Fa-la-la-la-NO

I suppose you are expecting a Christmas blog (plus the blog I promised like five months ago about the rest of my summer vacation--which I honestly do not remember very well), but instead, you are getting an angry post!

I was at JCPenney Christmas shopping (that's my store--do not judge me) and I noticed a man who kept staring at me from the other side of the shoe aisle. I knew that he was going to talk to me because his gaze was fixed on me, so I tried my best to pretend like he wasn't there (naturally). Then, of course, because men are men, he can no longer contain himself:

"Hey, how are you?"

I look up. I can see a familiar face, but I am having a hard time thinking of who this is. High school? Yes. Friend? Definitely not. Name? No clue.

"Oh hi, I hadn't recognized you!"

He comes around to shake my hand. I see his eyes traveling up and down my body. Then he says, in an animated voice:

"Wow! You got fat!"

You wish.

No, I did not punch anyone. But I think my facial expression did enough for me, because the dude tried to correct himself by saying "well, you've got a fuller figure". He then proceeded to ask me if I had children, then if I had a husband. For both of those answers in the negative, he rebutted with an almost-reproachful "But why?"

So let's break it down:

1. Insult her body.
2. Question her womanhood by being outraged that she has no children.
3. Question her adequacy as a female by being outraged that she has no husband.

And people think I'm going to end up alone. Pshhhh. This guy is a winner in that category.

Or is he? Because, chances are, there is someone, out there, pining away for this asshole. Willing to surrender her heart, her intimacy, her blood, sweat, and tears, for a man like this.

Well, I suppose I am not just writing this to let you know how my day went today. So here's my two cents. Absolutely not suitable for work. Pardon my french. Sorry, mom.


To you, oh high school guy who's name I can't even recall,

First off, go **** yourself.

Secondly, I feel truly sorry for you. I feel sorry that you didn't have anyone to teach you better. I feel sorry that women are to you just a body to produce children and be bound to a man. I feel sorry that you even considered that you had a shot at speaking to me (because, let's face it, a random man does not ask a random woman if she is married and has children for no reason) and that something was going to come out of it. I feel sorry for you as I recall your panicked face in my mind when you realized that you had screwed up your chance with me (as if you ever had one-- 15 years ago or now).

But above all, I feel sorry that you are so wrapped up in your assumptions of what a woman is that you will never be able to love one properly or make her happy. Because, whichever woman falls for you (if there is ever one) will only be an attractive body, or the bearer of a child, or a wife to satisfy your needs. She won't be worth to you anything else. You won't see her for who she is, beyond motherhood and marriage. You will not understand her. You will not support her. You will take, and take, and take.

Perhaps I'm wrong for assuming these things. But it is just so mind-boggling to me that you had the nerve to speak to a strange woman you barely know the way you did. So I can only assume that once you get to know a woman, it only gets worse. Could I safely assume that you suddenly become a vindicator of the rights of women the moment one of us earns your respect or affection?

Well, if that is the case, I still feel sorry for you. Because you shouldn't need to love a woman in order to respect her. You should just... well, shit, respect her! But what do you know? You were brought up in ignorance, in violence, in lewdness. You've grown up in a culture that teaches you not to feel, that tells you it's okay to use people, that throws pornographic images at you and orders you to knock yourself out. You were bred in the dark, pestilent bosom of sexism. Even worse, you were knit in the fiber of selfishness.

So I feel sorry for you. You are pathetic in your blindness. You are a laughingstock in your lack of respect. You are a caricature of what a man ought to be. But don't feel bad. You are most definitely not alone.

I mean, I am acutely single for a reason. The bad ones literally make me want to become a hermit. The "good" ones are riddled with insecurities, self-doubt, and the self-righteous pretentiousness of thinking that they are the best thing that could happen to you.

Which brings me to  my next point...

Dear men,

Yes, it's me again. I'm aware that we do not get along very well, mostly because you all insist on being assholes, but hear me out...

STOP BEING ASSHOLES!

It's the future already-- why am I having to tell you this??? Like, we are past the Back to the Future year. What are ya'll doing, seriously? I'm going to give you the advice (lecture) I give my male students, who are riddled by hormones and sex-crazed:

"If you wouldn't say it to your mom/sister, don't say it to her."

or

"If you wouldn't like it said to your future daughter, don't say it."

