Sixteen days ago, someone ridiculously close to me passed away.

My grandmother, Shairoo Khan, age 73.

Sure, some people know how my family and I felt. But not many people did, because not many people were as close to their grandmother as I was to mine. I visited my grandmother practically every single day of my life. Fifteen minutes drive from my house. Three minutes away from church catching the lights.

My day to day schedule to seeing her was something like: come home from school, eat and pray, do a tad bit of homework, and then go to grams and church.

Every single day.

Except for Fridays, but on Fridays my cousins in University spent the day with her, so she was never alone.

On the day of Eid-ul-Fitr, September 10th, 2010, my church held their celebrations at the Skating Rink, as per usual. After prayers and breakfast, my cousins and friends went outside to take some pictures and such, and a few minutes later, my grandparents and uncle came out to leave. My grandma was hot inside and my grandpa was just restless and tired.

My cousin, Shelly, stopped them and made them take pictures with the family. This was at 11.05 AM. After they took some pictures, they left.

The next few minutes were a world-wind of happiness and posing and shooting and I put down my camera, walked back inside to look for something to drink. The first thing that I saw was a coke machine – charging me 2.50 for a small bottle. I turned around and noticed my dad running to the door, holding back tears, trying to dial some number on his cell phone.

I’ll say this about my father. He’s one of the most hardcore people ever. He scares grown men away. He’s a defender, a fighter, and he’s brilliant. I’ve only ever seen him with tears in his eyes on two occasions other than this. When my grandma was in the ICU a few years back, and when he was leaving my siblings and I for two weeks and didn’t know if God would allow him to come back.

So, I rushed towards him, and in his tearfilled voice he asked me where Asiya, my sister, was. We rushed back outside and I yelled at her to come on – my dad and mom (who was behind him) where running straight out to the street where we’d parked.

My dad, on his way, seeing my cousins, yelled for them to hurry up and get to grams’ house. Less than ten minutes away. I had to give my best friend back her thing I’d been holding, I had to double back, knew the situation was urgent – just dropped it on the ground and kicked off my heels. Ran to catch up to my sister, mother, and father. Kurt yelled, driving past - “You don’t have to run, they won’t leave you.”

But he didn’t know. I did. They would have.

We jumped into the car. Drove away, and it was a procession – Aunty Sophie in the lead, Saalim behind her, Us, and whoever was behind us.

I tweeted at 11.46 AM:

the sky is so blue and beautiful with promise…. how can this be happening?

Little did I know.

Wild turn onto Peck Avenue, Aunty Sophie parked madly in the first spot she saw, Saalim just double parked, Dad pulled into his tenants parking lot. We rushed so much, I hit my door against the gate and no one cared.

We ran. Three houses down, across the street. Except everyone was on the street. Ambulance in front of us, Auntie Faz already sobbing. Auntie Sophie went immediately went to the EMT’s. Her hospital work ethic kicking in. Dad and mom couldn’t even join her, and their work’s the same.

After minutes, I approached my mom who had went up and returned.

“Ummi, what happened?”

“Her heart stopped… they can’t get a heartbeat.”

I knew more than anyone else. More ambulances came, fire squad. Over twenty people on the street. Auntie Sophie, Grandpa, Zak, Auntie Salma, Uncle Basheer and Grams. To the hospital. Zak drove.

They gave us hope.

Everyone went inside. Thirty people at the least. Filled the living room, family room, dining room, kitchen. A reading began.

“Ridwan will read us some Quraan.” Uncle Ali said. And the attention shifted to Riddy.

Silence.

Clock ticked. He started, “Bis–” a sob shook his body.

Silence.

He tried again. But shook his head. Uncle Ali cleared his throat, gathered the attention and recited instead. My eyes were glued to Riddy’s. I knew more than they did.

The reading went forth. My friend Britt gathered from my tweet that something was wrong, she texted me. My friends from church texted me. My best friend Shaz needed to know what was happening. She was family.

I needed air. I walked outside.

Granddad was back, Zak drove up, Auntie Salma and Auntie Sophie came out. Stoic faces.

The result.

I stared them in the face.

Tell me the result.

Auntie Salma started crying, walking up the driveway.

That still leaves me with questions.

Give me my answer.

They walked inside, Zak, beside me, nineteen years old. He leaned against the car, I turned to him.

He broke down in silent tears. Racked his body.

You gave me my result.

I walked inside, I needed to know. For sure. Though I knew. It was too complicated. Too much, too fast.

