Yes

Anything else?

Yes, only I'm not sure how to articulate what I want to say.

The school year has dragged on and flew by at the same time. How is that even possible? But, it is, and now it's Sunday and school ends this week.

Next year, I'll be a senior. I've heard that senior year is the best, but all I can say is that I hope it's better than junior year.

I won't miss much from this year.

I'll miss CW, and photography, and English class with my friends. But, other than that? Not much. I'll be in CW2, I'll still take pictures, and I'll see my friends again. So, it doesn't matter, does it?

This class was one of the only things that made this year suck a little bit less. Thanks, Nelson. And that last day almost made me start crying and I'm not even a senior, for goodness sake. Goodbyes make me emotional.

But it's not goodbye, it's see you later. See you next year, maybe, or see you in ten years when we run into each other at the grocery store, when we both have six kids and a busy schedule, when we stop being afraid of the future and embrace it. I hope I'll see all of you later.

Thanks for being in this class. Thanks for accepting me and not laughing (too hard) at me, and thanks for being my friends. It means more than you'll ever know.

Hannah, thanks for your note in class. It made me smile.

Madi, thanks for being you. You're fantastic.

Everybody else- thanks for being you.

See you later.

what does the heart say

dear c,
        figure out your life. you only have a year left, you know.

one year left.

is that enough time to do everything you've always wanted to do?

that's up to you.

you can't keep procrastinating forever, as much as we both know you'd like to.

so, don't.

and don't forget about me, either.

love,
your heart

Blue Ticket(s)

What are your found dreams?

Nostalgic

I remember the moment I fell in love.

I remember the moment I thought I didn't care anymore.

I also remember the moment when I was reminded why I loved him in the first place.

Is it bad to sometimes wish that I didn't remember? That I could forget everything? Sometimes, I want to. It would be a lot less painful if this had never happened, if I didn't have to watch him leave and if I didn't keep checking my phone to see if he texted me back yet.

But this isn't meant to be a sad post, is it?

I have happy memories, too. Memories of laughing and teasing and him calling me beautiful. I have memories of watching Disney movies and laughing until I thought I was going to throw up, and I remember the happiness I felt when he told me we should hang out sometime.

So, yeah. It's almost ironic that I'm writing this post today, because this is a very nostalgic day. But that's not always a bad thing, right? Some days are just like that.

Some days, it's okay to remember.

Story time

I believe in ghosts.

I believe in the ghosts of things that once were, and that will be, and that are still here, but not quite.

Most of you might not know that I work at a retirement home- Ashford/Highland Glen. (Shoutout to Sabrina. :))

Most of you might not know that I spend my work shifts taking care of people that can't quite care for themselves, and that even though it's one of the hardest things I'll ever do, it's also one of the most rewarding. I work in a memory care unit, and, as such, I work with people that are in any stage of Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, or any age-induced mental impairment.

Most of you might not know that these people are the purest and sweetest souls that I've ever had the opportunity to meet.

They're also the reason that I believe in ghosts.

I've held the hand of a dying woman before, and I held her hand after she had passed, and told her that I love her. (Present tense.)

And the story I want to tell is funny, but it also makes me think- which is the best quality of a story, in my opinion.

So, a little background. On a normal day, I start work at 2:30, meaning I go straight from school, and I usually don't get home until around 11:00 at night. The shifts are long, and tiring, and by 9:30, I usually just want to cry. But that's cool.

On one particular night, around 10:00, we were all exhausted and ready to go home, when our pagers started going off- letting us know that there was a call light going off. This was a normal occurs nice, and I stood up to answer it, but that's when I noticed that it was coming from an empty room- one who's occupant had passed away a few weeks early. Weird.

The woman who had lived in that room was one of the residents I was closest to. She was tiny, weighing only around 60 pounds when she died, but her mind was surprisingly clear, and I loved talking to her. Needless to say, it freaked me out that an alarm was going off from her room.

I forced my coworker to come with me, and we walked down the hall to her room, with our iPhone flashlights on, and saw a figure in the corner of my room. I literally almost peed my pants, man. We were both silent until we turned on the light and saw one of our other residents standing in the corner, tugging on the call light. She was a wanderer, and it was common to find her in somebody else's room, but this one really freaked us out. Imagine walking into a pitch black room and seeing somebody in the corner... Yeah. Bad night.

