While Sarah is writing on Signal vs. Noise, I’m writing on her site, and my darling roommate has offered to write on mine. Since he’s blog-free, despite my constant urging, here’s the Top Five Reasons why MY Roommate is Better Than Yours:
1. He’s hilarious. He tells people that I used to have 4 cats, but Sullivan ate the fourth. (Trust me, he’s massive.) And see below – he just cracks my shit up on a daily basis.
2. He eats more than any human I’ve ever met. I’m talking over 8 meals a day. If nothing else, it’s a reason for me to stare in astonishment on multiple occasions when I return from work.
3. He deals with me. In the three+ months that we’ve lived together, he’s made me food, helped me when I was a one-armed gimp, dragged up my massive Christmas tree, didn’t complain when I added a sewing machine to his sports room, and even cleaned up while I was festering in driving school the day after my kick-ass Hallo-wienie Roast. I mean, can you get better than that?
4. He kicked my ass at Racquetball. ‘Nuff said.
5. He’s a catch. Girls, I’m taking applications, but this stud-o-matic is prime pickins, I tell ya. And he looks just SMOKIN’ in his Skidz, circa 1987.

Without further ado, I give you my darling roommate…

Since my last guest writing stint was such an overwhelming success…well, actually it wasn’t, but I think Aubrey is just bein lazy, cuz she asked me to write again. Topic of discussion: what it is like to live with Aubrey Sabala.

Back in the summer I had planned on moving in with my girlfriend and eventually settling down. Unfortunately, my girlfriend was raised in the South, and therefore felt the need to have an engagement ring (at age 23, after a mere 17 months of dating) before moving in together. Being a child of divorced parents, I am extra cautious about making such long term commitments. Aubrey needed a roommate to help pay the bills. There you have the formula.

I will start off by saying that I intend this to come off as a ringing endorsement of living with Aubrey. She is as sweet as you would think, and l can honestly say that living with her is one of, if not the most, enjoyable living situation I’ve ever had (keep in mind, however, that her main competition is Jake “the only male with Irritable Bowel Syndrome” Sussman and a college roommate that used to wet his bed).

Before I moved into the house, Aubrey was nice enough to send me a “Welcome Manual” via e-mail. Basic house information was included, as was a scale diagram of the kitchen, detailing the location of measuring cups, spatulas, and cat medicine. I’m talkin’ line graphs, pie charts…the whole deal. This made me nervous….was I moving in with a Nazi Neat Freak? Was she going to scold me if I left a butter knife on the counter? Thankfully, my fears could not be further from the truth. She is so laid back, carefree, and whatever the opposite of anal is (I would say vaginal, but I don’t think that is the antonym I am looking for). You can’t ask for a better roommate.

That being said, there are some things I feel that you should know. Not bad things, just….things:

Make sure you get a separate bathroom. I know she looks cute and sweet and all, but, this girl can drop some BOMBS. There was one the other night that made Hiroshima look like a firecracker. Trust me. You’ll want to steer clear of the vicinity of her bathroom for a good 30-35 minutes after the deuce is loose…actually, I’m just kiddin’…the only bad smells in the house (aside from my bathroom) stem from the Booda Dome – a two-foot high plastic dome where her three cats enter, defecate, and leave. Even Grade A kitty litter can’t contain the odors. Oof. I’m looking forward to being the first one back from our simultaneous week-long Christmas vacations. That thing’s gonna be overflowing with cat feces like that house with popcorn in “Real Genius.”

Cats. Lots of ‘em. I swear, they’re multiplying like Gizmo in “Gremlins.” There’s Samantha, the equivalent to a red-headed stepchild. She’s so timid ’cause her previous owners smacked her around more than Ike did Tina back in the 70s. Sebastian is the bully who tries to run outside all the time. If any of the cats are gay, Sebastian is. And Sullivan is the fatso that we suspect has a glandular problem….think Ruben of American Idol with fur. But, they’re all so laid back…so much so, that I think there’s weed in their catnip.