Uncle Ali, I caught the words, “Grandma is home.”

Shoes kicked off, turned to the right, my mom is crying and I go and hug her and I comfort her. I don’t cry. Over her shoulder, I see straight into my grandmothers room. My sister crying on the floor, into her bed. In the corner of the room, to the left, Wafiyah, tear streaked face, crying into her knees.

I don’t cry.

I walk out the door. I walk in the backyard, I sit on the blacktop in my ball gown. I pick up my phone and call my best friend.

Shaz. She’s gone.

Don’t say that, Raiesah. She can’t be.

They just came back… Shaz. She’s gone.

I hear Uncle Amir having a similar conversation. Tear-filled voice. I look up, I can’t speak. My tears have clogged my throat. My best friend is crying into the phone. She lets me go.

2.00 PM tweet.

Rest In Peace.

2.13 PM we move to the front yard, I found my sister and a few older cousins sitting on the front steps. When I join them, no one looks at me. But Ace says,“This is where we used to wait for the ice cream truck.”

Time keeps passing. I still feel stuck. The house is getting filled, over a hundred people there, easy. They cook. They set up chairs. Someone tells me I need to eat. My dad already made me change out of my dress.

I’m in too much confusion to function.

Someone bought me a red bull. The sun starts to set. The ice cream truck passes twice.

We write on the sidewalk. ♥ RIP Grandma. September 10, 2010.

Some people text me. Call me. I can’t take the way they speak to me. Until he texts me and it’s the most normal and yet caring conversation I’ve had and it saves me a little bit.

People force me to eat. Hand me the red bull. I hide my face from the crowd, pull over a hood. Try to eat my food. Sit away from people. They still see me. Know I’m affected. Approach me. I have no appetite.

They don’t know how to approach me, and still do it. I appreciate their sympathy, but it just makes me know I’m supposed to be hurting so much. The most understanding thing I got was a simple look from someone that the same thing happened to just a year before. She looked me in the eye, and it portrayed so much more than words could have.

They did a short reading – and people saw me get up to listen.

Commented on me.

Said I looked like I’d been crying.

I hadn’t yet let a tear fall.

I glared and walked away.

A friend tried to comfort me.

I had to shrug it off.

I’m bad at reacting.

But anger is easier.

My dad decides we need to go home. The car ride is quiet. The silence starts to slowly kill me. And we get home. The viewing would be at ten, the family had to be there at nine. The janazah (funeral prayers) would be at one. The burial would be afterwards.

I go to sleep sometime after three AM and clutch my blanket and close my eyes tightly and play my quraan loudly to drown out my thoughts.

I wake up at six.

And I hear voices outside.

Carloads of my moms family from Canada came. They came for my grandmother. They came to pray with us. Eight hour drive, to be with us. And I let them take my room. They sleep, eat breakfast, do whatever they need.

I need something to get my face unfrozen.

I go online. I search for something funny. Something football. Something good. I find something… David Beckham, I think? And a Canadian walks up behind me,“This is what you do all day?” Scolds me. Berates me.

I get up and walk away. Attempt to eat something. Fail.

Then it’s time to get ready. My sister gives me her clothes to wear and I shower, get dressed. I’m impatient. We’re late, on my clock.

My brother drives me, Ace, my NY cousin (NYers had come, too).

Two vanloads and our car. My parents had left already.

We get there. I get my baby. Aidan – my cousins son, sixish months old.

Taahir told me, “Yeah, that’s good. Little kids are the best to be around. They’re innocent and happy.” And I knew this to be the truth. Aidan occupied my time until the guys took him and I sat down, front row. My cousins, me, my siblings, my in-laws, my aunts, uncles. Time passed too fast and too slow, too complicated.

They brought her up. Wooden box. Uncle Ali spoke. People got up to see her.

I didn’t budge. Front row. Imaan was crying, beside me. Stood up to comfort her dad. My uncle. They stood there, my sister saw her, braced against the window and cried. I stood, to pat my other Uncle on the shoulder. My dad walked past. My mom held my hand and we walked over. I leaned forward, “I love you so much, Grams. I’ll see you again soon, I promise.”

I couldn’t not tear up. I couldn’t get the words out with a straight face. And a tear never fell.

We had to drive to Church for the Janazah.

My best friend, Lee, was helping set chairs up. Taahir, Salma, Mana, Safi. My sister went inside, I followed. I didn’t know where to go. I made wudu in the basement again. Made it again. Checked myself. Scratched at my eyes.