But it made me think. For those of you that don't have experience with Alzheimer's, it's a destroying disease. It turns healthy people into people with hardly any recollection of their surroundings or even their family. And it's heartbreaking. Their former selves are like ghosts, and as sad as it is, some of the people I work with are no longer who they used to be, even in the slightest. That's why it's hard for their families to visit them- because it isn't truly their mom, or their dad, it's a ghost. So, yeah. I believe in ghosts. Maybe not physical, literal ghosts, but the ghosts of who people once were, and the ghosts that are now occupying their bodies, only a trace of who they used to be remaining.

If you knew me

If you truly knew me, you'd know that I hate being 'the girl that always sits in the same spot, the girl that doesn't share much and doesn't talk much', but I'm too afraid to change it. 

If you knew me, you'd know that I wish, more than anything, that I wasn't one of the five juniors in our class- that I wish I was a senior. That I wish I could grow up and leave and get out and hopefully, not visit Utah County any more than I need to.

If you knew me, you'd know that I love pineapple ice cream and Mary Higgins Clark's books and boybands and this class, even though I might not show it.

You'd know that I like instrumental music and risque music and music that makes me feel something. You'd know that I've played piano for almost ten years, and for about eight of those years, I wanted to quit more than anything, and I'm just now starting to appreciate the talent. You'd know that I play music in my car way too loud, and when I pick up the elementary school carpool, adults give me dirty looks for blasting 2011 Justin Bieber. Music is important, basically.

I love photography. I love being able to capture a moment, and for some reason, I love the way I feel with my camera around my neck. 

I love dogs, old people, and snow cones. I love my job (even though it SUCKS) and for the most part, I love the people I work with. I've got it pretty good, guys.

I love scary movies and San Diego and swimming with dolphins and laughing so hard that my head starts to hurt. I love the summer, and I love getting to sleep in, and I love having plans for the weekend. I love good grammar.

I love when people text me first.

One thing I don't love? This reveal. (Sorry, Nelson, but I almost boycotted). This is more scary to me than writing the first post, because at least then, nobody knew it was me. But I've written personal stuff on here for a good few months now, and now I'm supposed to tell you all who I am, and let you judge me, and that basically terrifies me. 

I care waaaaay too much about what people think.

You'd know that I hate being in pictures, that I hate the way I smile, and maybe that's why there's only three pictures of me on my phone. You'd know that I hate judge-y people, I hate slow drivers and eight hour work shifts and grumpy people. 

If you knew me, you'd know that my real name isn't Charlotte Rose, obvs, though it's a pretty name and it's done me a huge favor. 

                   My name's Cassidy Atwood- Cassy for those who know me. Nice to meet you.

                       Above: Me, with my best friend, Wyatt. Some of you might know him. :)

Thank you, Charlotte. 

Wins and Losses

We're all going to die, so why the hell am I so afraid of it?

In ninth grade, I thought I wanted to die. I knew how I wanted to do it, I knew when I wanted it to happen, and I thought that maybe I would finally be happy, away from mean girls and overbearing parents and a stifling community.

Sometimes, I wish I had done it.

But sometimes, I'm happy they stopped me.

Because I'm not finished yet- one more year, that's all. One more year of high school and then I'm free.

If I had died two years ago, I never would've learned as much as I have since then. I'd be sleeping forever- which doesn't sound so bad when I'm waking up early every morning, but at least I'm alive. I can go to school and I can have a future and I can laugh and cry and live, just because I didn't open that bottle of pills. High school doesn't last forever. Neither did middle school, even though it felt like it would. And the older I've gotten. the more I've realized that nothing lasts forever. I don't talk to those mean girls anymore, and they don't talk to me. My parents are still overbearing, very much so, but I can deal with it. One more year, right? And the community is just as stifling, but next year at this time, I'll almost be finished.

If I had died, I never would've met him.

I never would've known that, hey, maybe there's a chance for me, after all.

