personal

FINALLY

Hello, fuckweasels.

The thing happened… finally… after two years of planning. Jason and I had our wedding.

& it was beautiful.

Here, have some wedding photos!

jaymimimemeus

Our photographer fucking killed it, please, check him out. My family was amazing and my sister and brother-in-law (the MOH and Best Man) made so many things possible. So many amazing people made this day possible and the only real speech I’m going to give is about my family, friends, and vendors. If you’re reading this, thank you thank you T H A N K Y O U 

If you’re a wedding person and want to see more, here’s a link to our video, done by my talented coworker, Sarina.

Chandler & Jason Wedding

What I’m actually going to write about today is marriage, you know, the thing that binds us – for better or for worse.

Marriage is hard. There will be no sugar coating here. Marriage can suck. Before you even think about thinking something along the lines of “You’ve been married less than a week! What do you know, you entitled millennial?” kindly remember that I have been with my fuckweasel for almost 6 years. We have joint bank accounts, we share car insurance, we’re each others’ emergency contacts. We’ve been doing this shit for days. 

So, marriage is hard. Marriage is also a lot of angry conversations, eye rolling, “whatever”s, frustration, and fear. If you couldn’t already guess, I am not fantastic at being a sweet, ladylike housewife. It has taken us a long time to figure out our relationship, let alone for me to figure out how to be a “girlfriend”, let alone a life partner. Jason, for all his stubbornness and man-splaining,  is the best husband I could ever ask for. He complements me in ways that I didn’t know were possible. My brother gave a speech at our wedding that brought me to tears because it was so kind, so raw, and so perfect, but it has been a while since I’ve seen our relationship through that lens.  I see us as two awkward kids just trying to make it. When you’ve been together for so long, the things that are important seem so natural. Jason supporting me through every obscure hobby and adventure is amazing but natural. Me cooking and doing the housework is a lot of time and energy spent… but it comes naturally.

I never thought I would be married at 22. I’m edgy and sarcastic and kind of a dick. I never thought I would buy a car or have my own apartment, either. Everything feels incredibly surreal – like magic has been woven into the tapestry of my life. We got back into a normal routine today. I dropped the fur baby off at her Papa’s, went and got our groceries, and unboxed all of our new kitchen tools. Another thing: I have a fully functional kitchen now and it feels like I am an entirely new person. I should send my thank-you notes out with coupons for my eternal servitude attached because that’s how fucking grateful we are. It feels like all the pieces of who I am and who I was supposed to be have settled gracefully into my chest.

Marriage with mental illness is hard.

Being married to a deputy is hard.

Although, I am a fighter. I will fight for him until my heart stops and my lungs are empty because God, I love him. He amazes me every day. I’ll fight through my anxiety and my frozen sadness for him. I’ll fight through sleepless nights and empty beds and whatever I have to for him to come home.  I’ll learn how to be the best wife that I am capable of being, I will memorize a thousand recipes, make a million to-do lists if it means that things run smoother. I’ll put my pride aside and quell my anger. I may never give up my driving habits or my impulsive ways, but he calms the storm inside me regardless.

I can now return to reading and baking and driving to Tahoe for no other reasons than to take pictures and quench my need for blacktop. The apartment is saged, the first taste of autumn has arrived. I feel whole.

Marriage isn’t for everyone and I never thought it would be for me; yet, here we are, my threads all untangled and finally at peace.

That’s all there is,

The Book Witch

Also, I have an amazing recipe for skillet salmon with bell peppers. You know where to find me.

 

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Sunday Ramblings

So, I’m finally crawling out of the despair pit that was my Post-Raven Cycle Reading Slump. I’m still completely over the moon with that series – it was a life changer but I’m easing my way back into other literature. I read Aristotle and Dante Discover The Secrets of the Universe and was pleasantly surprised with how much I liked it. Then I tried a contemporary romance and that was a mistake, so I gave it to a friend and moved onto Me, Earl & The Dying Girl which gives me a sneaking suspicion that I, too, might die at the end. I’m also listening to Between the Devil and The Deep Blue Sea and also enjoying it quite a bit.

