Ten Things that Make Me Angry

The prompt I chose for this week’s Writer’s Workshop is “Ten Things That Make Me Angry”.

Mama’s Losin’ It

Oh, boy. There are so many things I could list here. There are so many really heavy things I could list here. Discrimination. Hate. That asshole that shot up the movie theatre in Colorado. But I try not to get overly heavy and doom and gloom here on my blog, so instead, I chose to try and keep this “angry list” light and funny. Here we go.

1. Orange cars. OH MY GOD. I hate orange cars. HATE. I actually just kind of overall hate the color orange. But every time I see an orange car I am all like RAGE WHY ARE YOU DRIVING A BIG GIGANTIC ORANGE? ORANGE IS FOR FRUIT. IT IS NOT FOR CARS. GET OFF MY ROAD.
2. Judge-y bumper stickers. I’m all for letting the world know who you are and where you stand by plastering sticky phrases all over your car. Sticker it up. Whatever. But when I see ones that are all “Marriage = Stick Figure Man + Stick Figure Woman” or “If you abort babies you’re going to hell” (ok I made that one up, but some stickers aren’t far from that) it makes me kind of stabby.

Maybe I’m just being hypocritical by saying I don’t want to see bumper stickers that contrast with my own personal and political beliefs, but whatever. It still makes me angry.
4. Bradford pear trees.

Wow, look at nature’s splendor! Harbingers of Spring! They’re so beautiful! You know what they also are? EVIL. They make my eyes water, my throat burn, and my face feel like it’s going to fall off. And the best part? Chattanooga is LOUSY with them. They’re usually the first things to bloom in the Spring. The parking lot outside my office is literally LINED with these things. GTFO TREES OF DEATH. GTFO.
5. People who say “working hard, or hardly working?”.

7. 100+ degree weather. I know almost everyone in the country feels me on this one. What’s the point of having weather that hot? THERE IS NO POINT. IT’S USELESS. It is conducive to NOTHING. No one enjoys walking outside and instantly being drenched in sweat. NO ONE. It just makes me irrationally angry and want to throw a tantrum.
8. When my iPhone takes too long to do something. I know, I know. It’s going into space. I should be a little patient. BUT FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. It’s an IPHONE. GO. FASTER. I want my Facebook updates NOW. Not in 10 seconds. NOW.
9. People who interrupt. This one. OMFG this one. Nothing makes me angrier than a consistent interrupter. Like, when you’re talking, and they just butt right in and talk over you. I’m sorry. Are you deaf? Did you HEAR me talking? I know you did, because YOU JUMPED INTO MY CONVERSATION. There is no excuse for someone over the age of five to interrupt. It’s just bad manners. It makes me want to throw something at the interrupter. WAIT YOUR TURN.
10. Bad drivers. Because who likes bad drivers? Some idiot tried to zip into my lane the other day without looking and I wanted to chase her down and smack her. Tailgaters, people who drive too fast; if they’re bad, I can’t stand them. HULK SMASH.

Whew! I feel better venting all of those angry things. Thanks, Mama Kat, for giving me a platform and an excuse to be totally ranty on my blog.

What are some things that make you angry?

Vintage Mommy Boots


Mama’s Losin’ It
I haven’t done a Writer’s Workshop in a few weeks, so I thought it was time to jump in and tackle one again. The prompt I chose was relatively easy: Recycle a favorite post from July of any year you’ve been blogging.

While this one I’m about to share isn’t necessarily a favorite, it takes me back to a reflective place. This post from four years ago embodies where I was back in the summer of 2008: still grieving from my miscarriage, dreading the arrival of my due date, and in a place of heartache and pain.

July 31st, 2008
It’s the Little Things

It’s amazing. The smallest things that went unnoticed before my miscarriage now carry the power to reduce me to tears.

A baby’s laugh. A commercial featuring chubby-cheeked, wobbly little toddlers running around a living room. A mother planting a gentle kiss on her newborn baby’s forehead.

These images, these sounds can catch me completely off guard, and make me feel like my world is tumbling in around me. In these moments, I look down at my belly, which should be swollen to the point of discomfort. I should be waddling like a duck. I should be wincing as my baby gouges me in the ribs, kicks me in places that I never thought I could be kicked before. I look longingly down at my belly which is, by no means a flat thing, but is not round as it should be.

