Leah Q. Adult-in-Training

          I began writing this blog almost four years ago. It wasn’t something I started consciously. It was a random idea to conceptualize the ideas I had amassed in my head. My feelings, my experiences, and opinions were all organized into an essay-like format that gave me some semblance of organization. It’s a platform I use to talk about myself and people who have proven to be important sources of motivation in my life. It will forever be my online journal; something I choose to do when I’m trying to make sense of my life. Any time I go through something complicated this is where I write it all down. I think at times I censor my thoughts and my experiences because sometimes I think it’s too much. Do I really want everyone to know these parts of me? Then again isn’t this supposed to be the place where I write for no one else? It’s the contradicting idea of self that I continuously battle with. At what point is it too much?             I guess this intro is my decision in a sense.

          Grief, it’s this many-pronged enigma that I and many other people have had trouble defining.   Over the years though you come to realize how hard it is to properly define a concept. Something as immaterial as a feeling is difficult to put into a box.             Having things organized is this important concept for me; it’s how I get through my life every day. I schedule, I think things through, and I make lists. Normally to look at the state of my room you see a visual of what the inside of my head looks like. Laundry strewn everywhere, a massive candle collection, coupled with a vanity from hell is my everyday life. There are times when I obsessively clean everything; it’s normally when guests come over if I’m being honest with myself but, if you think about it this comparison is a literal personification of my headspace.             I try to have everything organized, to put my feelings in this neat little box. A pristine cleverly decorated box and yet I’ve never bee

        Social Media is a huge part of everyday life. Frankly if it isn’t you’ll probably never read this blog anyways so that argument is irrelevant. Every day I see memes and tweets that comment on the female form. On our bodies, our faces, our fashion sense. It is the media and those who fuel it that tell us what is “socially acceptable.” What these sources fail to acknowledge or, take into account are the actual facts.             Obviously I can only state facts in reference to my own feelings; so if you feel differently I urge you to continue on the path of least resistance. If you’re in a trolling mood however please do continue to waste your life arguing on social media. I’m sure you’ve accomplished so much in your short or, long existence on this earth.             I saw this tweet the other day while I was watching a “NikkiTutorials,” Youtube video. It was a picture of a girl wearing a great deal of makeup. Her eyebrows, contour, highlight, cat-eye, and liquid lipstick w

           I initially came to this coffee shop intending to read for my leadership class but, after a half an hour of consistent procrastination I’ve decided it’s not going to happen today. I really haven’t blogged in awhile now that I think about it. It’s been like a month. I basically packed all my stuff went home for half a second, came to Tallahassee for a week and then left to go home to escape a hurricane that ended up hitting the place I evacuated to. It’s fine, I’ve honestly come to terms with the way my life works at this point. I’m trying to think of a topic to write about and I’m truly at a loss. Actually wait I’ve thought of something.             This summer I sort of came to some conclusions about my life. I spent all this time last year getting over someone. A person who really affected me and not in a good kind of way. It was a situation that made me question myself for the first time in a long time. Obviously I’ve questioned myself before, I think that’s really wha

          There’s this house, it’s modest, one story, with a light green door. Small panes cut a semi-circle shaped window in the top of the wood. Opening the door you see a home. Pictures of a little girl are plastered across the walls, her in a ballerina costume, father-daughter photos, senior portraits, they all tell a story of the young woman who used to live there. Crossing the tiled floor you come to the dining room, a dark brown table sits there taking up a majority of the room. This is a table where so many things happened; arts and craft projects, IB essays were written here, tattoos were drawn up on this table, forever inked into skin the same way the memories were inked into our heads. Vibrant at first glance but slowly fading into blurred lines a barely discernible image             Sometimes we as people hold on to objects because we have nothing left to remember a person by. The once bright light, the vivid memories have dissipated with the passing of tim