On an unrelated note, I strongly recommend listening to podcasts about subjects that you enjoy if you ever feel lost, they’ll help you rediscover your love for “stuff”

On a semi-unrelated note, here are some updates about my life:

  • I’m coloring my hair to black in a couple weeks. I had a black fo-hawk a couple years ago and I loved the color but the length was a bit much. Trying to keep up with my growth right now is a bitch, so I’m going to nix that problem right in the roots. (That WAS a hair pun, you’re welcome)
  •  I have an appointment to get my thestral tattoo in a couple weeks and I’ll also be adding to my fingers; my tarot symbols didn’t take very well to my skin but my artist is the most amazing human ever and I have no doubt that she’ll be able to fix that.
  • I may be upgrading my camera! Seriously, I’m so excited. I did not expect to love photography this much. I also plan on giving my sister my Kodak, in the event of said upgrade, because she loves taking pictures and it would be nice to have a buddy.
  • I have been agonizing over my Imagine Dragons tattoo. Combining five songs into a single bicep-sized image is basically torture. I was stoked when I finally created this masterpiece on my computer and have thus decided to have thousands of tiny needles engrave it on my skin. imgine dragons
  • Last but not least: I ordered a DNA tracing kit in order to find out more about my personal heritage. That’s what this particular segment of my odd ramblings is going to focus on: family.

You know the word: family. Familia. Teaghlaigh. Семейный

It’s defined as all “descendants of a common ancestor”.

My mom is adopted so I don’t know anything about my ancestors. The fact that she was adopted has no relevance to my life other than that. My Papa and Mimi taught me that we chose our own family, and I’ve stuck to that doctrine throughout my whole life. I am closer to and more loved by people who aren’t even in the same genetic pool as I than some people that I share blood with. But, more on that later. The moral of the story is that my mom was so loved that my grandparents chose her to be their child. I share no blood with those same grandparents and yet, I share their hearts.

Let’s talk about my dad.

Our last name is “Primak”, which is a very Russian rooted word. So, we know that much. I go by “Hayden” because I feel as though an alias is something I was born to have and middle names can totally count for an alias, right?

Fucking right.

My dad…

dado

(The resemblance between us is uncanny, by the way)

My dad was in the middle of building a student union at my University when I was much younger. He was one of the upper dudes who told other dudes how to do math-y shit and how to not be idiots. My dad, for lack of better terms, is not an idiot. I keep thinking about this particular time period because there’s a memory that has lodged itself so far into my brain that I have theorized it would take some serious sort of accident to dislodge it. My dad took me to the University library. It was different than it was now, but I remember two things:

  1. I was scared shitless. These college kids were tall and smart as fuck and I was an awkward Catholic school kid. I imagined every one of them looked at me with disgust and years of wisdom beyond mine. Little did I know that they were all dying internally and had I paid better attention, at least 26% were in pajamas and 38% were hungover.
  2. My dad doesn’t have a lot of words to say. He’s one of those individuals who doesn’t fill your life with meaningless bullshit if he can help it. As a child, I did not understand that. I grew up around Italians and Italians are the loudest breed of human beings who love (I say this with as much endearing fondness as I can) meaningless bullshit. Today, I very much understand that my dad offering me admittance to this library of scholars was his way of saying “I see you reading, and I see your passion for it.” I had been put down for my love of books for so many years that this realization was a bucket of ice water to my brain.

Long story short, he’s someone that I do happen to have a blood relation with, and who I am grateful to have a blood relation with. My dad is the reason I have a caffeine dependence. I look for him tucked in corners of my town, in cafes, on Lander St, in the stars. Jason, bless him, can now take one look at my face, see the tears in my eyes, and know that I am about to say “My dad and I always came here” or “This is something my dad would love”.  I don’t have those moments as often with my Mimi, because she follows me in my grief, in my sorrow. She does not bind herself to places like the living but wraps her absence around my wrist like a leash. I always thought “I am not like the people I come from” and I will be the first to tell you, as an adult, how wrong I was. You believe yourself to be an individual completely separate from your paternal or maternal influences but I am at least 48.5% Lou Primak. My dad is the smell of really fucking good coffee and pine trees. He’s old leather briefcases and the ridges of a baseball glove. He’s learning to ride a bike and the first time I went to Seattle. My dad is a winter child, like me.