Be sure to check expiration dates on any perishables in the fridge. When I first moved in back in September, she had a carton of eggs in there with an expiration date of “DEC 05.” I was like, “Are these some new SuperEggs that expire in 1 ½ years?” Then, I realize that they expire December 5th…..of 2002. I’ll have some scrambled eggs with a side order of Salmonella.

I do not want these few minor abnormalities to deter anyone from living with this wonderful girl. [Editor’s Note: Especially tall, hot, single guys with scruffy-ish hair that think I’m sexy as all get-out.] She’s tons-o-fun (see: FunAubrey), is very understanding, and will even let you convert the empty downstairs basement bedroom into a mini-sports bar with your pink recliner and three TVs for football viewing pleasure…

I love you from the bottom of my pencil case
I love the way you never ask me why
I love to write about each wrinkle on your face
And I love you till my fountain pen runs dry.

Isn’t that just the best lyric ever? I mean, how touching! How emotional! He LOVES her from the bottom of his PENCIL CASE! Now that, my friends, is a love to last. (Sigh.) If only someone loved ME from the bottom of their pencil case…

I’ve had a friendly discussion (read: ongoing argument) with friends over which is more important in a song: the words, or the tune. Now granted, I am fully aware that both are necessary and the combination of the two MAKE the song, but I was/am curious to see others’ thoughts on which takes precedence.

For me, the words have always held that place of importance. When I was pining over my 6th grade crush and Bonnie Raitt was singing “I can’t make you love me if you don’t…”, it wasn’t her soulful voice but the words themselves that were stinging my heart with empathy. I’ve discovered affection for older songs that I had heard a thousand times when I took the time to listen – really listen – to the words. Lately, I’ve been taken by Colin Hay’s “Waiting for my Real Life to Begin”, Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah” (Love is not a victory march, it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah”) and anything by Ryan Adams (esp. “Excuse Me While I Break My Own Heart”) Aaah, the power of language. Tingles my soul, ya know?

So I turn to you all – what lyrics or songs give you that shivery realization of empathetic comprehension (read: the lyrics move you)? I’m interested to know…

Apparently, I’m not the only one suffering from Asshole Attraction. It’s innate! Inherent to our species! (Or so they postulate…) When it comes to short-lived flings, we look for a cad. When we’re looking for a partner, we look for lasting potential. And nary the two shall cross…

Just read this article.

“The optimum reproductive strategy for females seems to have been and still is to mate with a male who will invest in your offspring, but keep your eyes open for one whose genes will interact well with your own,” Dr. Barash said.

Hmm. So when I’m lusting after that hunka hunka burnin’ hotness in the bar, he’s somehow genetically compatible with me? And when I finally find myself ready to settle down, I’ll do the figurative ‘crossover’ and find a long-lasting partner who will invest in the well-being of our children?

Interesting. VEEERRRRYYYY interesting. Apparently, evolutionary biology isn’t the only place where we see the standard male/female dichotomy & stereotypes.

This hypothesis assumes, however, that once labeled a ‘cad’ or a ‘dad’, the moniker is permanent. It doesn’t seem to take into consideration the fact that many ‘cads’ are now ‘dads’, prompting the lifelong question “Do people ever really change?”

There’s a quote that says: “Men always want to be a woman’s first love. Women have a more subtle instinct: What they like is to be a man’s last romance.” Meaning, us gals think that at some point, these cads that we’re inherently attracted to WILL change. Whether we are the one to change them, or even put forth any effort in trying (a practice I refuse to participate in, thank you very much), is inconsequential. Thus if we accept the postulate that men (and women) CAN and DO change, the aforementioned theory is invalid.