I never would've met some of the best people I know, and I never would've taken the best classes I've gotten to be in, and I never would've known that even though I'm sad, I can still be so happy.

I never would've known that that my parents got divorced, and that even though I still cry about it, and even though I can't decide where to live and who to live with, I'm okay. We're okay.

And for the first time in a while, I'm looking forward to things. I'm looking forward to Hawaii, and the cruise, and senior year, and everything that's going to come after that. Because I'm afraid, sure, but I'm not going to let that stop me. That's a pretty big win, in my book, even after so many losses.

afraid

when i was little, i was afraid of the dark.

i was afraid of tattoos and snakes and that someday, i'd have to grow up and move out and be by myself.

i'm still afraid of the dark, but now, i'm not afraid of growing up- i'm afraid of how much longer it will be until i can finally leave.

i'm seventeen years old now, and i'm scared of change.

i'm afraid that everything will change, but i'm even more afraid that nothing ever will.

i'm afraid of roller coasters that go upside down, and of tall boys with cute smiles who are everything i told myself i'd never want. i'm afraid of lower-case letters, thanks to the american schooling system, and that's basically why this entire post is lowercase. have to face at least some of my fears somehow, right?

i'm afraid of being alone. i'm afraid that the way i feel right now, with no boyfriend and no huge group of friends and nobody to eat lunch with- i'm afraid that this is the way i'll be forever. because i love cats, but not enough that i want to be single and alone in my later years with only a nursing degree and twenty cats to keep me company.

i'm afraid of myself.

i'm afraid of what i can do, and i'm afraid of what i can't.

i'm afraid of what i want, and i'm afraid i won't be able to get it. i'm afraid of the world, because if there's suicide bombers in Europe, how long is it going to take until they're here? how long until it's my missionary that's in the hospital, or my family, or my friends? how long?

THERE'S SO MUCH TO BE AFRAID OF

but why would i let that stop me?

Maybe I Am a Robot

I always post on Sundays. It's not because I'm trying to procrastinate, of course, but every Sunday night as I'm getting into bed, the thought of my blog and my grade and my unwritten post is always lingering in my mind.

So, here I am. Better late than never, right?

I have a routine. Like it or not, Sunday night posts have become part of my routine.

I've been alive for 6,221 days.
149,304 hours.
8,598,240 minutes.
537,494,400 seconds.

And almost every single one of those days, at least recently, is the same.

I wake up at the same time. I get ready, not sure who I'm trying to impress. (Everybody, nobody, myself). And I go to school, and I waste away seven hours of my life memorizing formulas and writing research papers that will never benefit me in the future. After school, I usually go to work, where I waste away another eight hours, just pretending that I know what I'm doing. If I'm not at work, I'm at home, attempting my homework and again, pretending that I know what I'm doing. (I don't).

Doesn't that sound like a robot to you?

What if I don't want to be like that?

What if I want to be spontaneous?

High school doesn't like spontaneity. High school likes rules and disclosures and Scantron tests with number two pencils.

But, me? I like surprises. I like sneaking out and going on adventures and making my life just a little bit more exciting.

(I really hope I won't be a robot forever).

how to take a risk

This.

Broken Crayons

In first grade, everybody has crayons. You color and you talk and share and go to recess, and so does everybody else.

You color in second grade, too. Not as much, but, still.

By sixth grade, the crayons are almost gone. You'll break them out for the occasional art project, but other than that, you're expected to grow up, to act like the almost middle schoolers that you are, and that you have no idea how to be.

Middle school will be hard. The crayons are gone, as is the façade that you're a child anymore. Everything is about grades, about high school and college and everything after, and it's so overwhelming, and you'll probably find yourself wishing for your old pack of crayons and your juice box, because in first grade, there's nothing to stress about besides who you'll play with at recess.

(Maybe it isn't so different, after all, because I still find myself in high school, wondering who I'm going to lunch with).

By high school, the crayons are gone. The pictures that your mom hung up on the fridge were torn down years ago, replaced by report cards and ACT scores and college applications and expectations and stress and the future.

The crayons are broken. They've been snatched away, worn down to a stub, replaced with a number 2 pencil and a Chemistry test.