I have a few moms at the moment, so let me talk about that really quick. I have my biological mom, Violet. I have my stepmom, Heather. I have my god-mom, Tonya. I have other moms who have picked me up along the way, but these ones are the most prevalent in my everyday understanding of the world. My Mimi was also my mom but she’s gone now and crying was not the point of this post. Obviously, you know I’m blood-related to Violet so let’s discuss Heather and Tonya because they are prime examples of “The blood of the covenant”

Heather is my dad’s wife. They got married when I was, like, nine or ten. They gave me a brother –  Jackson, who looks like me in dude form and has more energy in his pinky finger than I do in my whole body.

Heather is autumn leaves, a river in the distance, a home cooked meal when you’ve been living off of Ramen. Heather is an ocean of creative energy, a new project, a summertime nap. She’s the moment when the season changes to autumn, the brief seconds between “then” and “now”. She is my kindred spirit, the whole reason I got into blogging and cooking and photography and crafting. She’s the driving force behind my ingenuity. She’s my model introvert; she showed me that being comfortable with yourself is what really makes us unique. So many people lack the ability to sit with themselves for an hour before they begin to hate it. I look at kids who have stepparents that they feel bitter towards or dislike and I can’t even begin to tell you how ignorant I am on that topic. I had someone who helped me through so many difficult areas of my life and still put up with my shit, even though she had no obligation to do so.

It’s one of those phenomena where you look at your life under a microscope and can say “Holy shit, thank you”

Tonya is my god-mother which means, if you haven’t a clue about Catholicism, that if everyone died, she would be my new mom. She has actually said at one point “If everyone dies, I get to be your new mom. I mean, I am your mom. But this would be, like legally. It’s on papers at the lawyer’s office”. She’s also said things like “If I ever heard someone talking to you like that, I would spider-monkey over the counter and rip their throat out.”

Tonya was my spirit guide in another life (more on that later) and she probably gave birth to me in another one, too. She’s a fucking badass and I feel quite a bit better when I’m in her presence. She has that calming, “All is well, child. I’ll fuck a bitch up” vibe going for her. Tonya is rose quartz on a living room table. She’s a cone of incense and smudging your home with sage. She’s a wildfire, a hurricane of kindness and honesty. She’s a Pride flag, bright and burning. She’s a tattoo needle, a patch sewn into your heart. She’s a leather jacket and a Johnny Cash shirt. I am not blood-related to Tonya, her dad was a firefighter with my Papa, but I would never be able to put a tangible amount on how much I love her.

In short, I am not doing a DNA test to find my genetic relatives. You know why? Cause fuck that. know who my family is. I refer to myself constantly as a “walking contradiction of impulsivity and contemplation” meaning I’m the type of person who moves on a whim but budgets for it, the type who decides to dye her hair black but waits a month, the kind who suddenly realizes that they need a motorcycle but sets up a piggy bank for it, the kind who thinks “I need a new tattoo” over twenty times a day but spends more time designing them than getting them. The kind who says “Fuck it, I’m doing a DNA test” but holds off for five weeks.

I am a pretty big believer in reincarnation. In fact, I would probably say that it encompasses most of my thoughts on the afterlife.  I don’t actually believe in an afterlife but I think most people are recycled into new things. I do, however, think that some of us don’t get more chances. Like, when Hitler died they were like “Bro, what the fuck? We were gonna make you a sunfish or some dumb shit so you could learn but you just kept going?! We’re gonna have to scrap you, this energy can’t go anywhere else. You piece of shit, what the fuck. We were able to recycle Pontius Pilate for fucks sake”

So, in my search of my DNA, I’m hoping to find pieces of me scattered amongst the globe. I’m hoping to put them together and maybe resurrect the story of my lungs, my hair, my eyes.

