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I lost Wolf on the morning of November 7th. I’ve been anxiously awaiting him to visit me in a dream ever since, though I knew it would take time- he was busy playing with peas and eating whatever he wanted in dog heaven.

I dreamt that Andy and I were at my parent’s old neighbors, Jess & Wes’s house. I’m not really sure what we were doing over there- I think they had a hot tub, we had some friends, maybe we were house-sitting. Doesn’t matter. We were going to head back to my parents/leave, and Andy said “let’s leave the dogs here for a few hours, Max is having a lot of fun” (and he was). I said Max could stay, but for some reason, I wanted to take Wolf. I remember saying I felt like I hadn’t seen him in a while. Then I called for Wolf to come, and he came running from the barn- the barn at my parents. Like maybe he had taken the path between the neighbors house and ours? Who knows with dreams. But I was standing on the deck at my parents and called for Wolf and he came running up the hill. He was maybe halfway, and I realized. I realized it was Wolf and that I had thought he was gone and I was so ecstatic. Too ecstatic- I woke up.

Wolf is buried right in front of the barn, on the far left side. That’s exactly where he came running from. I hope he will come visit me in a dream again, but god. It was such a hard day. It’s like, I thought I was making “progress” in moving on or being okay with it, but I know now that I’m not and I never will be. I’m just learning to cope. Seeing him and thinking he was still here was so heartbreaking. It was like I started at square one today, just realizing I’m still here without him.

Jess told me to record my dreams with him, so this isn’t very well thought out but I had to write it the day of. Hope there will be more.


It’s been four years, and I’m shocked I even remembered the password for this.

I’m on day three of being laid up in bed with a nasty bout of respiratory flu, and apparently am delirious enough with boredom to decide blogging is a good choice.

So much has happened since I last wrote, and it’s interesting to take a step back and really remember all of the accomplishments/set-backs I’ve encountered.

To recap:

  • I graduated from UMW with a Bachelor’s in English. My only friend that I ever made in college (KVCC) flew down for my party. I also had my first kegger.
  • I interned with the National Parks Service. Twice. This changed my mind completely about what my “dream job” is.
  • I got lost on Old Rag Mountain and had to spend the night up there. I rode in a helicopter basket to get out. I now take the Girl Scout motto “Be prepared” much more seriously. (I conquered Old Rag the following year on the anniversary date and decided I never need to hike that mountain again).
  • My Wolf baby turned 10.
  • I made another genuine best friend, who has a child, who I actually like. I always knew I would be a cool aunt.
  • I’ve become a pretty fuckin’ great cook. I really enjoy it, and I’m great at having “weird” recipes turn out well.
  • My baby brother got married at the end of last year, and I couldn’t be luckier than to have such a kind-hearted, beautiful sister-in-law.
  • I’m in a loving, happy, committed relationship with someone who is one of the best humans I’ve ever met. He is genuine, kind, hilarious, handsome, and loves dogs more than anyone I know. We are moving to Michigan together at the end of this month.


So, since I’m moving, I’ve had to pack up about half of my book collection already (normally I would have never done this so early, but Andy suggested we get a head start on painting my room and we spent the day off together painting, which I couldn’t say no to). The bad news is, I can’t remember the last time I actually read a whole book. The good news is, since packing them up, I’ve wanted to get my hands on at least a half dozen of them.

Now might be a good time to bring up the inevitable horror show: DT as president. I participated in the women’s march on Washington the day after his inauguration. My sign included a quote from Maya Angelou’s “Still I Rise”. This made me upset that I had already packed her book of poems, as it really called to me and I wanted the book in flesh to direct the quote from. Next, 1984 sold out on Amazon. Still, I’d rather re-read Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, to remind myself of Ol Rivara’s “exam” that she gave our Women’s Lit class one semester. Today, on the first day of Black History Month, DT made a remark insinuating that he had no idea who Frederick Douglass was. I have already packed his autobiography, as well. To use this reading drive, I’ve spent the morning going through old blogs, and then eventually picked up The Color Purple and got a few letters into that.

The other week, Andy and I watched the movie The Butler. Goddamn if that wasn’t the saddest thing I’ve ever seen; I started crying not even five minutes into the movie. The end, though, was heart-wrenching– and it wouldn’t have been, had I watched it 4 months ago. But seeing the excruciatingly slow progress that we made, reaching all the way to our first black president, and backtracking into the fucking shitstorm of ignorant redneck dystopia that we’re in now, well, it was just a lot to handle. I couldn’t even control myself, I ugly sobbed the last ten minutes.

It’s, funny, isn’t it. Dystopia used to be one of my favorite genres.

Now we’re living in it.

I’ve always loved dogs. My family has always been one that had one dog, and they were a member of our family. Cats were okay, at least as I was growing up. We had two barn cats that I loved dearly. They were smart enough to come in the house yet not need a litter box; they would just go back to the sliding door when they wanted outside. Indoor cats are fucking repulsive (their litterboxes are, rather). Also, cats are selfish assholes. They stick their butthole in your face, they think their disgusting poop paws belong on the counter, and once my friend’s cat put its entire head in my drinking glass, to get some water. So rude.

Anyway, I’m a dog person. So when I was on spring break in Virginia visiting Jess and my mom called me to say that she had just gotten two Australian Shepherds, well, I almost died of jealousy. Luckily things worked out where I got one of them– though I’m not sure how, now that I think about it.

