Machine Gun Sheep

I've been wondering what kind of mom I'll be.

I know I'm a college student, and I have the white hot fiery potential of four hundred billion suns, but I also like to think ahead.

Way ahead.

When I was six, I thought of what high school I would go to, how I would wear my hair. When I was in fourth grade, I was already thinking of where I'd live after grad school. I've learned to live in the moment much more, but my old way of thinking just keeps creeping in. I'm a baby, but I won't be a baby for long. Soon, I'll be done with college, done with law school, hopefully a lawyer, and wanting to settle down.

I want my little girl to be named Adelaide. I don't care if it's a city in Australia. It's my grandmother's middle name and it's lovely.

My mom got married when she was in her early thirties. She had me three years later. She was über fertile. I don't think I have that luxury.

I want to have a child while I'm still in my twenties. I have nine and a half years.

A lifetime, and yet so short.

(I WANT TO SEE THE MOVIE BABIES, OKAY)

TWO POSTS IN TWO DAYS. I AM ON FIRE.

An Ode To Bagels: By Callie Bee

oh bagels

how warm you are

fresh out the toaster

your delicate burny bits, with your undercooked inside

ah, yes, that layer of cream cheese

too much cream cheese

way too much

but I care not.

Get in my tummy.

I'm beginning to lose my eyebrows. The little I had.

The barely legal coed says that I have my own special brand of magic--that is, that I see the world in a different way than most people. I notice things others don't. Affections, emphasis, damage. Brokenness. Hopefulness.

I still need to harness it. I can help people.

But first, I need to help myself.

Ten pages, you're going to be written, and you're going to be written HARD.

Sagan was a genius.

I've been watching a bunch of Carl Sagan remixes on youtube.


I might have teared up a little.

It has almost been a year since I last updated.

I always do this to myself.

I say, "Hey, Callie, let's keep a blog. It'll be fun and interesting and people will comment and it'll cure your OCD!". But I never do. I always forget. I never have anything interesting to say.

WELL: GUESS WHAT, WORLD. I AM GOING TO KEEP THIS BLOG FOR AS LONG AS I CAN. IT COULD BE FOR SEVERAL WEEKS OR THE REST OF MY LIFE.

YEE.

Anyway, moving on. I have a series of little cuts all over my body. I don't know how they got there.

I haven't worked out in days. Maybe even a week. Why? Because honestly, I don't feel like it. I've felt like it before, I don't feel like it now. I want a beach body. I do. But really, I like my shape now, and who's to say that an ass is detrimental? Nobody. That's who. My current boyfriend (Ahh, I've had two boyfriends already) doesn't mind my imagined imperfections. He tells me "If I didn't like your body, I wouldn't be having sex with it." A sound argument.

I have twenty six combined pages to write before the end of the year. I have to rant about something for ten pages, as my Religion and Science teacher wrote an example paper that HAS NO QUOTES. Time to go to an alternate plane of existence and think about this stuff.