I’m struck by the quandary of this all – as a biology major, I took plenty of classes where evolutionary psychology (specifically, gender-specific sexual behavior) was discussed. In a true biological sense, it is commonplace to learn that in many species, “females produce few, large gametes whereas males produce numerous small ones. Since eggs are expensive and only a few offspring can be raised, females’ evolutionary pressure is for “choosiness” in mate selection. In contrast, sperm are “cheap” and males’ evolutionary success is limited by their ability to deliver sperm to the egg. Males have evolved to be “salesman”, attractive to females. They advertise good genes by holding territories, displays, courtship rituals, gifts, appearance.” Many scientists further postulate that this is also related to each gender’s investment; i.e., men are promiscuous by nature while women are not. When considering the veracity of any of these statements, it seems (at least on a general scale) logical Yet blaming genetics for our ‘foibles’ (be it promiscuity or abandonment) is a cop-out.

We’re a mixture of nature vs. nurture. Genetics can only play so much. Look at adultery: in a study by Bonnie Eaker Weil , she found that people who had a parent that engaged in adultery have a greater liklihood to do so themselves. In fact, she found that 9 out of 10 people who engaged in adultery had a parent who had as well. And for divorce, a 2001 study found that Parental divorce approximately doubled the likelihood that offspring would see their own marriages end in divorce, even when controlling for a variety of variables measured prior to parents’ marital dissolution. I pose that these statistics are more nurture than nature, but accept that others will see it conversely.

The morning radio station conducted a little test of fidelity, and reported the findings this morning. They had an attractive single girl go out to the bars, and record the interactions she had with married men. In a small test group, over 50% of the married men took her phone number, and 33% of them called her within a day. These are MARRIED MEN. Speaks little about our views on “for better & for worse”.

Still, you just never know. My future husband may be out there, either being the ‘cad’ or acting the ‘dad.’ Either way, I’m not ready for marriage, so for the time being, I suppose I’ll stick to my Cad-diction.

Until I find what I’m looking for, that is.

Bad habits – those suckers have resiliency.

Talk about staying power!

Days, months, years can pass, and against your better judgment (or your self-promises otherwise), you fall back into old patterns. Old habits die hard, they say, and never is this more true than in the world of romance.

Lust, love, and – dare I say it – passion, are hard things to forget.
We can physically move on, of course, yet there lingers formerly forgotten memories, banned thoughts, nervously resting in the subconscious of your cerebrum, anxiously awaiting to return as soon as the opportunity arises. And when it does – well, if I used horrific colloquialisms, I’d say ‘Whoa, Nelly’. Or ‘Hot Damn’. You get my point.

What is it about intimacy – whether physical or simply emotional – that serves such a lasting punch?

In relationships, we tend to remember only the good times. It’s a subtle form of self-preservation; after all, if we admitted to ourselves that we were with him for eight months more than we should have been or that he was cheating on you the entire time, we’d have to re-live the pain, humiliation, and anger all over again. Masochist, I am not.

And so we remember long, lazy Sundays resting in bed, the times when you’d stay up all night on the phone, just talking to hear each other’s voice, that time you both played hooky from work so you could eat homemade ice cream on the porch and waste the day away. You know, the trite, clichéd romancy-things that you see in chick flicks. It seems that even the passage of time cannot break those supernatant vines that curl around your heart, despite the wall you’ve erected.

Sometimes we find ourselves pushing the memories away, back to their home, the safety of returning them to the crypt of our past loves-gone-wrong. We find ourselves pushing others away, others that we like, that we could love, out of protection. “We hurt the ones we love the most, it’s a subtle form of discipline.” I’ve always loved that quote, yet only now do I understand it. But they missed something – we also hurt ourselves in the process.

Should we return to what once was magic but soon turned tragic? Like sailors being lured to their death by a mermaid’s song, are we hoodwinked into heartbreak by our selective memories and a dash of latter-day television-depicted romanticism? The line between fact and fiction becomes blurred when hearts are on the line, as if that romantic haze masks the truth. Basically, we believe what we want to, often at our own folly.

In a world full of farce, full of masquerade, full of facade, how do we find true love? Trial and error, perhaps? Learning from our mistakes? If that’s the solution, it requires us to not only LEARN from past mistakes, but to avoid them going forward. And that’s the catch 22.