That’s all there is,

Carry on,

The Book Witch

 

 

 

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A Narrative; A Character Study

I picked my sister up in the Camry after work. I’ve preferred the Camry as of late because I have more control and more control equates to going faster. It’s not like driving the Explorer, which is all weight and no fluidity. There’s nothing gratuitous about driving a tank. We drove on auto-pilot to our restaurant, to our table – my camera loaded in the back, the weight of feeling everything at once on my shoulders. I had a beer with my lunch while we discussed Camaros and court cases. I had every intention of only going so far out of town that the fresh air would loosen the grip on my lungs. Breathing has been a labor of love the last couple of weeks; staying conscious has been accompanied by nausea and rage. The universe had other plans and I found myself bringing the accelerator to ninety as we careened around the snow-heavy mountainsides. Sometimes you go on a spontaneous adventure – sometimes you lie out of a ticket. Sometimes you talk about books and husbands but the words you need find themselves stuck between your teeth.

I wouldn’t tell her that the only religious experiences that I’ve had revolved around muscle cars, tattoos, and nicotine. The phrase “he was baptized under a stream of self-sacrifice and bare tree limbs but I see a sinner in the mirror when I tie up my hair” would not form itself without leaving the shadow of bitterness behind. I so desperately wanted to tell her that he had learned to love a god that had dragged me through embers and the only worship that I understand is self-destruction. I still have the hole in my palm where I had discovered how to turn their addictions into barbed wire while he brushed them away like sand. I wanted to tell her that he was the color of pine – a source of comfort and solidity – whose branches I could cling onto when the world tipped on its axis. I didn’t tell her that I was the color of a bruise blooming under tired skin, a storm of salt water and shards of stained glass. I would never vocalize that I felt as if smoke and ink replaced vital parts in me, my bones and blood had been insubstantial for longer than I could remember. The world was quieter when I was far away, under the tattoo needle, going too fast. I need substances to stay awake, substances to fall asleep… my own haunted house. I am a fragment of a constellation; the aftershock of a thunderstorm. I am petrified of heights but graveyards make me feel whole. I have bloodied my knuckles intentionally more times than I can count and he has always brought peace to any environment. He is the saved turned savior and I wear a crown of thorns to all my affairs. 

My sister knows about anger. She knows the walk that I make from driver seat to front porch is stained with grief. She knows that when I hear the sound of gravel under my boots that the years are soaking through to my skin and I’m imagining the slick crunching noises are actually femurs and scapulae. She knows of the night terrors that follow me around and the stories I read to make them subside. She knows that I wear oceans inside my veins and frost bite under my nails. 

I do not have to say it but 

she knows.

She always 

knows. 

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How We Find Ourselves In Books

For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why I was so drawn to the characters in the Raven Cycle series, especially Ronan or Kavinsky. They’re so contradictory and prickly, what could I possibly see in them, especially Ronan? 

Well, my friends, the mystery is solved: it’s because I, small and hateful angry bean, AM RONAN LYNCH. 

For the love of fuck, look at this shit!

ronan

I dress like that on accident, man! That is an actual face that I make at other human beings. (I’m the one on the left, by the way. I know some of you probably didn’t know that)

How many times have we fallen in love with a book or a series because we resonate so closely with the characters? I’ve been devoured by these books, turned completely inside out, chewed up, and spit back out. It’s like looking into a mirror and seeing yourself in typewriter font.