Forgot to bring sunglasses.

Waffy never took hers off.

We sat outside. They served snacks. I doled out.

I couldn’t eat. Salma sat next to me. I eased up.

My best friends sat near me. It helped me breath easier.

We had to go inside to pray, listen to some words. Someone rubbed my leg, Brother Ashraf came on the loudspeaker, spoke. I barely heard. Sheik Dawud spoke, called my grandmother everyone’s grandmother. Let it be known that she was the matriarch of the community. A pillar. Was.

Still is.

Line began. I had teared up again.

Too crowded. So many people. We had to take a tarp and pray outside on the ground.

Basement full, upstairs full, barely space. Barely space outside.

I prayed in the front row. Dhur salaah. Done. Shoes on. People poured outside for ages. Waffy clutched the pole for some support. Virginia, Grams close friend looked for Waffy. Waffy saw and immediately hugged her so tightly. Wafiyah had the closest relationship with grams.

I stood by the hearse. They took the wooden box out, set it on wheels, wheeled it to the front. Told us to make lines to pray. Less than an arms length apart inbetween. Shoulder to shoulder. There was barely any space to fit.

That was proof.

Our fingerprints never fade from the lives we touch.

She’d touched so many people, they couldn’t fit in the span of four houses. Three parking lots. There was so much people.

I have never seen that many people at any funeral in my entire life. And I have been to so many.

We prayed. I put more heart into that than I have in anything else. I hope to God my prayers… everyone’s prayers were accepted. And then it was time to go again. Dad led us to the car. So much traffic. Ace asked if anyone was with my brother, Sid, who was also driving.

I didn’t reply except to run to his car. Got in shotgun. Sat through traffic to get out of the lot. Silence. Eating me up.

He was fidgeting, I was staring at two people leading normal lives on my left. They were waiting their turn to get out. Moe waved at me. I swallowed back. We got out. Four cars behind dad.

The ride there was one of the longest, quietest rides of my life. And if you know my brother, that’s odd. You know when you’re sitting peacefully and then someone drives by blasting music so loud it vibrates the world around them? That’s Sid.

We cut cars, kept the hazard lights on, drove slow, fast, took illegal turns, turned without breaking.

Got to the burial ground.

Packed. I stood a distance away. I’m a girl. Deemed too emotional to be allowed to be close as they lowered my grandmother into the ground. My best friend, Shaz, beside me. She had sunglasses on. My mom’s beside me, still crying. Waffy is in front of me.

I look up, through the trees. The sun winks at me. So peaceful.

A prayer at the site, I put my hands up. Mechanics. Shift my feet.

Time passes. Too fast, too slow.

I get back in the car with Sid. Can’t sit shotgun. Nyron, Sids friend, takes that. My brother eases and tenses at the same time.

We drive fast, getting out. Sid speeds, needs to take his feelings out on the road, wheels grinding the pavement. Gets on the highway, switches lanes, speeds away.

“Oh god.”

I’ve never, ever heard my brother portray so much emotion in so little words. The best my brother gets at portraying emotion is yelling when he’s angry. But the two words he spoke were so quiet, it almost escaped out the window.

We stopped at Church, picked up the tents. Drove to grams house, took them to the back. Stacked them in the garage. Cousins gathered in the front yard again.

My grandmother had been planning to barbeque that saturday. She’d told us all, excitedly. All her children were together again. And that saturday, her entire family was present.

All eight kids, all twenty grandkids, all eight greatgrandkids.

Everyone was there.

People from Florida, Canada, Pennsylvania, New York, New Jersey, Connecticut. So many people.

All I can say is, if I even needed proof of that statement. I got it on September 11, 2010. Ironic, to say the least. If any other day stood at the same level as that day, September 11, I certainly know not of it.

My grandmother was frustrating at times, but I loved her for it. I loved the way she said my name, a slow drawl. I loved the way she chastised me because she cared. I know that every time she got angry at me was because she knew I could better. I know that any time I think about her, I’ll be sad, but I’ll also be happy.

Because so many people were there.

So many people cared.

And she deserved it.

And when my time comes. I hope I can have at least a fraction of the reception she did.

I love you so much, Grams. I miss you more than simple words can declare. But you already know that. I miss you. And I will see you again, one day. That I promise you.

The football thing was always kind of a mystery in the sense of ‘where did that come from?’ Well, I suppose it may have even started with David Beckham. Afterall, my favourite team when I started caring about football was Manchester United. When I was born, David was already playing for them.