I want my crayons back. I want my childhood, the one that I didn't appreciate enough because all I wanted was to grow up and get out.

But, oh, what I wouldn't give to go back to naptime and snacks and juice boxes and a fresh box of crayons.

Draw Me a Rainbow

I always see you in grey. Grey and black, of course (because we rebel and wear black pants instead of grey.) It brings out the blue in your eyes, which is silly and cliché but completely true and I don't know how I feel about that. 

You make me feel grey, too. Because I always promised myself I'd never fall for somebody like you, somebody who's greatest ambition in life is everything I don't want, but then I met you, and suddenly it's all so endearing. How is that even possible? 

Grey is the color that overwhelms me when I'm in bed at night, looking forward to seeing you next week but knowing that next summer, everything's going to be different.

You make me feel grey.

But you also make me feel red, and yellow- bright and happy and like there's nothing to worry about.

When somebody insulted me, I saw the protective side of you, I saw your red. I saw the way you looked at her, and then you looked at me, and I felt red, too.

I saw you in blue once. Jeans and a sweatshirt, and I was wearing black, and did you know I got up early that morning because I knew I'd be seeing you?

Black has a bad rap. Black makes me feel like I can take on the world.

(It's funny, because that's what you'll be wearing for the next two years.)

And even though this seems like the cliché story, the one that I'll write a blog post about at the end of the year, it's not that black and white. Maybe it'll all happen the way I imagine it, where you'll take me out and break your rules and I'll be seeing red for days. 

Rainbows aren't all red, though.

Rainbows need blue, they need those days that I listen to Ed Sheeran and I get mad at myself for tearing down my walls so easily.

They also need purple- those late nights when we're about to go home but all I want is one more hour, one more day, forever. 

I want it all. I'll take the good days and the bad days, the headaches from laughing too hard and from crying until I throw up. I want the red and the blue and every color in between, because that's what you are. You're a rainbow.

Is that cliché?

I don't care.

Bucket List

• Make somebody smile every day.
• Remember that I'm here for a reason. 
• Eat well. 
• Travel.
• Write every day.
• Go to work with a good attitude.
• Go to school with a good attitude.
• Good attitude! 
• Live with as few regrets as possible. 
• Get motivated. 
• Work hard.
• Read good books.
• Don't worry about what other people think. 
• (Okay, maybe this is more of a to-do list. Oops. Enjoy).

Bricks I've Thrown

It's funny, because bricks have two purposes, which are completely opposite of each other.

To build, and to destroy.

Kind of like humans.

I've had bricks thrown at me, and I've thrown bricks at others, and it's all crap. Whether it's a compliment to build somebody up, or an insult to tear them down, it makes a lasting impression all the same. You can't patch up a broken window with duck tape and expect it to look the same.

The bricks that leave the biggest effect, though, are the ones that are used to break windows and hearts, the ones with a mean name and an insult added for good measure.

So, why say them at all?

I get it. When somebody calls you a douche bag, it would be the easiest thing in the world to turn around and call them every name in the book. But that's such a human urge, a primal instinct, to take an eye for an eye.

(That one's from personal experience.}

I'm going to cut this short because I'm tired, and I don't want this to turn too cliché or motivational. But.

We each have bricks. Build houses, don't break windows.

Until next time.

You Make Me Feel

You make me feel like smiling isn't so hard to do anymore. Like laughing is effortless, and you remind me that when I laugh too hard, I get headaches (but those are the best kind of headaches, and you'll sneak me some Tylenol if I need it.)

And even though I get hyper when I'm tired, that's okay because you do, too, and you'll just laugh with me. 

These things are how you make me feel.

You make me feel important. Like there's nobody you'd rather be with, like we aren't at work, like we're hanging out and we're best friends and you love spending your free time with me. 

But then you also break my heart when you tell me you're going on a date, and you're so excited. (You make me feel a little bit better when you tell me that she's the one who asked you out, not the other way around).

You make me feel young and funny and great, but also sad, because in only a few months, you'll be gone, in Tonga or wherever Jesus tells you to go. And when you're gone, who's going to help me with my math homework and tease me and make me excited to go to work?