Which brings us back to bad habits. Too many of us get married not because they want to enter a lifelong partnership, but because they’re eager for the stability (and the big party that a wedding often is) that is portrayed by marriage. Too many of us stay in destructive or loveless relationships out of habit, comfortability, or fear of being alone. Too many of us find ourselves repeating the patterns again and again, an endless cycle of pain and heartache. Too many of us can’t break these bad habits.

There’s programs to help us quit smoking, quit drinking, even to quit gambling. Our society is so full of these viceful addictions that it’s become almost commonplace to be in some sort of 12-step group. After all, we’re the after school special-inspired generation. Yet with all of these self-help opportunities, why hasn’t anyone come up with a program to help us quit hurting when love disappears?

At some point in the middle of the night, when I was not sleeping as much as I should have been, a result of either the most darling of darling Christmas trees in my bedroom (lit up like Clark Griswald’s house in “Christmas Vacation) or my Mom snoring, my half-awake brain came up with a fabulous entry for today.

Insightful! Hilarious! One of my best, I tell you.

If only I could remember it.

Why my brain works on overtime during my somnambulist hours is beyond me. As I begin to fall into a deep slumber, I am a genius. Nobel-prize worthy, in fact. I pontificate! I speculate! I postulate! And yet, if I don’t write it down, I promptly forget it.

Yes, I have a pad of paper by my bed. Yes, I have oft-times written a few notes to remind myself of my brilliant thoughts in the morning, only to realize that my brilliant thoughts weren’t all that brilliant.

Point in case: last Tuesday, after taking drunk photos of me and my cat Samantha (trust me, we’re adorable at 2am), I thought it would be just GENIUS to write about the progression of a drunk evening. Except I’ve done so before. At least once. Redundancy is a word I often ignore when inebriated (as the choice of a few of my extracurricular evening, ahem, activity partners could attest to.) But I digress.

THIS entry, I tell you, the one I thought of last night, was not in the aforementioned redundant or non-brilliant category. THIS entry, my friends, was spectacular. I found my half-asleep laughing at my own wit, impressed by my own use of the language (with my take on the vernacular, of course), surprised by how WELL the entire entry fit together.

It wasn’t me bitching about ex’s who need to be exorcised.
It wasn’t me delighting about the holiday season (though trust me, my Christmas Tree can kick your Christmas Tree’s ass. You just wait.)
It wasn’t me talking about the delectable Sweet Potato Casserole that had just the right amount of coconut in it to make it a quasi-orgasmic experience. (Especially in this time of Aubrey-Date-Drought…)
It wasn’t me citing my web stats, even though this query (“it’s really quite pathetic if you really think about it but i was smokin weed cuz i can’t drink without it”) is the strangest thing I’ve ever seen to reference my site.
It wasn’t me wondering if my Mom intentionally put something in the much-loved Broccoli Casserole that sent my stomach into disarray.
It wasn’t me writing letters to celebrities that I dislike (Christina Aguilera & Carrot Top, if I ever run into you, be prepared since I want to lock you both in a storm shelter to fester off each other’s nastiness forever) or ones that I think are being foolish not to leave their girlfriends and run into my arms.
It wasn’t me maligning JJ Abrams for his cliff-hanger episode last night, making me wait another week to find out if skank-o-rama Lauren Reed (who, amusingly enough, won a ROLLER SKATING Championship at age 14!!) had anything to do with Syd’s disappearance. (Yes. I’m obsessed.)
It even wasn’t me coming up with a list of traits that my future boyfriend should have (though “lives in Atlanta”, “finds me hilarious” and “eats lots of junk food but isn’t fat” are new additions to the ongoing list.)

It was good, people, REALLY good.
And for the life of me, I can’t remember it.

Oh, my friends, there is little joy like the joy that a three day week brings.

Work, shmirk. That’s what I say.