Of course, he only played with them for around…four or so years, which means when the football thing started I was… six when I became a football fan. Six years old people. That’s eleven years ago.

So, no, this football thing? It isn’t new.

In 2003, David was traded to Real Madrid and I didn’t have the capacity at the age of ten to look up games on the internet to watch. Or, I did, we just didn’t get Internet or Cable until I was literally like, 13. My football thing became less and less apparent.

I mean, if David’s not on Manchester United, what else do I really have on there?

Cristiano Ronaldo. Three years go past, I still mess around with the footy in the backyard, try to kick it from different angles through the wooden structure that was the swing set. And the World cup starts, I’m in seventh grade, and there’s this guy in my class that loves football as much as I used to.

And I become inspired again. I’d followed footy enough to know that the person to love was Cristiano. His skills, his talent, his drive. It almost made up for David not even being there anymore. But my team to root for was England, all the way. My love for Gerrard, Owen, Hargreaves, J. Cole, and even A. Cole at the moment was intense. They were the team I needed to win.

My locker sat adorned with the pictures of Cristiano Ronaldo, Steven Gerrard, David Beckham, and more Cristiano.

I remember sitting in my Spanish class, Ms. Reyes, the teacher, putting on the game, and everyone settling in their seats as we watched the footballers find their place on the pitch. It didn’t bother me too much when England lost, for the sheer sake of – a) I was 13 and just finished seventh grade. and b) everyone I knew was either rooting for France or Italy.

Ace and Waffy were rooting for Italy, in their minds, not because of the awesomeness that is football, but because they thought the team was hot. The men at my church were all rooting for France for Zidane, because he was a Muslim.

It was pretty epic, when we got to the final and it was France against Italy and it all started boiling down to this one point… and then France was cheated and Italy won. Accept, if your victory isn’t truly won fairly, is it truly a victory?

The World Cup of ’06 ended, the footy nets at church disappeared, and everything went back to normal. My wallet that had no money housed three images – David Beckham, Michael Owen, and James Lafferty. In the ’06 World Cup, Michael Owen was injured and afterwards never played for the English team again.

On the last day of middle school I signed up to join the football team for my school. July 23, 2007 was the day I turned in my slips and was added to the roster.

In ’08, Hargreaves was injured. In ’08 I was part of Senora Lopez’ spanish class, where I sat beside Justin and Grace on his other side, immersed in the love-fest for Fernando Torres that slightly scared me from loving the man myself.

How could I be so crazy?

08-09 boiled into “OH MY GOD, did you see the game?” And me being confused because they were all Liverpool fans and I only ever followed Manchester United scores and I hadn’t seen a game in centuries.

And then 09-10 finally got me to fall more in love with Fernando and, subtly, Liverpool. The fact that I no longer sat near Justin, who loved Fernando with such scary passion helped. I think I didn’t want to like Fernando so much because he loved him so much.

So it was finally when I admitted and then let my love for Fernando grow that things began to change. I admitted also to liking Liverpool. My fandom was started to shift. I even started following the Prem League more religiously – and then 2010 began.

We’d been waiting for this for so long, the people I knew and myself. The World Cup was back! Thank God, we’d missed it so much.

I was a die-hard Spain fan. Non-rooting for any other teams (except for, miserably, England.) And I supported them from day one. To the point where I wanted to refuse to watch any other games. But of course I didn’t. I enjoyed, so much, spending Fridays with my cousin at my grandmothers house and watching the games.

I mean, I spent a load of time having defend Fernando. I mean, come on people. The man had surgery in April, did you expect him to be all bad-a straight off the bat? I didn’t, people need time to get back into the grove, and I am telling you right now he has.

Proof, also being the fact that I am watching the Spain versus Liechtenstein game right now and he just scored. Twice. Along with my boo’s David Villa and David Silva. So, he’s got the magic.

After the world cup ended and I still followed. Watching every Liverpool game to date. Watching Spain games. I was even going to watch the U21 Spain game, but had to help cook at church.

So, if that wasn’t evidence enough that I’m not a newbie, then I don’t know what would suffice.

I mean, I never had a twitter before, so you can’t say I wasn’t as into it as before. So now, I’m just this epic Spain, Liverpool, Man United, Barcelona, Sevilla, Atletico, and Real Madrid fan. Wanna sue me? I’ll give you my number.

Basically, this year has been a hell of a lot of things packed together in one smush-faced erratic joke and misery fest.