My due date is next weekend. Next weekend. How did it get here so quickly? How did it get here at all? For the past 9 months, it’s been so far in the distance, I suppose I never really thought about dealing with it before. But here it comes, looming ever closer. I wonder sometimes if once it’s passed, the pain will lessen. I wonder if once it is behind me, I will stop looking down at my stomach with a wistful gaze….

I just heard an old man say, “Hope springs eternal” on the TV. I don’t know how that became my mantra, but I find myself using that quote everywhere.

I’m ready to be a mommy. I’m ready to hold my baby, to love my baby, to be a mother to my baby. I want my babies so much. I love them, all of them, and they aren’t even conceived yet.

Sometimes this grief feels like it’s going to swallow me whole. I feel like my heart is so swollen; it’s a wonder that it hasn’t burst. My eyes are so heavy with tears, I am amazed that I can keep them open.

Sometimes, all I can do is hang my head, hug myself, and cry.

Originally posted July 31st, 2008 when my blog was still called Hope Springs Eternal. You can find the original post here. 


I’m the Best Wife Ever

The Mama Kat Writer’s Workshop prompt that I chose is “list 10 things you’d like to get for your husband or dad for Father’s Day”.

Mama’s Losin’ It

At first I was like “well that’s a weird thing to write about. How the hell do I know what he’d like?” and then I was like “OK you’re his wife, you’ve been together for 8 years, you should know this”. And then I was like “hey remember that time you thought it’d be an awesome idea to get him a shaving cream warmer for a gift and he hated it? Yeah.”

I decided it can’t get much worse than a shaving cream warmer that makes your shaving cream 104 degrees and smell like feet, so I thought I’d give it a whirl. Here’s my list of Ten Gift Ideas for my Husband on Father’s Day.

1. A robot dog
2. A jet pack
3. A subscription to “women who are dressed up like female superheroes bringing him sandwiches” of the month club. Wait – does that exist? *scribbles down business idea* MILLIONAIRE.
4. A man-date with Will Smith, Ving Rhames, Christopher Meloni and Anthony Hopkins.
5. A giant cookie cake in the shape of the Millenium Falcon
6. A large ape or bear to battle
7. Nickleback to come to our house and play a personal concert just for him (this one is OBVIOUSLY a joke. Not only is it completely not feasible to get Nickleback to my house, but I wouldn’t subject my worst enemy to Nickleback. That’s just inhumane)
8. A complete viewing of the movie Alexander – uninterrupted by my rolling my eyes and snarky comments (I might have to be completely drunk for this)
9. A dragon
10. Four hundred and two sugar gliders

Looking back over this list, I can give myself a big ole’ nod of satisfaction. Clearly I am the best wife ever and deserve a trophy and all of the chocolate and vodka forever. Happy Father’s Day, honey!

Lessons in Motherhood


Mama’s Losin’ It

For this week’s Writer’s Workshop prompt I chose “Share a lesson you learned from your Mother that still sticks with you to this day”.

I struggled with this topic, because I didn’t glean many positive things from my mother. We didn’t share many Hallmark moments learning life lessons over a cup of tea or coffee. There was a lot of yelling, resentment, and dysfunction, but not so much with the touchy-feely learning.

I have felt compelled to write more about my feelings about my mother and Mother’s Day, since it is the first since she died.

I mostly learned the type of mother I don’t want to be. The kind of behavior I never want my daughter to see. The lessons my mother “taught” me weren’t so much taught with intention and thought as learned by me being witness to the person that she was.

From watching her, I learned to always stay on top of my mental health; there is a family history of mental illness and just like being proactive about a family history of breast cancer, I have learned I will have to be proactive about my mental health as well.

She taught me that yelling and rage don’t ever solve anything. All it teaches a child is how to fear confrontation, conflict, and how to feel ashamed and like everything is their fault.

It wasn’t all bad, I suppose. My mom also taught me to love and embrace being different. She exposed me to her generation’s music; the Beatles, The Who, The Mamas and the Papas and growing up, I was almost always the only kid in my class who even knew who those bands were.

She taught me how to love driving through back roads with no real destination, listening to music and enjoying the silent company of the person you are with.