The pace is relaxed, the assignments somewhat minimal.

People (note that I say “People” instead of “I”, since “I” would never be anything but a trusted & dedicated employee) window-shop the web for Holiday presents, plan mid-week get-togethers (hangovers on Wednesday? Who cares! It’s a half day anyway!) and IM each other to share the results of aforementioned web-window shopping & party planning.

Fun, fun, fun in the quasi-wintertime, it is.

The fast-approaching holidays are an exciting time, filled with the hustle & bustle of the season. Even though my hustle AND bustle are just me running around late for one appointment or another, I at least hustle MY bustle with a spring in my (winter knee-high boots clad) step. I’ve rediscovered the joy of my Burberry scarf – how I love you so. My new camel pea-coat, with the brown, lovely, requisite buttons, inspires joy in me even when the cats miss the litterbox (again. It’s becoming somewhat of an unwelcome habit.) And my closet! Oh! It overfloweth with wool, cashmere, and warmth.

I may even put on my SUPERWARM down comforter.

We built (ahem, I built) our first fire last night, and the crackle of the (fake) logs made my at-home pilates video all-the-more exhilerating. (Ok, it’s a gas fireplace. But I opened the floo AND turned on the gas…so there.) For the first time since I’ve lived in Atlanta (3 1/2 years), I’m not alone this year for the holidays.

There’s someone other than me (ok, let’s be fair – there’s someone, since I don’t cook) whipping up dinner treats every night. There’s someone to tell me what is going on during “Identity” when I’m hiding my head in the pillow, refusing to watch. There’s someone to make fun of me the next morning when I trudge down in my light-blue robe, hair awry, sleepy-eyed and a bit over-hung from the night prior. It’s nice to not be alone in my house this holiday.

I can barely wait until I can put up my Christmas decorations. If you thought I went a bit overboard with Halloween – honey, you’ve got another thing coming. Garland, glitter, glitz & glamour – my house has a bit of it all. (My poor, sweet roommate – the house is going from Pottery Barn to Sugarplum Candyland Sparkletastic. I apologize in advance – I’m a girl.) I can’t WAIT to get my Christmas tree, 8-feet of pine-scented euphoria. I can’t WAIT to go shopping for friends & family, even if the results are somewhat meager due to limited finances. I can’t WAIT to go to Holiday parties, dressing up in my girly-holiday garb that you KNOW you have (at least those of you with XX chromosomes) and fun flouncy skirt that I got for a steal. I can’t WAIT to torture my kittens with Santa Hats & stockings and cheezy outfits that they’ll just eat instead of wear. And lest we forget my Post-Christmas Christmas party, the culmination of the holiday season and the last hurrah for my (probably dead, since it will be January) Christmas tree.

Oh joy. Joy indeed.

Gingerbread houses? Perhaps. Candy canes? Oh yes. And the best treats of all – Red & Green M&M’s. Oh-so festive, we are.

So although the season isn’t yet upon us, although I’m not 100% I’M NOW finished with the Annual Aubrey Christmas Wish List, and although my Thanksgiving will likely be quiet – hark, the harold angels are singing, and their tune is of a holly jolly Christmas.

Anyone know where I can get some mistletoe for cheap?

It’s that time again, my friends.

Time to quit your dalliances, time to shut down your instant message windows, time to get serious.

It’s crunch time.

Christmas is right around the corner, and what kind of holiday would it be if I didn’t put up my annual wish list? This year, I’m taking it a step further, with great gift ideas galore for loved ones near and far. (Just click on the sundry links below!)

So without further ado, I present to you:

THE ANNUAL AUBREY CHRISTMAS WISH LIST

When the weather outside is frightful (or at least chilly), there’s nothing like a warm sweater to keep you toasty. (I prefer the blue one, in case you’re interested.)

Our limbs can get pretty stiff when the temperatures drop. I combat this with a healthy dose of yoga & pilates, and how CUTE would I be sportin’ this to my next class? I know. Adorable.