It's really bloody simple.

The moment you treat a woman like she's a) an object, b) a baby maker (also an object), or c) your own personal source of marital pleasure, you blew it. She's officially too good for you. She's out of your league.

To the good guys who feel constantly victimized by women who only "want the bad guys": grow an actual pair. Love yourselves enough to be brave to fight for the women you love and brave to retreat when said women do not want anything to do with you. Your "goody-goodyness" doesn't entitle you to anything. Again, we are not a trophy. The moment you feel like you deserve a woman, she's already too good for you. She;s out of your league.

To the few men doing what they're supposed to: I'm not going to congratulate you because it's your job. But well done. Don't get cocky.

Dear women,

Stop. Enabling. These. Assholes.

You are worth so much more than objectification. You deserve to be an absolutely adored wife. You deserve to be a proud mother. You deserve someone who practically has a meltdown over the fact that you've given them the greatest gift there is: unconditional love, a family, and offspring. Anything less than that is settling.

Of course no one is perfect. But they have to at least try. For you. Because they love you. Because you are so damn beautiful, and smart, and sweet, and fierce, and amazing. Do not settle. Even if it means renouncing to your dreams of being a wife and a mother. Do not settle.

And that is perfectly okay. 

Dear world,

I am a fat woman. I have a back roll. I have stretchmarks not caused by pregnancy. I have arms that flop like wings. I have thighs that rub until they bleed. I have a triple chin. Sometimes I have to unbutton my pants after a big meal.

I am so FUCKING beautiful.

My legs are so mightily strong.
My arms are a fortress.
My face is the sun.
My eyes sparkle like redwood in the flames.
My hair rages like a sea of waves.
My mouth's small but my voice roars.
My hands are regal and rough.
My shape is heavenly, forged in bronze.

Add to that is the fact, as all of you know, that I am incredibly funny: I make my supervisor spit her drink. I make my principal break character and go from dead-pan face to a meltdown of laughter. I make my best friend snort. Most importantly, I make myself laugh, and even laugh again when I remember what I did later on.

I am literally brilliant, the love child of two people with crazy high IQs. I, thankfully, inherited the emotional intelligence of my mother. And her charm. I suppose that also comes with the comical awkwardness courtesy of me dad. *Eye roll*

I am a force to be reckoned with. Stubborn to no end. Determined to death. Dedicated to the core. Passionate in every fiber of my being. I might be shot down (now more than ever, it feels), but I carry on, running, walking, or crawling (this last one seems like the means of moving around, so to speak, in the last couple years). Who knows, I might secretly be a gorilla or something.

I am kind. I mean, maybe not to jerk-faces who call me fat in public. But I try to give of myself. I try to remind myself to love others. I put my heart on the line for people I consider my friends. Once someone accepts me in their life, and I them, I take them up in the figurative arms of my soul, and cradle them, and then put them to sleep, "sh-sh, there, there, baby love", and then keep them in my heart forever. I swear I am not drunk. This is the best metaphor I could come up with. Creepy and stalker-ish. Hilar!

I am honest. I am a hard-worker. I am sincere. I am a nurturer. I am a fighter. I crave justice. I am brave. I am independent. I am self-sufficient. I am compassionate. I am empathetic. I am hella loyal. I'm an awesome cook. I'm a pretty decent dancer. I am creative. I am crafty. I am musical. I am a fairly good writer. I try to live up to a moral code. I am horribly flawed. I fall short all the time. I am riddled with fear and anxiety most of the time.

But I love myself.

It is so hard to love one's self.

It's easy to do it when a petty asshole calls you names in a department store because you don't give a shit about him and he is nothing to you and will always be nothing. It's easy to love yourself when you are fighting trolls on the internet because you know there's something terribly wrong with their own self-esteem.

But it's hard to love yourself when that one person you look up to tells you you'd be so pretty if you lost weight; or when the people you care about say that you're a little bigger than last year; or when the man you love with all of your heart, who says he loves you just the way you are, who swears he adores you with all your imperfections, suddenly decides that you're not what he wants and walks away, or stops fighting for you.

