babies go to die.” He was only a year older than me at the time. 

I can’t say much about it. After 23 years of feeling that sadness, what is left to say? Life doesn’t stop for you when you need it to. Life keeps rolling, and after a while you learn to keep rolling with it. You can’t let it leave you behind unless you want to be lonely. 

People don’t get it though. They don’t get that others can mourn a loss of a person they never knew. That’s aggravating. “It’s not like you knew her.” Some insensitive jerks have commented before in some attempt to either cheer me up or make me feel worse about having feelings. It doesn’t matter. Death may be normal, but it is a result of sin, and therefore it is always painful. It isn’t natural. 

Thankfully I have hope in God. I will see my sister again one day. The separation and the anticipation is what makes it hard. 

They Call me Diabetty 

I experienced my first harassment for my illness a couple days ago. I had posted a picture of some French toast I made myself for breakfast, because I was having a low blood sugar and believe fully that if you need to save your own life, you’d better make it tasty as a reward to yourself for being your own hero. It was. Very tasty. So much so that I posted my creation on Instagram…only to get some hooligan to post in my comments: “No wonder you’re diabetic.” 
Really? I’m Type 1 asshole. Get your shit straight. 
For the astounding increase of diabetes in the world, we still remain extremely ignorant on the subject. I am a Type 1 diabetic. “Is that the bad kind?” People often ask me in ignorance. “It’s all bad.” I often want to respond. But more-or-less I try to educate people on it as much as I can. Try to refute the myths. Try to be as open and kind as I can, because the only way to combat ignorance is with education…so I thought.
Most people get bored or don’t care to remember. 
I fretted a bit about the comment. I wanted to deal a low blow at first. But, instead I tried to educate, and left it at that. He kept trying to defend himself. Embarrassed and hurt he dug the hole deeper. Trying to rationalize that Type 1 could be caused by diet too. How stupid can a person get? Making “you’re lucky you’re not fat” comments and a bunch of other myths he spewed to try to make me feel bad. I DM him a link to educate himself and then blocked him. I was so done with his shit.
I wondered why I felt the need to respond at all? What did I care what some ignorant asshole thought of me? Why do I even bother to inform people who are fully capable of educating themselves? If they actually cared to know, wouldn’t they know by now? Wouldn’t they have gone through the trouble of researching beyond fad diets and poor publicity? Wouldn’t they know about the myths of diabetes and the different types? If they cared to, they would.
So I’ve decided not to embarrass the haters with knowledge. Instead I decided to let them embarrass themselves. After all, who else needs to know how to take care of me, but me and those who actually want to know? 
I still find that decision to be unsatisfactory. I want them to think before they speak to anyone about their chronic illness. Not just diabetes either. Cancer patients must get a ton of crap for their disease too. People with autism do, and I know that for a fact. People with depression. People with any mental illness. I’ve heard plenty of jokes about all of it. Insensitive jokes and myths. Ignorant spewing of hurtful and hateful things. 
In my case specifically, I want people to understand my disease. I want people to know my reasons. I want people to know what it’s like to go to the doctor after doing all they’ve been told to do and feel that disappointment of having their A1C super high. I want them to get the lecture of “you could die if you don’t get this figured out,” when the doctor doesn’t believe you really did all they asked. I want them to see the bills I get and cry over the expense of having a disease you never asked for. I want them to feel the way I do when people comment “No wonder you’re diabetic.” 

I love coffee.

 I’m sure there are probably a million blog posts in the world relating to the topic of coffee and the strong multi-cultural affinity for the beverage. I’m sure I’m only adding to the noise on the matter. But I cannot deny that I love coffee like the rest of the beanie wearing thick rimmed glasses and beard sporting bunch of coffee house dwellers in the world. I too have found myself early morning eyed and writing a last minute college paper and enjoying the comforting solace of warmth on my tongue like a hug to my throat reminding me I am not the only procrastinator in the world. How do I usually do coffee? Probably in ways that will make most people cringe. This morning I put three table spoons of instant French vanilla cappuccino in a K-Cups worth of Caribou Medium Roast with a splash of milk. When I can, I put a teaspoon of coconut oil in black coffee and sweeten it with…whipped cream. Tons of it. Only three days ago I just had it straight black.