I think one of the lessons I have taken most from my relationship with her is that just because I didn’t have a great mother doesn’t mean that I can’t be one myself. That just because I didn’t have a good example doesn’t mean I am destined to fail my daughter the way I was failed. I am learning to accept my life with her for what it was, not what I wished it would be. I’m working on finding the good lessons and good moments amidst the bad. In a way, I suppose that even now I am learning from her. Learning how to forgive, learning how to let go, learning how to accept. Hard lessons to learn – especially with no mother to guide me – but I’m working it out. And in the end, I know that it will help me be the mother to her that I never had for myself.


First, I’d like to spaz and squee a little bit. I got my Mama Kat Writer’s Workshop Prompt in my inbox this Tuesday, and saw my name attached to one of her prompts as inspiration (“What Did You Want Your Name to Be?”). I feel like a rock star. I just had to share that little bit of info, because it’s super exciting to me! I’m not writing my own prompt, but a different one.

Moving right along..

Mama’s Losin’ It

One of my favorite things is performing. I was in a few musicals in high school, was always in choir, and as an adult joined a local Sweet Adelines (women’s a capella barbershop) chorus. I’ve had to stop going to chorus temporarily as my life has gotten crazy, busy, and I just didn’t have the energy to go every week. But I do miss it. I love the thrill of stepping out on stage, the applause of the audience, feeding off their energy.

On Monday, I will be auditioning for a local production of the musical Hair.

I’m really excited. I’m really nervous. I’m a little intimidated and terrified of the rehearsal schedule (if I make the show, of course). 5-6 nights a week, 3 hours a night. Ack! But it’s only for a few weeks, and I know that I am going to absolutely love it if I do make the show. I listen to songs from the musical and imagine myself as one of the characters. I think about what it will be like to get on stage again and participate in musical theater again, and the thought thrills me and gives me butterflies. I’ve wanted to audition for shows at this particular theater before, but they’ve never really done a musical that I was really excited about – until this one. I have always loved the music from this show, I love the time period it is set in, and I’m a little bit of a hippie at heart so once I heard they were putting the show on this summer I knew I had to audition.

Sometimes when I’m driving in my car and a song from Hair comes on, I sing along at the top of my lungs, imagining what it will be like if I make the show. I’d ask for you to wish me good luck, but in theater world that’s bad luck. So…. Wish me a broken leg, if you are so inclined. This time next week, I could be a member of The Tribe.


The Life of a Princess


Mama’s Losin’ It

“Natalie! Natalie,” my mother called.

I sighed, lifting my head from resting against my silky, luxurious pillows. I stroked my pet tiger and impatiently wondered how many times I had to tell her that I’d left my old name and identity behind. I lowered my head back down to rest. I closed my eyes, basking in the glow of my princess-ness.


With a heavy sigh, I heaved myself up from my comfortable pile of softness and trudged toward the urgent sound of my mother’s voice. I turned the corner and pushed aside the beaded curtain, and my imaginary palace filled with exotic plants, pet tiger and lush colors draped over every surface dissolved around me. I was standing in our kitchen where my mother was looking at me. I stomped into the room, hands on my hips and glared at her defiantly.

“My name isn’t Natalie anymore. What did I tell you?!”
She rolled her eyes and sighed.
“Sorry. I forgot. Jasmine?”
I stared at her some more.
“PRINCESS Jasmine?”
My expression softened and I dropped my hands back to my sides.
“Yes?” I asked sweetly.
“What do you want for lunch?”

I had just seen the Disney movie Aladdin, and I was a girl obsessed, determined only to answer to the name Princess Jasmine.

I gave her my lunch demands like a good princess and retreated back to the solitude of my fantasy world. I pushed aside the beaded curtain and was once again immersed into the world of Princess Jasmine waiting for my Aladdin to come rescue me from my miserable, pent-up life. My bed served as my throne of pillows, my pet cat Ed transformed into my friendly tiger and confidante Raja. I wallowed and pined and lamented to “Raja” how terrible life as a princess was.

My demand that my family address me only as Princess Jasmine would soon be overthrown by my new insistence that my family call me Mary Anne – in homage to my favorite character in the Baby Sitter’s Club. But for now, I was happy lounging about fantasizing about far-off places and being whisked away on adventures on a magic carpet ride. A girl’s gotta have a dream, right?

3,652 Days Ago.

I haven’t felt like participating in a Writer’s Workshop lately, but I am finding myself a bit dry in the inspiration department. I don’t have much to say right now that hasn’t already been said. My kid had a gross, blistery rash which she so generously shared and contaminated her father with, my mom is still dead, I’m still working, etc.

