Me?

I'm not normal.

I've come to grips with this simple fact over the years. Due to events in my past, I've created walls between myself and other people, and I've developed a type of sixth sense as to why they do what they do. It's one of the main reasons why I found anthropology so fascinating.


I've also created personas for myself. I've been the brainiac, the ditz, the bookworm. I've been the ego-whore and the bohemian. The nerd and the sports fanatic. I am all of these and more, none overtaking the other, a veritable melting pot of crazy.


I remember when I was little, my grandfather used to sit me on his knee. He would tell me stories - stories about what it was like in the war, or about growing up in the Depression (apparently his mother made him bathe in the sink - she used the bathtub to make gin. See, it's inherited). Or, he'd just tell me about my mother and her sisters, and the hell they put him and Grandmom through. I remember that he always used to smell like pipe-smoke.

We had a lot of laughs, Grandpa and I.



I see myself in him. Or maybe I should say that I see him in me? I'm an interesting mix of my mother's sensibilities and my fathers absentmindedness. Late for everything, contrite about nothing, I don't know if my personality is inherited or was the result of freak chance.



I could do a post about nature v. nurture, but I'll be nice and abstain. I don't want this to be a lecture.

Who am I? I've grappled with this question for a while now. When I was with Ex 1 and Ex 2, I changed my personality to fit theirs. I pretended to be something I wasn't - I will never do that again. I did a pretty good job of remaining myself with Ex 3, but I never really fully opened up.

I have to work on that, and learn to stop hiding behind all my glass walls.

And so, World, you get to see the real me.

My name is Sara. I am 25 years old. I don't see the point in The Jersey Shore, but I am a total sucker for Bridezillas. I work in a pet store. Because of, or perhaps in spite of, my job I have an obsession with animals.

Seriously. Ask me anything about them. Odds are I know the answer. I'm a freak like that.

My favorite color is green. I also have a fascination with birds - always have, ever since I was a little girl. I used to like to picture myself flying (ok, I'll be honest - I still daydream about it sometimes). My favorite flower is honeysuckle - because when I was little we had a really large bush that would be covered by it every summer. I used to hide in there. It was like my secret hideaway, my place to go and hide from the world and live in fantasy.

That and I think they're pretty tasty.



I had more male friends than girl friends growing up. I still get along with boys better, even though I'll be damned if I understand them.

I adore reading. Literature is something I'm fascinated with. It - all at once - provides both an escape and a peek into another person's mind. And sometimes, if it's a really good book? It gives you a peek into your own mind.

Skeletons. I'm obsessed with them.

All of this and more are the itty bitty factors that make up me.

And y'know...I kind of like it. And I think I've come to the point where I'm ok with that.

52 books in 52 weeks

So I'm doing the 52 books in 52 weeks challenge thingamajig.

Honestly, I read more than that, so the challenge portion of it is a bit of a moot point. But I'm going to spin the challenge and read books that I probably would take my sweet time reading otherwise, in addition to my normal load.

I'm a bit of a bibliophile.

I've read books ever since I was little. They were my oasis in an otherwise chaotic life. They were my friends and my obsessions. And they helped shape who I am. Oscar Wilde, Emily Dickenson, Mary Shelley. Joseph Conrad, Silvia Plath, Eric Carle. There's too many to list, too many authors whose works were a beacon in the darkness for me.

I love the smell of books. That slightly dusty aroma that slowly pervades the olfactory senses. It smells like home to me. Like pages that have yet to be read, ideas that have yet to be explored, creativity that has yet to be unleashed.

So, stay tuned for some book reviews.

Simple

Life, as it turns out, never ceases to sneak up behind me and say "Boo!"



Sadistic bastard.


I was walking to my car today when, out of nowhere, a tree jumped in front of me. I, of course, smashed into it and fell backwards.

Go. Me.

Looking up at the sky (as I was now laying on my back in the cold, cold weather) I noticed a few birds flitting by. Hoping that they wouldn't shit on my prone body, I gingerly stood up.

And came face to face with Garage Cat.

His name is Nick. He first showed up about three or four years ago around Christmas time (hence the name Nicholas - not my idea, I swear). He's a behemoth of a cat - he weighs over twenty pounds and stands up above my knee. He's not fat. Just huge. And fluffy.

I swear he's got mountain lion in him. He lives in our garage. His digs include a heated blanket, water bowl, a magical refilling food bowl, and all the crackcatnip that his stupid little kitty body can handle.

So, as I stared into his eyes (which are a peculiar shade of green-yellow, in case you were wondering), I couldn't help but think about him and what he must do during the day. What a life.

He eats. He sleeps. He prowls. His needs seem very basic, very simple.

And so it occurs to me that I might need to simplify my life a bit. I think that I, too often, get caught up in the little things. I forget that life really isn't supposed to be that hard, that really I'm just stressing out over things that are inconsequential in the big scheme of things.

That really, I just need to realize I have the freedom to be me.