My first dog, one of the said Aussies, is a 5 (almost 6) year old named Wolfgang. Wolfie, or Wolf, for short. He’s named for Mozart, which was our first bond. The second is that we both have eyebrow scars. He is the nosiest motherfucker on this planet, obsessed with food, a complete asshole when anyone knocks at the door/enters the house– but I love him as though (because he is) my own child. As I write this, he lays about 6 inches away from me, red-eyed and adoring as ever. There are four things in this world that Wolf loves, in this order: food, me, car rides, and laying upside down. 

He grew up in a kennel, and didn’t really know how to play with other dogs, or really do any dog things. The first 8 months that I had him, there were no other pets (save two asshole cats), so his only form of playing was with me. When I came to VA, I moved in with my best friend and her dog, Juliet. Wolf & J-bone became fast friends, and as they learned to play together I felt (and still feel like) a proud mother. They are the most adorable thing on this planet. Other firsts include first squirrel chase, first time sticking his head out the car window, and first time almost fetching a tennis ball (which, btw, was today). 

Though he’s not the brightest crayon in the box by any means, he can sit, lay, stay, wait, and shake. Fuck. Isn’t that about all you can ask for? On top of that, he’s happy to see me every single day. Shit, if I go out and get the mail for 30 seconds, he’s happy when I get back. In all seriousness, I can’t imagine a love any better than that (as much as it can piss me off once in a while). 


This could maybe be tied in with how much I hate kids/don’t want any/despise the notion of motherhood. Taste of irony. -_-

Since starting college, I’ve loved school. I started at KVCC as a Liberal Arts major, and quickly switched it to English after my Eng 110 class with Ol Rivara. Though I often complain about classes/homework or just procrastinate, there is nothing I love more than learning, reading, analyzing and breathing literature (recently extending interest into subjects in relation to women’s studies). After exhausting community college, I moved to Virginia, getting accepted to UMW and finally belonging to an English Department. It hasn’t been as easy to make friends as I had hoped, but I’m (sort-of) working on it, and I’ve learned a lot in my first semester here (There’s something about English majors that’s a bit pretentious, and some just take it to the next level. “I’m writing a book…” No. If you’re actually writing a book, that’s fucking fantastic; however, I thought there was an unwritten rule where you DON’T TALK ABOUT IT OUT LOUD because you sound like a jerk off douchebag. Christ). Being a student is the best occupation that there is. If I could do anything, I would go to school forever. Truly. Once, at KVCC, in my Brit Lit class, there was an 80+ year old man student. Actually taking the course, too, not just auditing. He had multiple bachelor’s degrees, and multiple grandchildren, but he was back just to learn more. That is the most impressive thing that there is, in my opinion. To never, ever grow tired of learning, and to always be craving more information. I fully intend to be going to school until I’m 27, at minimum. And I’m okay with that.


No, really. This is garbage.

$9722 for lifelong birth control.

$9344 for a full hysterectomy.


#1 Goal for 2013: Continue my 4 month trend of not stepping foot/purchasing anything from a Walmart. Go big or go home.

My second semester of university starts tomorrow. I have no feelings on it at this point, although I just received my first syllabus via email, and it requested that I have an entire book read before coming to class on Tuesday. Who the fuck does this lady think she is? It’s my goddamn Christmas break. I’m supposed to still be reading for fun. -_-

J and Llama are on a cruise; have been since Tuesday. The nights alone in the apartment have been a little depressing. At first, I wondered how I had ever thought I could live alone. I almost eat more when they’re gone, out of sheer boredom. Then, I realized that I’d have less of a drinking problem if I lived alone. I hate the thought of being hungover, so I’m more conscious of my intake when just having a night in with a bottle of wine. Anyway, they get back tomorrow. I think this time here has been good for me, though. Just a week to catch up on tv, sleep in, and lay on the couch.

On a separate note, I’ve been back to work, picking up a few shifts this week for extra $. The return has been better than I expected; a handful of tables complimenting me on excellent service, one or two even telling the management. One woman a few nights ago caught me off guard, asking “How long have you been doing this?” I fell out of my smiling waitress facade in a split second, becoming locked up and stuttering awkwardly. “You…you mean working here? What?” And she replied with “Well, yes. You seem to know what you’re doing, and you do it very well.” Luckily they still left me a $25 tip. The truth is, my reaction was to be insulted. I was insulted. It was very similar to the scene from Waiting, where hombre hands Justin Long’s character his business card–except, I guess, the opposite. I’m doing this to pay for my bills, my drinking habit, and my school books. If you want to commend me for my service to your table, by all means, go for it. But to tell me I do my job well? Get the fuck out of here. I’m destined for bigger and better things than bringing you your fucking cheese fries, asshole.

I don’t understand what I’m supposed to write about. There is nothing. No one wants to hear another story about white girl problems– myself included. But, I’m not creative/advanced enough to be able to change my stories into someone else’s. 

I’m not a recovering drug addict; I haven’t popped out any kids. I’m fucking 22 years old, still don’t have a bachelor’s degree, and if I do have a drinking problem, I’m in denial about it. Also I’m poor and wait tables, but single moms have laid claim on writing that story.

There is nothing. And the few things I do have, the stories that have fucked me up the most, those don’t deserve to define me. I don’t want to let that be the only thing traumatic or powerful enough to write about, because I’ve moved on. Those memories don’t own me anymore.