SO, I turned to Mama Kat once more for ideas. This is the prompt I chose.

Mama’s Losin’ ItTen years ago on this day, I was eighteen years old and living with a man 9 years my senior. I cannot be more specific, because save for special dates and memorable occasions who the hell remembers exactly what they were doing on any given day ten years in the past? I tried turning to my old LiveJournal to see if I’d written an entry detailing my day, but all I came up with was some WHAT COLOR FLOWER ARE YOU? quiz or some shit like that. I took a lot of those.

Ten years ago, I was working at a movie theater for $5.15 an hour. I know, right? I thought it was the greatest job ever, because I got to see free movies and eat free popcorn whenever I wanted. I also got to wear a rad vest and bowtie.

Ten years ago, I had been in Chattanooga less than a year. Ten years ago on this day I can confidently tell you that I was thinner. Ten years ago on this day, I had never given birth. I had never had a miscarriage. On this day ten years ago, I hadn’t ever had to make the decision to put my mother into hospice care, and then watch as her body ceased to function as she died. On this day ten years ago, the thought that people went through that kind of thing every day wasn’t something that entered my head even for a fleeting moment.

Ten years ago on this day, I hadn’t yet met the woman who is now my best friend. I had no idea that she and I would become friends, lose touch for a while and then have daughters two weeks (to the day) apart. I had no idea that we’d work together for a second time and become almost like sisters.

Ten years ago on this day I thought I had everything figured out. I was in love with my boyfriend; I was content with my little job, with my little life. I was honestly just glad to not be living in the overwhelming, dark presence of my crazy, manic mother anymore.

On this day ten years ago, I was oblivious as to what the next 3,652 days held in store for me. A break-up. A marriage. A miscarriage first; then giving birth to a daughter. Weight loss. The death of my crazy, manic mother.

On this day ten years ago, I was a completely different person. A girl. I think that if I went back and visited that girl that existed all those years ago, I would not recognize her. I would cock my head and observe her curiously, watch her go about her life as if I were watching the life of a stranger. Would I advise her to do anything differently? Probably not. The actions of that girl molded and shaped her into the woman that she ultimately became; a woman who is now married to a wonderful man, who has an amazing daughter, who has seen and suffered heartbreaking losses and has come through stronger and wiser.

3,652 days is an awfully long time, and an instant all at once. If you blink, you might miss it. I can’t help but smile and wonder what the next 3,652 days have in store.

The Gift of Music

Hark the herald, angels sing. Glory to the newborn King

My family sang, our voices echoing in the empty church. We weren’t at a church service, we weren’t singing in preparation for a wedding or a funeral. We were gathered together, my big family and I, to create what is probably the most memorable Christmas gift I’ve ever been a part of making.

It was 1992, I think, and I was eight on the verge of being nine. The gift was for my grandma Nellie, who was legally blind and loved music. My entire family, in fact, loved music and we were all blessed with the gift of song. I don’t know from whom the idea came, to make grandma Nellie the Christmas tape. All I know is that I am beyond grateful that the idea came about when I was old enough to have memories of the experience.

I didn’t want to be involved at first. I was anxious and shy about having to sing on my own. I was an ass about it;  begging my parents not to make me do it and even outright refusing until one day we pulled up to my aunt’s house and my mother stopped the car and locked the doors in the driveway. She looked at me.
“Natalie Elaine,” she began, “You aren’t backing out of this. I don’t care if you’re nervous, or if you are shy about singing by yourself. You are going to be a part of this because we all are and if you are the only one not on this tape, I promise you one day you will regret it and you will be very sad.”

My mother has not ever been a source of advice or wisdom for me, but on this she was dead right. After her talk with me there was no question about whether or not I would sing on this tape. I did it, I sang my song and I am eternally grateful to my mother for locking me in the car that day and telling me in no uncertain terms that I was to participate. She was right: if I had been the only family member left off that tape I would be very, very sad.