Yet, you have to love yourself. Because it's what God wants. Because it is your duty.  Because you have to lead by example. Because, sometimes,  you have no choice because if you don't then you'll sink in a sea of despair. You have to love yourself, even when you look shattered, when you have to donate your beautiful clothes away because they no longer fit, or when you look at high school pictures and realized you've let yourself go. You've got to do it despite the nights of utter sadness, the comfort eating, the anxiety attacks, the thinning hair due to stress. You've got to do it because you're worth it. If God thought you were worth creating, then you are most definitely worth loving. Especially being loved by yourself.

And by God, you are so phenomenal and out of this world, that if someone could comprehend what you are, the thing that you embody, they would hold onto you and never let go of you, a beautiful, bright, mighty supernova.

So  you're going to say that if no one sees that greatness in you, why should you believe me? Well, if they can't see it in themselves, if they don't see God's likeness and image in their own face, how will they see it in yours? Moreover... if you don't see it in yourself, how can they see the blinding shine if you cover it up with self-loathing?

Well, I'll tell you this: even if no one ever does see it, it doesn't mean it's not there. Sometimes the sun shines so bright that people shield away from it. That doesn't make the sun less powerful. It just shows how weak people are.

So dear former classmate,

1. Insult her body.     Love God with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength. 
2. Question her womanhood by being outraged that she has no children.   Love Thy Neighbor
3. Question her adequacy as a female by being outraged that she has no husband.   As Yourself.

A very awkward train ride, written in novel form (to practice) but with GIFs!!!!

A very windy Tuesday night in March, after seeing a Russian ballet performing Swan Lake, three attractive young women in their early twenties get on the train from Newcastle back to Durham. They find three seats that are close enough together, one right behind the next. Across the narrow hallway sits a middle-aged man who smiles politely at them as they are seated. One of the girls, the one sitting closest to the man, continues to be on a reverie about the muscular legs of those strong Russian men, who were totally wearing make-up. The girl in question, Elizabeth, thus smiles back at the balding man as she asks herself why did she always think that ballets had speeches. The man takes the smile as an open invitation for conversation and begins uttering what can be considered as either drunken remarks or regular Geordie speech. 

'Oh, have you had a lovely time today, love?' he asks, or at least that's what it sounds like. Elizabeth engagingly answers in the affirmative, while her companions look at each other with worrying looks. Ria, sitting on the last seat of the cart, stares intently at Cristina, who only shakes her head and sighs. 

'Do you study in Durham? What do you study? What?'

'Chemistry, she studies Chemistry,' Cristina replies on behalf of Elizabeth, who always enunciates her words properly so the only reason why someone would not be able to understand her is because he is drunk, deaf, or--in the case of England--both.

'Oh, that's great! I have a son who is around your age who is going to XYZ Uni. What about you?'

'Liter'ture,' replies the big Texan, who had thought about taking her heavy black coat off--the train being so warm and all--but didn't want to give the chatty chap the wrong impression. Feeling torn between wanting to talk to Ria behind her and attempting to save Elizabeth from her own clueless self, Cristina attentively listens to the man as he interrogates her friend.

'Do you like Durham?'

'Yes, it's lovely.'

'What about you?'

'Yeah, I love Durham, a lot.'

'But isn't it like too quiet?'

'No, it's fine. It's nice.'

'Do you girls party on the weekend? Do you go to clubs?'

'No, not really.'

'You can't really talk to people in clubs.'

'Well, I was at Klute's the other night...' the man states with an air of pride. 

Cristina quickly turns to Ria, who is witnessing the oddest conversation in history from the commodity of her seat. Elizabeth attentively listens to the man's story.

'I don't understand half of the stuff this guy's saying, Ria.'

'He's crazy, mon,' says the Trinidadian. 

'So you girls don't drink?'

'Once in a while, but don't get drunk.'

'Yeah, it's very expensive.'

'Well, do you smoke?'

'No.'

'No, it's a dirty habit.'

'Do you like to dance?'

'Yeah, sure.'

'I suppose...'

'But you must have some bad habits, right?'