And when will you take a hint that when we're talking about how we both love horror movies, that I want to watch them with you? 

These things are how you make me feel. 

And my friends tease me about you, say we're destined to end up together (or at least to go on a few dates and see what that leads to), and everybody else can see it, so why can't you? 

When I get the work schedule every month, do you know that I get excited when I see we're scheduled together?

On the days that we're working together, do you know that I spend extra time getting ready, even if you don't notice?

You make me feel like maybe, being a teenager isn't so bad after all. 

But then again, maybe it is. Because when we fall, we fall hard and I have no idea how I'm going to handle it when you leave. 

These things are how you make me feel. 

I'm Not Going to Write You a Love (Post)

There are some songs in this world that almost everybody knows. Justin Bieber's 'Baby' would be one, as would 'Thriller' or the Macarena or almost any commonly sung tune. And I'd say that 'Love Song', by Sara Bareilles, makes that list. Even if that doesn't sound familiar to you, you've probably heard it. 

But have you heard the background? The story behind it? 

I'm not gonna write you a love song
'Cause you ask for it
'Cause you need one, you see

I'm not gonna write you a love song
'Cause you tell me it's make or break in this
If you're on your way

Most people, including me, assume it's about a relationship gone sour. But who knew about the real story? About how Sara Bareilles was told she needed to write a love song if she wanted to become famous, if she wanted to make the charts? And so she sat down, and she penned out 'Love Song' and it hit the charts and played on my car radio last Tuesday.

This song is literally a 'screw you' to her management, and maybe that's why I like it so much.

Because what if I don't wan to write a post about love?

What if I've never been in love?

What if I've had crushes, one after another, but never anything serious? Never a relationship?

I'm not qualified to write about love, and I'm not even going to try.

But, then again, who said it had to be romantic love?

I love music, and San Francisco, and chocolate covered pretzels, but I won't bore you with a post about those. (not right now, at least.)

Because I might not know what being in love, truly, is like, but I do know what love is. I love a lot of things, writing included, and that's why I'm making this post in the first place, isn't it?

Hats?

To be honest, I'm not quite sure what to say. 

I don't wear hats. 

I don't like the way they make me look, the way they frame my face, the way they mess up my hair. 

But I do have different personalities, and to me, that's the most prominent analogy for hats.

It was amazing, how different I felt, putting on baseball caps and beanies and everything in between, as if my personality and my appearance changed with each hat I put on and discarded. It reminded me of myself, of the personality I show when I'm at school, versus when I'm at home, versus when I'm at work or church or anywhere else. 

Because in every single one of these places, I'm different. I act different, people perceive me differently, and I'm not sure if I like that or not. 

But, yeah. Hats. It's a good analogy, Nelson, so. Thank you. 

Even if it did mess my hair up. 

I Need to Rant

Pleasing people- it's so overrated. 

You'll never be able to please everybody, so why do I still try? Why do I care so much about my appearance, about saying the right things, about keeping up my facade, when nobody cares? 

But it's not only about me. 

I was in math class earlier this week, and we got onto the topic of awards. Why don't the creative teachers, the exciting teachers, the teachers who care about the students, win the Teacher of the Year award? Why do the teachers that give us 'homework buddies' and strict rules and limited hall passes get the prestigious awards? My teacher had an interesting answer. (I'm paraphrasing, in his words).

"Because we care more about pleasing the students than the administrators. I've won student-nominated awards before, but never an award from the bosses." 

For some reason, that stuck with me.

What's the point of school? I was under the impression that everybody's here for us, for the students, but for some teachers, it's all about impressing the higher-ups and doing a good teaching job, if only to prove that they have what it takes, not to actually help the students learn and grow and understand.

Pardon my French, but, what the hell?

The teachers that should actually be winning the Teacher of the Year award are the ones getting written up and suspended and threatened because telling stories in class isn't going to help the students pass their end of year tests, you know. Because if every single minute of class time isn't used to teach us how to solve radical equations, we've effectively wasted the time. If the teachers that actually help students grow as people don't help those students ace the end of year tests, then what's the point?