What differs for me from many coffee lovers (my barista friends will hate me for saying this), is my love for every kind I can get my hands on. I have no dedication to a brand. I have no affinity dedicated specifically to warm or iced. Some days I go straight black, and some days I double the whipped cream and artificial sweeteners (because I’m a diabetic, and real sugar isn’t sweet enough for me most days. Besides is diabetes won’t kill me cancer probably will anyway.). Often, I don’t mind an instant coffee. 
Haters gunna hate.  

To be truthful, the flavor isn’t really what I go for in coffee, though having a good flavor always helps. What I go for is the sentiment of coffee house culture combined with the hot and heavy love affair if that delightful caffeine high. That caffeine keeps me going through the day. Making me more efficient. Making me focused and bold. I am a powerhouse on coffee. I am a fierce huntress when I have consumed that bitter beverage. 
How do you take your coffee? 

A Theory on Affirmation


A friend of mine posted this on Facebook today. Despite Its passive aggressive nature, I find this a valid question when pertaining to social media. I have a few personal theories behind this, some still formulating, so I ask you to bear with me on this. 
I could just say preference, but preference is usually linked to deeper reasoning. Understanding being one of the many reasons. I think because the visual aspect of a persons appearance or even “glamorous” lifestyle is something a wider audience can understand. Like young adolescent boys who aren’t even part of the political process yet can have an opinion on how “hot or not.” A girl is (as well as young women) can aspire to posses the same physical appearance of said “whore”, but have no idea what is going on in our political climate, because they aren’t at an age where that actually matters to them nor can they do anything about it. Both situations also include desire and sexuality and sensuality to a degree, but that theory is much more complex and simple at the same time and I’d have to think about it a great deal more. 
Plus I just keep repeating “dat ass tho” in my head. 
I also theorize certain kinds of people who follow certain types of figures often do so because they agree with their views. Those figures may have few followers that disagree with them or delete those that do for various reasons, one possibly being because their followers opinions are the foundation they build their self-esteem and seek validation. Which is very common, because humans are prone to seek acceptance.
I often wonder about things like that. Part if it is my Graphic Design background. I see to understand an audience. To understand the provider catering to that audience. To be more honest, I’m a person who desires an answer to the question “why” a great deal. I too seek acceptance on social media, but more so I crave understanding as to why that acceptance is so much more important to some than others, and how they achieve it. 
What are your thoughts? What makes such persuasive and affirming content? Why does that matter so much? 

The Changing Scene of Photo Boxes

I remember that rubbermade box. It’s in my parents basement as we speak. Full of loose photographs of my childhood. Naked baby pictures that no non-family eyes have seen. Photos of those beautiful and embarrassing child moments that bring tears to the eyes of mothers and cringes to the eyes of those who are the photos subject matter. 
Those were the days though. A simpler time, where photos were developed from negatives via, extremely complex chemical knowledge. When you had no choice but to make physical copies, or risk having none at all. You stored away those little film tubes until you could get them developed. Trying to keep all those memories in little boxes.
Now I keep my photos in memory drives. I have three Hard Drives full of just photos that my computer can’t hold. Some I have backed up in “The Cloud” which sounds like an immortalized and mythical data stream; as if those memories have now since died, but found eternal life in a digital heaven, with some kind of digital god who gets paid several thousand a year to stay pasty white, sleepless, and protect information that he never inspired. I imagine him in his late thirties and wearing hipster glasses, kinda chunky from not leaving his desk much, with a desk full of geek inspired idols of Iron Man, Invader Zim, and bibles about programming and other information technology that goes over my head. 
I often get angry at myself for not taking the time and money to print some of those moment. I have disc drive upon disc drive of moments from college that I wished to have immortalized. Maybe to hang on my wall and remind me of how I wasn’t alone in the world. So I could talk to them on the phone and stare into their smiling it goofy faces. Why didn’t I invest in those kinds of things like my parents did? Why was I missing out on that accomplishment? Even some of my artsy photography never seemed to make it to print. The first time since high school, I printed four photos for myself to hang on my wall. Four. That’s it. In almost 7 years, the last photos I got printed, were four photos from my trip to England! Great photos, I’m very happy to have them, but that was all I have printed. That’s it! 
My parents knew what was up. They knew the importance of capturing and keeping those memories. I just toss them into the cloud and hope they’re there when I decide what to do with them. 
How careless I am with my memories. 