Over the course of weeks – maybe even months, time is different when you’re a child – we recorded together at my aunt and uncle’s church and individually in a recording studio. Everyone involved got either their own song, or their own verses in a song. My mother and her two sisters sang a song together.  My father and aunt sang “O Holy Night”; a song that makes me cry to this day from the memories it brings. Mostly because that Christmas tape was one of the last good memories I had from when my family was still whole. My song was “Bring a Torch, Jeanette Isabella”. I sang it in a recording studio by myself. I still remember the weight of the earphones, heavy and professional-feeling; too big for my head. I remember the sound of my own voice rebounding back into my ears. I sang the song in one take and that was it. The thing I had feared so much was behind me.

On Christmas that year, we gathered at my aunt’s as we always do. The air was heavy with excitement and anticipation for the surprise we were about to give to my grandma Nellie. After the presents were opened and the room sufficiently filled with snowman-covered paper, one of the adults in the family came forward with grandma’s present. I don’t remember who it was, but I do remember what they said:
”This year for Christmas, we decided to give you two things you loved most: music, and our family.”

The tape was popped in, and the sound of my family’s voices singing in four-part harmony filled the room. Everyone teared up as my three-year-old cousin Laurie sang the first verse of “Away In a Manger” in her baby voice. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach when my song came on and I was suddenly flushed and red with embarrassment. I listened to the sound of my own voice and watched my family’s faces, waiting for their silent critique. Everyone smiled as they listened but no one’s smile was bigger than my grandma Nellie’s.

In the years since her passing and as I’ve grown up, I am more and more grateful for that experience. It really was one of the last good memories I have from my childhood. Grandma Nellie died two years later, and shortly after that my parents divorced and my family fell apart. But in the Christmas of 1992 I was part of something special. Something wonderful. I was part of giving my blind grandmother the gift of the two things she loved most:

Music, and her family.

Childhood Trauma: The Christmas Edition

Once again, I am participating in Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. The prompt I chose this week is “10 Things I Wanted for Christmas as a Kid but Didn’t Get and Still Want”. We all have those Holy Grail items; the ones we still put up on a pedestal from childhood. Those bright, shiny trinkets and toys that we never did get our grubby little chocolate-covered fingers on and are still bitter about today.

I am no exception. Here are the top ten things I wanted for Christmas but never got and still might want just a little.

10. Various Barbie Dolls: from the ages of four until about six, I was banned from getting Barbie dolls. It was cruel and unusual punishment. I lamented many a night about my lack of Barbie dolls. Nevermind the fact that I was banned because I had a penchant for pulling their heads off and shaving their hair, clogging the drain in our bathtub. It was inhumane to keep Barbie from me, damnit. I WANT ALL THE BARBIE DOLLS I NEVER GOT.
9. An Easy-Bake Oven: My parents said I’d start a fire. Burn the house down. Burn myself. WHAT THE HELL, MOM AND DAD. It’s a tiny little toy oven. Do you really think my cupcake-making ventures would have ended in our house being in ashes? PROBABLY NOT. I don’t care that I have a real oven now, I’m still pissed about the lack of Easy Bake in my life.
8. A Pogo Stick: Who doesn’t let their child have a pogo stick and use it in the house? I might as well have lived in a police state. Jesus.
7. My Little Ponies: Again, I had a temporary ban on My Little Ponies. Because I liked to give them mohawks. My parents were always stifling my creativity. Ugh.
6. Red Ryder BB Gun: Wait. That wasn’t me at all. Shit.
5. A Tattoo of a Velociraptor: Because, obviously. Why wouldn’t a 9 year old get a velociraptor tattoo for Christmas? Because their parents are anti-fun and like to oppress creativity. That’s why. I would have been the coolest kid in school. COOLEST. EVER.
4. A Kitten: I don’t care that we had five cats already. I never got a kitten for Christmas. I never got to experience the joy/excitement of picking up a box and hearing mewing from inside. I never got to live the thrill of opening said box and having a snow-white fluffy kitten with a red bow tied around its neck crawl out and start nuzzling me. WHY, MOM AND DAD? Why would you rob me of this experience?!
3. A Trampoline: What child doesn’t have excess energy to burn off? And what is the best way to do that? By jumping up and down until you pass out on the ground from exhaustion. This gift really would have done my mom and dad a favor by tiring me out so I slept well. Okay, so, I broke my toe on someone else’s trampoline once but it was just a toe. It’s not like it was my whole leg for crying out loud. Jeez.
2. Ice Skates: “You don’t ice skate”, they’d say. “BUT I WOULD IF I HAD ICE SKATES.” I’d retort. For one of my birthdays, my mom took me and a few friends to a local ice skating rink where I fell on my ass approximately every five minutes. She may not have seen my Olympic potential, but I bet if I’d had those damn ice skates I could’ve been the next Kristi Yamaguchi. For reals.