For example, here is the List of Things That I Have In Common With Ronan Lynch Because I Need More Reasons To Stay Awake At Night 

  • trust fund babies
  • literally, we’re just privileged assholes with no verbal filters
  • my birthday falls on St. Patricks’ Day aka the Irish Day; Ronan is Irish af
  • taste in music that everyone fucking hates
  • don’t talk to us when we have headphones on, don’t touch our tattoos
  • give us a something fast and we’re happy
  • or, give us music and alcohol and we’ll be restless but better
  • we both lost parents and turned into bitter douche canoes
  • we will both end your life if you fuck with our baby brothers
  • or our friends
  • fucking with my friends is a sure-fire way to get your life ended
  • wear black and keep our resting bitch faces on point but are really full of feelings
  • a LOT of feelings
  • both think our boyfriends are some sort of godlike angel when in reality we are dating huge nerds
  • super sensitive to all things. don’t deny that Ronan Lynch is a sensitive mofo, he literally won’t let Gansey boy make other friends
  • both of us have had Kavinskys in our lives; we ended up not being with them because they were toxic af and would’ve ruined our shit
  • love our dads very much
  • treat our pets like children
  • NIGHT TERRROOORS
  • like no friends but really fond of the ones we have
  • beings of rage and love
  • raised on a farm
  • raised Catholic AF
  • hates most things, including ourselves
  • is either dropping the F-bomb, flipping you off or being sarcastic
  • actual trophy wives
  • would rather die than hurt someone we love
  • PTSD, depression, and anxiety up the wazooo

There’s more, a lot more, but that’s the general gist of my argument. We fall so hard for these characters because we see ourselves in them. We love them when we cannot love our own souls. They are catalysts to the breaking of our hearts and the slow, aching awareness that brings us back to wholeness. The characters we love are constellations in the galaxies that reside in our bones.

I am so elated to be made up of these beings, these people that I will never meet. Their presence forces me to stop and remember my gushing affection or them and that reminds me to love myself, as well. The cycle is continuous and beautiful and my gratitude for the writers who penned the puzzle pieces of who I am is infinite.

I did actually pick up reading again – my book hangover has subsided a bit. I’m currently listening to We Are Okay by Nina LaCour and reading The Young Wives Club by Julie Pennel. I heard that you kind of need to force yourself to read again and that it really helps to pick something in a completely different genre. So, I guess I’ll read other books until my Dream Theif trilogy arrives. I GUESS.

In the meantime, I have my gorgeous new tarot cards, drawn by my Scorpio soulmate Maggie Stiefvater herself to work with. My favorite part of these cards is the accompanying book that comes with them – the translations are witty as hell. Its hard to find cards with translations that you actually resonate with! I swear this is a problem in the cartomancy community!

tarot.jpg

I actually had dreams about ghosts and my cousin last night but the best part was that she greeted me with a Jersey accent, mimicking my problematic son Joseph Kavinsky, and said “DICK GANNNSSSSAAAAAY THE THIRD!!”. It was such a calming sensation, hearing a 17-year-old drug  Bulgarian  drug addict mobster’s voice come out of my 21-year-old, and very female, cousin’s voice box. I’m not kidding, I woke up and I was like “So this is how the pieces fall together”

I hope everyone has a book character that they love so much it causes them physical pain. I know that I have several, because life is a fucking nightmare. 

That’s all there is,

Carry on

The Book Witch

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Some Thoughts on Soulmates

“People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life.

A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave.

A soul mates purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life, then introduce you to your spiritual master…” – Elizabeth Gilbert

As you can tell, I read a lot. I’ve thumbed through the pages of books that have characters in them who claim to be “soulmates” and, to be honest, I hate that fucking word. I do! I think its a horrible, limited way of describing your love for someone. I think people say soulmates because they lack a better term for it. Maybe they’re trying to say “My soul was at peace when I met them” or “Our eyes locked and I saw myself in the depths” or “I have never loved anything this monumentally”

millie

I am so fortunate to have more than one soulmate, and though it sounds hypocritical, I say “soulmate” because I lack the vocabulary to explain how I feel. I never met a romantic soulmate of mine and I doubt I ever will. I had a couple soulmates who happen to be men and we fucked everything up by trying to be more. I miss them, every day. I miss how easy it was to talk to them before we “dated” and now that we’ve been inevitably together and gone separate ways, I know that I can never have them back in the way that I did. I don’t know if that’s selfish but I think it might be. I just wish I still had their friendship without all the strange moments of “What are we?”