I absolutely can't stand it.

In classes like Creative Writing, and math (surprising, I know), we learn more than simply writing words on a page, or drawing graphs. 

We learn about the real world, about dating and heartbreak and loss and happiness and the world, and everything in between. And, to me, that's so much more important than whether we can pass the tests at the end of the year, the ones that exist for the sole purpose of showing the administrators which teachers are doing their job 'correctly'. 

It isn't about the awards. It's not even about the teachers, really. It's about the fact that we live in such a stifled society, that if a math teacher speaks one word that isn't directly related to math, he'll be written up. It's about the fact that the teachers, the ones who care about their students more than their reputations, they're the ones who are scrutinized. It's about the fact that if even a moment of school is devoted to helping students with their actual problems rather than math problems, that's a definite no-no. And for those of you who know the math teacher I'm referring to, you'll understand what I mean. 

That's the problem with our society- no, that's the problem with our world in general. People have an image, a model, a stereotype, and if you don't fit exactly into that, you're wrong. You're written up. You need to be put back into line. 

I don't even know what I'm trying to say here, tbh.

Be different. Be happy that you're different, and if you're bending over backwards to try to please everybody, stop. It'll never happen.

Be the kind of person that cares more about the people they help than the people who look down on them. My teacher likes to tell us that he's a counselor disguised as a math teacher, because who actually goes to their counselor when they need to talk? Teenagers don't like being told who they should talk to, who they should go to. And I love that.

Be you.

Until next time. 

Pilot

Staring at this blank computer screen is much more intimidating than I thought it would be.

It's waiting.

An intangible object is waiting for me to press the keys, to write an introduction and introduce myself and make readers' skin go cold, but I'm not so sure I'll be able to do that.

But I'll definitely try.

Hi. 

I'm not very good at introductions, and I'm even worse at trying to come up with things to say about myself, so I'm not even going to try. I'm sick of the whole routine, the first day of school and the 'tell us your name and your favourite color and something unique about you' because, in all honesty, nobody cares. Nobody's listening. Nobody is truly interested in whether I like green more than blue, or that I'm an ambidextrous in the making. 

NOBODY CARES.

So I'm not going to say that. I'm not going to give the generic answer that everybody wants to hear, my age and my likes and my favourite animal, because if I did, I have a strong feeling most everybody would stop reading right there. Why? Nobody cares.

(And, no. I'm not referring to Odysseus's Nobody.)

But I will make an attempt to introduce myself, for anybody who hasn't abandoned their attempt at reading this quite yet.

In one word, I would say that I'm hidden. I live in a broken family in a broken neighborhood in a community of people that claim they're God's gift to mankind, and the worst part is that everybody thinks the same about me. Sundays are church days, and I'm there sitting in a pew week after week, and to literally everybody around me, I'm just another one of them. 

I'm so sick of it.

And I want to leave.

I'm hidden. And maybe that's the reason that everybody seems to overlook me, that my best friend moved on and my other best friend acts like he doesn't know me, and I'm the person who knows everybody's name but would never admit it, because nobody knows mine. I'm invisible. But that's not entirely a bad thing.

I took this class because I wanted to write. For as long as I can remember, I've been writing. One year, I went as far to ask my friends for notebooks and pens for my birthday. True story. So when I saw that Creative Writing had an opening, sign me up.

But this is far from what I expected. We're not developing characters, we're developing ourselves. And we aren't creating settings and antagonists and an archetype of the Hero's Journey- we're trying to create our own world, our own journey. And I'm excited.

Paris, to me, is a complete cliche. But, in a way, that's why I like it. In some ways, I'm that kind of person, the one that refuses to like a song on the radio if it's one that's being sung by everybody. And, to me, that's what Paris is. Paris is the ultimate destination, for romance and adventure, and at first, I couldn't stand it. I didn't want to play into it. But, the more I thought about it, I absolutely love it. Because,

we are all cliche.

Especially me.

Welcome to Paris. 

“I've seen you, beauty, and you belong to me now, whoever you are waiting for and if I never see you again, I thought. You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me and I belong to this notebook and this pencil.” -Ernest Hemingway.

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