I watched those little cottonwood fluffs tremble in the spiderwebs. The breeze making them dance in their own chains. Causing them to long for the freedom they once had. 
I was tired. My hammock swung with the breeze as clouds began to form over head. The sky was dim, but not dark. Dusty with pearls of rain that hadn’t quite decided to commit their mass suicide and fall to the pavement, only to be swallowed by everything that could drink in their corpses. My eye lids were heavy. My heart was too. A deep sadness crept within me to rest a while. The kind that makes depression swell like billowing waves and seismic tidings of restlessness that shook you within, but did not stir your exterior. 
Storms were brewing. Angry storms. Though I did not know it yet. I had not yet gotten past the stage of sorrow. Anger was coming, laying in wait. Anger at circumstances. Dissatisfaction with the status quo. Life was pressing in on me and I was buckling beneath the pressure. No, a diamond would not be formed from it. Not this time. For though I would show with such sparkle in the light, I knew that I was merely glass; pretty to look at, but not nearly as strong as I seemed. 

That was me being overly dramatic though. 
Tomorrow it would pass. I would merely let the storm rage and the wind and rain would whip and sting at my heart, but calm would come again. I would be renewed. I would be refreshed. I merely had to endure the storm. 

Let Life Pass By

I spent a great deal of my childhood watching life go by and often got yelled at for doing so.“You’ll miss out. Live a little!” They would often tell me. I was baffled, because by watching life pass by, I found a great appreciation for observing, and much of what I observed was not at all what I would call living. 

Into high school I thought considerably about what the other kids precieved by “living” and was baffled by it. Why was drinking yourself silly, doing drugs, and having unfulfilling sexual encounters considered “living” to them? Was it the thrill of the taboo? Was it the danger and potential outcome that made them feel powerful? The even greater question: How did they feel about it now as adults? Did anything really change? 

I observed a great deal of mistakes in their behavior. Watching life pass me by wasn’t really such a bad thing, because as far as I was concerned, those were moments that needed to pass by. My participation wasn’t necessary. I didn’t need to touch a moment to have it leave an impression on me. I merely had to see it, let it stare me down, let it break my heart, and then watch it leave. Sure, there were times I flirted with those moments, but stood back like a wall flower, waiting for those things to drag me in kicking and screaming or leave me alone. 

Now as an adult I allow a great deal to pass by. Lovers have come and gone, with good reason. Friends have too, also with good reason. Job opportunities and travels have been passing by without my desires trailing behind them. I have let a great deal of life keep passing me by, and though I have moments of discontent, I find myself relieved by the things I have let move on. 

My life choices had become my favorite art form…minimalism. The singularly complex and the simplicity of few had been a blessing. My opportunities had been many, but the ones I took had been powerful. In the absence of much I could greater appreciate the impact of those moments I decided to link arms with and walk a ways along side. In my minimalist life, the small things took a greater stage presence. Uncluttered memories made the production more grand. The real work was in the basic lines and simple realizations coming to light. Personal revelation took place of making memories. Providence took place of the complexity of choice, and when choice did happen, it was often quite clear when that choice needed to be made. 

I have kept things simple. I have kept things beautiful. I am in need of nothing more.