Now, Christmas isn’t all about me. It’s about me AND my pets. Poor George has been splishing & splashing in his bowl long enough – why not spice it up for the little guy?

I’m just a travelin’ fool – I figured out that I spent more weekends AWAY from home than I did AT home. Be it in the car or on a plane, travel garb is always a great gift. (Oh, and I really DO need a carry-on that doesn’t turn my hands red.)

It’s not truly Christmas until you attend a Christmas (or Holiday – see? I’m PC) party. Getting all dolled up, enjoying the revelry & good times with friends, and standing under the mistletoe – well, that just does it for moi.

Bump on a log, I’m not, but I do love me some OC and Alias. With my ever-so-hectic schedule, I hate to miss these shows. What’s a girl to do? Ask for Tivo for Christmas!

A nice-smelling house can make up for a bad hair day, a bad work day, a bad “I hate my boyfriend because he thought DVD’s were a romantic gift” day. Us girls need to pamper ourselves with candles, bubble baths, and a glass of wine every now and again to calm those frazzled nerves. (And while you’re at it, a makeup bag chock full o’ goodies never hurts…)

Though the list could go on and on (and never fear – I’m sure I’ll ad some new items below!), any of these should provide me with visions of sugarplums.

Or at least a good night’s sleep.

PS: And never fear – I’ll definitely write y’all a thank-you note. On my (hope-to-receive) new stationery! (in ivory card stock, navy border w/typestyle 3L. I’m not particular, or anything…)

I’ve felt this before.

Felt like I’m self-censoring, wondering what you were thinking when you read about my weekend, wondering if I should say this or that, wondering how you’d take it.

The “You” I’m referring to has changed with time, but there usually is someone who’s like a silent backseat driver, a consideration that is unwanted yet remains present. I’ve wondered before about how honest I should be in my entries, wondering if it was a liability to my work, my life, and even my friendships. Yet this is different. This is personal. This involves my heart.

I’ve said before that I write for myself, yet it’s often what I DON’T write that is for you. There are some arenas, some hurts, some situations in my life that I won’t delve into out of respect for privacy and personal information. While my life is often an open book, there’s some pages torn out, hidden away in the secret vestibules of my mind. As my friend Sarah often says, people read our sites and think they know us, think they understand all about us, think they GET us. But there’s more – so much more – that we keep and save and withhold. And it’s those very unallowances that say more about the true ‘us’ than any entry on any website in the whole gigantic World Wide INTERweb can.

The balance between public and private is all-the-more intensified by the advances of Google, and other [less-robust and truly inadequate when compared to Google] search engines. No longer does any private information really remain private; with the ‘cache’ feature, anything that was ever online can (and often will) remain for posterity. Be careful what you write, do, and videotape, my friends.

And yet that isn’t my first nor a major consideration when tailoring these entries to my liking. I try and be meticulous in my word choice, attempting to choose the perfect word to evoke the feeling of ennui, distaste, predilection or abhorrence that I’m feeling at the time. The consideration is you.

This seems like an injustice to me, that your quasi-omniscience isn’t fair. With my proclivity to withhold some aforementioned information with respect to privacy, the very fact that I’m tempted to withhold other information because of you both angers and pains me. You shouldn’t have this – or any – power over me.

And you do. I want you gone. I want your presence to disappear just as your reality did, instantly, quickly, overnight. I’ve eliminated you from all other aspects of my life, and still your shadow remains on my most precious of arenas, my writing.

Maybe I should call a priest. I want you exorcised.

From the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry.

I just re-read my latest posts, and they’re dismal. Dark. Depressing. I must have been in a funk or something, because the usually chipper, witty Aubrey is nowhere to be found. Gone were the references to Paul Walker or Matthew McConaughey, I haven’t given myself a nickname like Aubrey McBrokeBroke Destitutio in quite a while, and as for funny letters to inanimate objects? AWOL. I’m such a downer lately.