I have other soulmates. I have a best friend who appreciates that I was probably supposed to be a mix of Hermione and Luna but someone decided I’d have more fun as a hybrid of Bellatrix Lestrange and Remus Lupin. It’s been great, thanks.  I work with a girl who makes my heart feel calm whenever I see her. I work with girls who challenge me and understand me and push me. They are all my soulmates. The ones who push me radiate violet, and if I believed in the strings of fate, I think heavy, purple cords would connect us. I’ve had soulmates who broke my heart and left me bleeding all kinds of colors. They remind me of small cherry threads that I will have to cut someday to fully heal. I can feel the cracks in my chest that they left as if they were palpable. I have soulmates that I don’t speak to, out of respect for myself. I have soulmates that I have nightmares of running into and wake up with ghosts of tears on my face.

I have never done things halfway – especially love. As someone who is drained by social interaction and needs to pick her accomplices very carefully, I am either 100% invested in you, or not at all. Don’t come into my life with the intention of giving minimal effort; I carry scissors with me at all times and I will cut the ties that bind us before you knew they were there.

I can recognize my soulmates by one thing: I don’t have to dumb myself down for them. That is the only way that I’ve learned to survive in a world that rejects intelligent women: deny, deny, deny that you are one. I don’t mean to sound egotistical, but I am a woman of high intelligence and survival instincts like you wouldn’t believe. I know that to keep myself out of trouble, I stay cute and sweet and then destroy if I am crossed. My soulmates have never made me doubt my worth, have never made me question my intelligence. They’ve made me question my views, my priorities, and my footing – but never the things that come intrinsically to who I am.

megansammy

I’ve read so many books where the narrator has said that the person felt like nothing else mattered after meeting this one person, that their lives improved tenfold. I am here to tell you that soulmates are not some shiny package containing the answers to our questions. They are the shakers, the movers, the destroyers of our lives. You will meet them on coffee dates and some of them will only be available for late-night adventures. You’ll find that at least one will hate your taste in music or will be disgusted with how you prepare your tea. They will insert themselves into the marrow of your bones and you will wonder how you were missing such a vital piece all along. I have a soulmate who is three years old and has taught me more about understanding and empathy than anyone else I have known. I had a soulmate die and take half of me with her. They are not here to make things perfect, they are here to show you that life is so much better when it’s messy.

Carry on,

The Book Witch

 

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A Prayer for 2017

We’ve talked about this, I’m not much of a religious person. I do, however, sometimes say things aloud to the universe in hopes that they catch something. I say riddles, odd descriptions, things like: Hello, I enjoy coffee and baths and books. I have been told that I have a calming presence but that can mean a cup of chamomile tea or a shot of whiskey in the dark. My friend once said that I’m one of the only people who understand the way she speaks, in tongues and metaphors. I thought that was such an astounding sentence because who couldn’t use a bit of understanding in their lives? Especially right now. We’re so busy screaming at each other to be heard that we forgot how to listen. We forgot how to lend a copy of our favorite book in hopes that people could see glimmers of our souls tucked inside the pages. We forgot to observe the people around us in hopes of memorizing who they are when they think that no one is looking. We’re too busy trying to fit each other into little boxes and then attempting to change our loved ones when we don’t like the boxes that they fit in. We’re so full of anger and we’re so lost. Anger can be a beautiful component of our existence and so is being perfectly off the beaten path. It’s important to stop and remember why we’re so angry. This is a lot, coming from a tiny ball of rage and a walking storm, to be looking out amongst a sea of people and thinking “Why are they so hateful?” 

I throw this to the universe in the hopes that it’s caught by someone or something. I pray that we remember to feel anger for the right reasons. Stop being angry because your neighbor is different than you, start being angry because your soul is being chained. Stop being angry because you have all this time, an unknown variable, that you’ve chosen to live in a way you’re not proud of. Start being angry because there are people who were taken before they reaized where the numbers stopped. It’s taken me a long time to learn that we have our own hearts and lungs and minds – that we can not decide how much someone is hurting because we assume they are like us, with identical atriums and lobes. 