'Hmm...' Elizabeth replies as she begins an intensive search of her memory for a habit that would make her sound less of a normal person and more like a naughty girl.

'No, we don't,' Cristina interposes, losing her patience.

'Ah, well, you are going to make a very fine wife,' the creeper says--exclusively to Elizabeth--as he smiles.

'Oh no...'

'Yikes!'

'Well, tell me, do you have boyfriends?'

'No,' Elizabeth answers bluntly. Cristina, meanwhile, is figuratively hitting her head against a wall in despair because Elizabeth could have totally saved herself from this borderline sexual harassment if only she would have lied and said she has a hot atomic-physicist boyfriend who looks like Mark Ruffalo waiting for her in her flat with a beautiful homemade five-course dinner.

Why does Elizabeth have to be so honest all the time? Cristina doesn't understand this, but she manages to blurt out 'oh no, no boyfriends, we don't have time for that, too much studying, too much.' Cristina cannot take it anymore: the train feels like it's a pot full of water and they are just a bunch of helpless lobsters slowly boiling in misery, regretting all their bad decisions, and thinking of all their loved ones they never said "I love you" to. Is this a terrorist attack? No, but it sure is making everyone as uncomfortable as when they show you that footage of childbirth in Health class or when your supervisor at work audibly farts because he has his headphones on and doesn't realize how loud he's being.

By this point, Cristina has turned to Ria to converse. But the conversation revolves around the eeriness of this whole ten-minute episode. Why did God allow that horrifying man of bad teeth near them tonight? Why was the train so smelly? Why--by Jove--has Adele not released a new album? All these questions assault Cristina as she catches a snippet of conversation that turns her blood cold.

'Yes, I haven't seen my little girl in over six months now!'

'Oh no, why is that?'

'Well, I have been busy taking a class.'

'Oh, what kind of class?'

'It's a class for... err.... management.'

'Oh, that's great! But I don't get it, why would the class prevent you from seeing your daughter?'

'Well...because I can only see my daughter after I've taken it.'

'But, like... I don't get it... why?'

Cristina closes her eyes slowly and sighs. Why, oh why. God Almighty save us all. Please, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. No. 

'Well', the man breathes heavily, defeated, 'a few years ago I had a problem with my ex-wife. Her boyfriend tried to prevent me from seeing my daughter, so I almost beat him to death. I was in jail for four years. This class I have to take is an anger management course.'

 'Oh...' is all Elizabeth can manage to say, after inadvertently pushing the man to make a full confession. Cristina, meanwhile, is regretting not having gone to confession before being murdered by a middle-age British ex-con. But that thought passes quickly to propel her into action: she calls one of her flatmates to have one of them come to the train station to duel with the almost-killer to protect them (or to just come to pick them up). But her flatmate never answers the phone. They are on their own.

At this point, the train has begun stopping. They are in Durham. Time to flee! The man, unfortunately, is also getting off at this stop and motions Elizabeth towards the door. Cristina pretends to be moving right behind them and, when the guy begins walking, grabs Elizabeth and takes her (and Ria) out through the back door of the cart. When they step out into the platform and feel the chill of the mid-March wind, Cristina--with freakishly large fear eyes-- commands the other two to wait until the man walks away. Then they begin the journey home, walking in their high heels as if they were avoiding land mines (they had walked a lot in Newcastle and their ankles were very tired). 

As they stroll along the quiet streets of Durham, Cristina can't help but to sarcastically scoff 'well, that was not creepy at all!'

'What do you mean?' Elizabeth wonders.

'WHAT? That man was hitting on you!'

'No he wasn't. He was just being nice.'

This is what Cristina would have done to the man if she had a phonebook close by.

It was then that Cristina and Ria realized that they should not let Elizabeth near the stove at home and should have 'the talk' with her--you know, the one about not accepting candy or cookies from strangers. 

SO I MET A GUY (?)

Ah yes, the post you have been waiting for! Don't lie--you know it's true, mom.

Alas, if you know anything about me, it is that my life is just not normal, and therefore the words "I met a guy" are not necessarily encouraging, but just an introduction to a tragically hilarious story. This is true, I'm afraid.