Well, no more of that. Yes, there’s some things going on that really suck, that upset me, that make me sadder than I’ve been in forever, yet that’s not me. I’m more than a few tears, a few complaints, a few frustrations. I’ve got it good, my friends. I’ve said it before, and now more than ever, I need to remember that I do have the best friends, the best family, in the world and I cherish them so much. It’s not fair to them, to you, to dwell on the bad, because there is so much good out there.

The sun is shining here in Atlanta, the weekend brings 75 degree days and mild nights, and friends are descending upon this town for the weekend. I made a homemade cake for my dear friend’s birthday, we’re convening at a fabulous restaurant to eat, drink, and be merry, and for the first time in what seems like forever, I find my step – and my heart – light. (Disclaimer: This is the same restaurant that was the starting place for the broken arm night, but be rest assured that I won’t participate in a repeat of that debaucle, even if it DID get me out of work for a few days.)

I take myself too seriously.

In typical-Aubrey fashion, I often find myself evisioning me as the heroine of some gothic tragi-comedy, thinking about just how TRAGIC it all is. Oh, woe is me, lil’ misplaced-Ohioan-now-Southerner who bats her eyes and plays the damsel in distress. Woe, Woe, Woe. The background music plays in my head, the dramatic aspect of every little thing is not lost in my mind.

Woe, I say.

Whether it’s the only child in me or something else, I need to break myself of this habit. Yes, I’m dramatic. Yes, I’m a writer, allowing (often mandating) me to use hyperbole in excess. Yes, I do like to think of myself as the center of attention at times. But when it interferes with my happiness, when I find myself fixated on the negative & ignoring the positive, a change is needed.

So I’m done. I’m happy! Gleeful, in fact. Giddy even. I have gone through the tunnel and emerged, victorious!

Either that, or it’s the 2 Sugar-free Red Bull’s I just drank.

One of the hardest things to deal with in life is pain.

Not necessarily your pain, but the pain of others.

Hearing them upset, seeing them cry, and feeling completely helpless to offer any solace or aid.

You want to make it all go away, and you can’t.

Just as death is a part of life, pain is a part of happiness. We all have to go through rough times to come out victorious, to see where we’ve been and to see how far we’ve come. It’s hard – sometimes even feeling impossible.

I hate this feeling, this feeling of helplessness, not being able to soothe someone who is hurting so openly. I can offer kind words, hugs, some laughter, but I can’t remove the pain like I’d like to. It eats away at her, at me, making us both question why we have to go through this. The only consolation is that we’re going through this together.

I still don’t feel like that’s enough.

I consider myself someone who can give good advice, a calm voice in the storm. I can offer direction, reasoning, and inspirational words.

I still don’t feel like that’s enough.

At 26, I’m not weathered, I’m not seasoned – hell, if there is a block, I not only have NOT been around it, but barely noticed the sidewalk. I’m naive in some instances, thinking and wishing the best on others, on my friends, on my family. I want to believe that the world is generally a good place, with good people, that do the right thing. Yet going through this, seeing this pain, this raw feeling of sadness, ages me. Makes me wise to heartbreak and loss and disappointment and a feeling of responsibility for it all that you just can’t shake.

Time mends all wounds – at least that’s what they say. I’ve offered this advice, however trite it may seem, reassurance that it WILL get better, that it WILL get easier, that one day, the pain WILL finally go away. I hope I’m convincing in this adage, since I truly want to believe that it WILL. If this tenet is false, well, my foundation erodes away.

Harold S. Kushner wrote the famous book “When Bad Things Happen to Good People.” In it, he tries to make amends with the everyday tragedies that we all face, offering solace and advice and reason behind it all. And at the very core, my stubborn streak emerges, questioning WHY bad things have to happen to good people, why this has to happen to us, and why we have to go through it.

Hindsight is 20/20 – I hope that one day I’ll look back on this and know that we got through it together, and that we’re better for having done so.

God, I hope this is the case.