Teach your kids to be happy over a well-loved novel; a book is not the same without folded pages and pencil marks and we are not the same without the constellations of scars on our bodies. Share a cup of coffee with a friend, be silent, and remember. Acknowledge their hurt, be angry because someone broke them, not because you will never understand their pain.

Enjoy your time, I pray that everyone who reads this can stop and enjoy five minutes – to relive the moments that made them feel alive again. 

Carry on,

The Book Witch 

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An Introvert’s Insight Into Toxic Influences

So, learning how to use a DSLR camera is a fucking nightmare. I got some reading material to try and clarify some things but it looks like the mostly focus on Nikon and Canon…and I’m a proud Kodak owner. 

In addition, I haven’t gotten any positive news about my laptop so my nerves are a little frayed. On a brighter note, my fiancé started his new career yesterday. We have some bills to pay and some wedding costs to manage and then (hopefully) we will be able to move. I’m dying to have my own space and a push in the right direction is something we definitely need.

I was really excited this morning because I woke up, went to the gym, showered, and then had a personalized makeup lesson from one of the girls at my second job. Makeup is one of those daily routines that really empowers me.

Here’s the finished look:


In other news, I came across a few quotes recently that really resonated with me. The first one was:

You should give a fuck. You really should, but only about things that set your soul on fire. Save your fucks for magical shit.

and then this one, a quote about INTJ’s that I felt deep in my soul:

We love few people profoundly instead of several people sparingly.

and, finally:

Life is too short for bad books, decaf coffee, and toxic people.

I befriended my first toxic person in middle school, and much like I collect Virgos, I’ve been attracting them ever since. When I began this friendship, I had already been dubbed the “Harry Potter girl” and the “fastest reader” in my class of thirty-six students. I was strange and wall-flowerish and too sarcastic for my age. I rejected most of the religious readings and, above all, hated being separated from my books. For someone who had always been comfortable in my own skin, it was surprising how fast my friend was able to make me hate myself- I was called fat and emotional and weird. Suddenly, I wasn’t as at home in the silence of solitude or as in-love with the quirt nooks of my home. I needed to be reassured that my presence was important, desired. I didn’t care about any of this; I had found a friend! A friend with similar interests, as well!

Years passed before I reclaimed my self worth. After my first toxic influence, I continued to allow toxic people into mt life – welcoming their personal issues as my own – until recently. I cut the ties, fishing wire and red strings, holding me to the toxic people in my life. Re- learning to enjoy my own company was much more rewarding than being a doormat.

I’m not sure what it’s like for extroverts to have toxic influences in their lives, I have never been an extrovert. Even in the days that I spent covered in sunshine and chlorine, I craved solitude. I can tell you, however, how important it is for introverts to let go of negative people. Allowing toxicity into our lives is consenting to the idea that we aren’t worth more than their opinions. It’s letting go of Friday nights at home, with our hobbies and our thoughts, to go be with someone who will eventually turn us against ourselves. It’s saying
“I don’t love you, the bones that form my foundation and the mind that dwells inside, to keep you safe from voluntary harm”. It sounds harsh but it’s true; every time I’ve told someone “That friend doesn’t treat you with love”, I’ve watched the fear in their eyes so often that I feel it as my own. You shouldn’t fear cutting ties with someone, but that’s what happens with toxic humans – they inject themselves into our veins and take root in our hearts; they poison our blood with false promises and their own victimization.

I know lovely people in my life that I wish would cut ties with their toxic friends. I know it’s hard, I have toxic people in my family tree that I have no hope for severing, but I have learned to stand my ground and allow myself to create considerable distance.  I know people who light up my world that are friends with people who want to control them or change them or turn them into something that they aren’t.

If you come away from this post with anything, I hope you understand that you can’t fully love the right people or trust healthy relationships until you let go of the wrong ones.

May you always know your worth & let your truth shine,

The Book Witch

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