The truth is, there has been a guy--a crush, if you wish. Do I talk to him? Well, of course not--what kind of question is that? This is a guy with whom I had one conversation once. Five minutes and he walked away with my heart (yeah, I went there. They call me Lady Corniness). I was struck by his friendly personality, his charm, and just a light about him that seemed like kindness. Mom says he's not handsome but, to me, he's beautiful. He's also American (yes, I realize you were hoping for a Mr. Darcy but you know what--like my friend Elena said: "why would anyone want to marry Mr. Darcy? He is cripplingly shy." He's also super handsome (and stuck-up). Plus, American is a lot more convenient than bringing a British guy back to Texas who won't be able to work or do anything but sit around the house or work in my dad's lawn-mowing business).

I won't go anymore into deets, but you get the picture: silent, unrequited love fo' life. Happy Valentine's Day, ya'll!

Speaking of cripplingly shy: My name is Cristina and I am mentally challenged to talk to a guy I like.

Case and point: the other day I went to the supermarket with my flatmates. As I was browsing the cheese section, I noticed two people from the corner of my eye--a man and a woman. Guess who the man was? YUP. But that's not all. Remember we had just arrived at the store five minutes before. I only had one product in my shopping cart at this point--the centerpiece of my shame. Let me give you a hint: this product made a special appearance on my flight back to Durham after Christmas.

Yes, you guessed it. So as I realized who it was that was looking down at my lovely pack of maxipads, I entered panic mode.

I kept my head down and RAN, RAN FOR MY DEAR LIFE. Then I went through a thousand six hundred and eighty-three aisles and grabbed as much stuff as I needed to cover that which is an atrocity Always™.

Then I resumed my orderly shopping and eventually ran into these people again, but now it was game-on because I had nothing to be ashamed of (except my ridiculous hat that I was still wearing... inside the store).

"Oh, hi!"
"Hey! How are you?"
"Fine, how are you?"
"Ok. Do you live around here?"
"Oh no, I have a flatmate with a car, so when he comes to the store, we all come with him."
"Oh... that's terrible..."
"No, he doesn't mind..."

After a few seconds of awkward silence, he resumed his shopping.

Naturally, the moment it was over, I could think of ten billion things to say: did you go home for the holidays? How was the Polar Vortex? Would you marry me?

But instead, I sounded like a horrible person who uses other people to get rides to stores (which is not entirely untrue--sorry, KK)

So, Happy Valentine's day to me, Queen of Awkwardness, Duchess of Forever Aloneness. Oh, here's something encouraging:

Time Magazine came up with this app that tells you the age you should marry based on how many facebook friends you have that are married and the median age in which they married. According to this sucker, I'm already  two months behind. And here I was thinking that pain at the pit of my stomach was heartburn when all alone it was envy and loneliness.

But, in all seriousness, don't you worry about me. I am very happy in my singlehood. I embrace it fully knowing that it's what's meant to be for the time being. It works out perfectly right now, and I much rather be single that have to settle for someone who won't let me be myself and do things like this:

Besides, God has given me great friends.

AND, well, there's God himself--I love that guy. In the past few weeks the Lord has granted me the gift of feeling in love with Him. Don't get me wrong, I love Him. But the thing about love, as you know, is that it is a choice of the will and it doesn't always feel like butterflies in your stomach. Yet you still love the person and you still care for them and you still want to make them happy and you would not wish for a time in your life when you were without that person.

It's the same with God. I love him, and I would NEVER wish to go back to the time when I seemingly had it all (by the world's standards) but in reality my life was empty because I didn't have him.

You don't understand--when I lost EVERYTHING I thought I had and was left with nothing, He rescued me. He took my hand and He healed my heart, little by little. It was a painful and long process and most of the time I was angry and stubborn about it, but He worked with me nevertheless. And even after all He has done for me I still fight Him and still get mad at Him at times (yes, I am basically the worst person you will ever meet), but I love him--imperfectly and insufficiently, but I do. And sometimes it's rough because you don't feel the love pounding in your chest, but you know it's still there and you hang onto your faith (which is not based in transitory feelings).

But when the Lord gives you the grace to feel in love with him, when you want to write Him poetry and dedicate a love song to Him, the Lover of your heart, then it's a pretty special place to be in, spiritually and emotionally.