And the #1 Christmas present I never got that I am bitter about to this day is…

1. A Power Wheels Car: OH. MY. GOD. Seriously. Every time I see a Power Wheels I get pissed off. I want Nellie to have one, but every time she sits in one I get jealous. WHY DOES SHE GET A POWER WHEELS? I DIDN’T. GET YOUR LITTLE ASS OUT OF THAT PINK CAR. Sure, I drive my own car now but IT DOESN’T MATTER. My parents NEVER got me a Power Wheels. Because “they were too dangerous”. I might “drive out into traffic and get run over by a car” or “might be crossing someone’s driveway and they won’t see you and they’ll back right over you”. Right.. Because those things can’t happen ON A BICYCLE. My parents were OBVIOUSLY jealous that Power Wheels cars were way cooler than their Taurus. Because, DUH. If you had a choice between driving a sweet ass pink convertible with Barbie’s face on the side and a TAURUS, which would you choose? That’s what I thought. Back when I was young, I remember there being a Barbie Power Wheels and like, a Jeep. I think that was it. Now they have Convertibles and John Deere Tractors and like Range Rovers with spinning rims and thumping bass systems and shit. Think of how awesome a driver I could’ve been if my parents had gotten me a Power Wheels. I COULD HAVE DRIVEN FOR NASCAR.

…………………. On second thought, maybe it’s for the best that mom and dad didn’t get me a Power Wheels.


Merry Christmas! Don’t traumatize your children. Get them what they want. Or don’t, and wait 25 years for them to write a bitter blog post about you on the internet. Whatever. It’s YOUR choice.

Five Things.

I sat down to my computer last night with grand plans of drafting the shit out of some blog posts. I settled into my couch, laptop ready, fingers poised. I stared at the screen and typed out some bullshit about clean eating and disciplining my kid. I saved the documents, and thought.. What the fuck is this? This isn’t me. I mean yes, I have things to say about clean eating and discipline but… This is boring.

I realized that this blogging drought has left me wondering where my voice is. I also realized that I had nothing interesting to say. Nada. Zilch. I decided to get some help, so I turned to Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. I’ve seen the buttons, but have never participated. I chose the topic “Five Things”. So here we go.


Five Things You Don’t Know About Me (Unless You Know Me Really Well and Then You Probably Do Know These Things)

1. My first kiss didn’t happen until I was 16. It was at Chicago’s Museum of Science and Industry. It was with a 25 year old (go ahead and fetch your smelling salts. I’ll wait).
2. I have only kissed two people in my entire life.
3. I have also only slept with two people in my entire life.
4. When I was 9 years old, I wanted a tattoo of a velociraptor on my shoulder. Unrelated; 9 year olds shouldn’t get tattoos.
5. When I was a little girl after the movie Aladdin came out, I insisted that my family address me as “Jasmine” for weeks.

Five Things I Am Knowledgeable About

1. Movies. Quotes, trivia, actors, actresses. Movies are my thing.
2. Spelling. I can spell like a mofo. And mofos spell really well, in case you weren’t aware.
3. Sarcasm.
4. Llamas.
5. I lied about llamas. I don’t know anything about llamas. I’m sorry I lied.

Five Things I Know Nothing About

1. Ironing. I have never ironed anything in my life and I would probably burn my apartment down if I tried.
2. Fashion. It’s not so much that I don’t know, it’s just that I don’t really care.
3. Where the interstate signs on the side of the highways are made. I don’t know where they come from but I bet they’re hard to make.
4. Jupiter. I mean, I know it’s a planet but that’s about the extent of my knowledge.
5. Sewing.

Five Things I Believe

1. I believe in equality for everyone. No exceptions.
2. I believe that love is love. It doesn’t matter if you are a man loving a man, a woman loving a man, a woman loving a woman. Love is love, period.
3. I believe that there is a higher power. I do not call it God, nor am I a Christian.
4. I believe what goes around comes around.
5. I believe in the supernatural.

So there you have it. My first Writer’s Workshop. Huzzah! That was fun, and actually more challenging than I thought it’d be. I hope you enjoyed it, and hopefully I will be writing more often.

Okay, bye bye.