So I'm ok. I got the one and only Creator of the universe as my Valentine's date. He is the best and, in truth, is the love of my life. My hope is that one day you may feel that. If you haven't or if you think I am delusional and out of my mind--well, I am, in the best possible way. And I ask you to challenge that "non-existent divinity" to prove to you that He is what your soul has been searching for since you came into being.

That one time someone hugged me

So the other day I was talking to a friend, and you know, complaining about the guys and the kitchen being dirty and stuff (nothing out of the ordinary) and this friend got up from the chair and came to hug me. I didn't think I was being particularly whinny but it didn't matter. My friend got up, came to me, and held me. And I kept talking like an idiot, on and on and on. And my friend wouldn't let me go.

And, I don't know, it was strange because it was so peaceful, so nice, so cozy. I didn't realize how much turmoil was in my soul that day until my friend was holding me and my heart gradually came into stillness, to silence. It was like lying on the green grass on a sunny day looking at the deep blue sky while feeling the cool autumn breeze. It was like being a child again and being held by mom in a timeless embrace.

The tears were welling up. I wasn't particularly sensitive that day--in fact, I was feeling fairly happy, having lunch with friends and all. But that hug... it was strange, I tell you.

Yes, it felt like my mom was here with me, holding me, rocking me, reassuring me that everything was going to be OK.

Even more--it was like having Mama Mary holding me, telling me "here, you are tired, but I am here, rest a bit."

EVEN MORE--it was like Jesus was telling me "I know you need this. Here I am, rest in me, put your heart in my heart, here I am. Always. Don't forget."

It made me remember how weary I have been feeling only to remind me that I am loved and that I am not alone. And God always chooses the right people to do this. So He chose this twenty-year-old, lovely person to help out this stubborn, tired, twenty-six-year-old heart.

I know this friend is probably reading this. Thank you for being an instrument of the Lord and for giving warmth and light to this poor sickly heart of mine. I will never forget this moment and I will never forget you. You are a blessing in my life.

To everyone else: I want you to know that you are loved, so infinitely much. And that if you ever see a person in need of love, you should do something about it. You never know how your actions may touch that person!

Love

-C

I guess I should tell you how is it going?

Well, well, well. It seems like I have tended to speak rather introspectively these last few weeks and have quite forgotten to actually tell you about my life here. My apologies for that.

Since, you know, I love making lists, why don't I start you off.

1. I have a social life!

 I actually find myself constantly 'engaged' to do things, including watching Hunger Games: Catching Fire in a fancy cinema in Newcastle... alone. But really, I have tons of things to do, which I guess explains why--

2. I suck at being a student!!

Maybe it was that I spent a whole year and a half without doing any homework, so I am rusty. Maybe I'm just a lazy bum now. Either way, this master's thing might not have been such a great idea. But hey--I live in England, yeepeeeeee!!!!

3. Chutney!

It's this thing like jam but it has everything you can think of. It's one of those flavors that you find so repulsive you can't help but to love, like olives. You just want to over-stimulate your gustatory glands (and your gag reflexes). You may call it masochism but--wait, yes, yes it is. 

4. Fish and Chips!

I love the stuff. I mean, I am obsessed with it. With some vinegar. And ketchup. Long live Bells!! (This segment is brought to you by Bells--they promised me a lot of free F-n-C).

5. Daniel Castellano!

Pfff, I wish I could add that to my "to do list." Eww, TMI. I would never objectify Danny. I would only honor him with a marriage proposal--if he were real. On a forreal note, though, I am obsessed with this guy. He is literally perfect for me: hyper-masculine doctor with a big heart. Did I mention he only has his priest over to dinner twice a month, tops? Move over, Darcy!! If they cancel the show, in the words of Kelly Kapoor, 'I will kill myself.'

God is so, so good.

6. British words!!

Yes, I have picked a few up: lovely, rubbish, jumper, cheers. But don't ask me to 'talk with a British accent'. It's been two months, genius. I talk as Texican as ever.

7. I am a footballer.

I have joined my college team for intramural. I do a terrible job at looking like I'm trying to get the ball. But I have fun. And we did win.... once! It was glorious, like the good old days--except we always use to lose in the good old days. I guess I just have bad luck with teams. Or maybe I'm the problem...

8. I have taught Indian men how to make Guacamole.

Yes, they are pretty proud of it. And so am I .

9. I got a railcard and I look super cute on the picture:

That's right, gentleman. If you like it then you should probably put a ring on it (do it, a whole nation is praying for it).

10.  Have given up on the kitchen.

They don't want to wash their dishes in two days? Fine.

 They wanna turn the white stove brown with filth? Sure, go ahead!

 They want to throw vegetables on the floor? Be my guest.

  I am not a mother. And none of them are my husbands, so why should I give a damn? Oh, that's right, because IT'S FREAKING DISGUSTING! But quiet, control freak. There are things that you cannot control.

11. England is a breath-taking, beautiful place.

Heck, so is Scotland. I can't wait to see more. And you too, Ireland, you gorgeous green you.

12. And you thought you sweat a lot in Texas?

That's because you haven't walked three miles in the cold while wearing layers and layers of clothing. It is horrible! I have to change like twice or three times a day to avoid a chill!

13. Have been blessed with some amazing friends!

And I am ecstatic about that because the Lord never fails me! He promised and, sure enough, there we are.

14. Cute babies wrapped in warm clothes, blankets, etc.
It is the most adorable thing you will see. It makes me want to---well, you know... get a puppy or something.




15. SNOW!

For five minutes, but it was soooo glorious. I turned 12 years old in an instant. I was laughing like a fool. I was cupping my hands together, trying to catch it. You get it.

Though I'm sure I won't be so happy the moment I start falling on my butt on the icy roads. Brace yourself, coccyx.

Thanksgiving

Well, this is the all-American week. Food, football, shopping--Thanksgiving.

But I'm not really here to talk about that.

Last Sunday was one of my favorite feast days in the church: The Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe. Don't close the page just yet!

Let me tell you why I love this feast day. We celebrate it as the last Sunday of the liturgical year and it's that one day when we just stand in awe of Christ as well---THE KING OF THE UNIVERSE, in all his majesty and power, true to his being GOD. It's a day to reflect on how (almost terrifyingly) powerful and mighty He is, a day to do this:

because our God is an awesome God. A day that reminds us that He will come again in glory and it's going to be UH-MAZE-ZIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING.

But, I always find this day a rather humbling one for me, and that's the reason why I want to link it to Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is supposed to be a day of--err----giving thanks. This has been a rough year, to say the least, especially in the last four months or so. But I'm not here to complain, at least not today.

Now, when I take into account all the good things that have happened to me, not just this year but my whole life, I am rendered speechless. That the King of Kings, the God of the Universe, the Alpha and Omega, has bothered in his greatness to look down on me, who am nothing, and give me all that I have, leaves me breathless. I have a precious family, I have health, I was allowed to have an education, and I have not gone hungry or homeless for one day of my life. Moreover, He graciously allowed me to come here, to this country, out of a complete unnecessary whim, to continue studying, to meet some of the most wonderful people I've met in my life, and to have a shot at growing up (about time). All this coming from the Guy who has a whole infinite universe to worry about.

AND YET

Having all the power, all the glory, all the might, He chose to become a man in order to save me from my own inequity, imperfections, ugliness. He decided to make himself known to me so that I could discover how much He loved me and so that my heart could find in Him the love it so incandescently wished to give. He died in the most humiliating, horrendously slow death possible so that I could live, and He humbled himself to the point of becoming a piece of bread so that we could be united physically, mentally, and spiritually. The King made flesh, the flesh made bread. How can I not stand in awe?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y7qLNDGTm-E

Things are not easy nowadays. I'm struggling more than I dare to admit, particularly with adapting to school mode. But knowing that Jesus, God incarnate, knows me, cares for me, and loves me unconditionally is such a relief. If I fail at this, He will still love me. If I succeed, it will all be because of Him. I am not even close to perfection, as this blog can attest, but I like to think that after many many attempts by Jesus to shatter my blindness and break my stubbornness, I can see this truth clearly.

Thank you, Lord.