Every Spring Break for the last two years, someone I know has passed away. 2k9, Danny and Sherry passed away in a horrible car accident on their way home from a family trip through Georgia. They left behind Sayf and Nafisah. Two beautiful children, ages 9 and 7 at the time. Time past, a year, and upon the eve of that same spring break in 2k10, my fathers Aunt passed away. That week is in my memory as a blur of time and words. “Dad, we have to go to Canada. We have to see her before…” And then, she passed. She passed before we got to go, and the eight hour trip was made, driving up to Canada and visiting family and feeling sad.

We left and, I won’t lie and say I was close to Mami because she lived in Canada and my entire life she’s been sick. But her death did affect me. Death hits you, no matter how well you knew the person, how much you cared. I grieve because I know someone is grieving more than I am. I know someone is in more pain than I am. And I don’t like to know or see that happening.

Going home didn’t help when people start online drama. And as Shaz says, “That’s why you don’t become friends with people online.”

There’s a difference, though, not that I’ll get into the details, because that’s boring to me and I could honestly care less about that right now.

So, people create issues online, and I realize – that website? that situation and scene? I could do without the issues it creates and the problems and people that sometimes comes along with it. Trust me, if I needed drama in my life, I know exactly where to go. And it’s far away from where I am and where I want to be.

I’m feeling pressured to get the work done in school, my insomnia’s slowly driving me insane. I can’t eat. June comes along and as soon as I can, I stop going to school. Trust me, my report card reflected that. Hanging out with Grace and Anu really helped ease up all that seemed to be getting worse with my life. The weather, friends, summer. It’s almost an instant cure to some things.

June eased into July and my family took a trip to Canada and I can honestly say that it was the best time, out of the seventeen years of going up to Canada, that I have had there. We acted like tourists, visiting Niagara and all these parks, and it honestly did not matter that I had a fever for like, a week. It was just a great time. And then we had to take a tour of the west which made me miss my world cup final… and I didn’t mention that, did I?

THE WORLD CUP freaking helped fix me up. I’m not over-exaggerating. It really helped me fix myself up, gave me something to be happy with, and even, honest to God helped me pray. I mean, I pray five times a day, daily. But the World Cup made my prayers long and careful and I prayed and prayed. And I rooted for Spain from day ONE. And I loved them…and they won.

Except I didn’t get to see the final. In fact, when the final game of Spain versus Holland began, I was running up Bryce Canyon to get reception on my cell phone, so that I could get texts from people that would tell me what the hell was happening in my game. I mean, my boys were in the WORLD CUP FINAL. COPA MUDIAL people! And I couldn’t sit there and watch and pray.

And when I got the news – Andres Iniesta scored a goal. We won the world cup. Spain had won the World Cup for the first time in history. I was in a tour bus in the middle of nowhere. I wanted to scream from the top of my lungs, my voice wanted to erupt – “YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!” Except we were in the bus, full of Oriental-Asians (It was a Chinese tour.) And then the tour guide announced it minutes later and had anyone looked at me then, I would have looked like the happiest person in the entire world.

I’m not a liar.

I bought my Fernando Torres jersey in San Francisco. I was ecstatic. And then, the day I left San Francisco, Iker Casillas and his girlfriend Sara Carbonero were there. I was slightly sad about that – I honest to God had a dream that after winning the World Cup, that the NT would go be happy and party in California or Las Vegas – where I had been. Alas, Iker shows up in Frisco when I leave, and then the entire Real Team (which is like, half the NT plus other amazinggggg players I love) shows up at UCLA right afterwards.

Thank you world, for that. That’s actually amazing. (I’m not being sarcastic at all. One day I will meet the NT.)

Fast forward a few weeks into late July, and we go camping and it’s epic and it lives up to our expectations. The best place is Stokes State Forest.We play at the beach, we go to the creek, we hike, we bike, we run and fall and act like children. It’s peaceful and it’s active and wondrous.

And then August begins, my sisters birthday; we go beading. My dads birthday and Uncle Bash’s, we have a barbecue. And then the amazing month of Ramadan starts. And then all these Islamophobia things start up and that’s just… immaturity. (That seems to be running around a lot lately.)

It’s unethical and childish. But I’m not going to get into the politics. It’s not exciting, and it’s just history repeating itself. Blacks. Jews. Japanese. And now Muslims. Kiah Glenn-Smith said, “Don’t be surprised when they start rounding Muslims up.” And as a reply got, “They already started. They just got better at hiding it.” Kiah replied again, “…Guantanamo Bay.”

Last month, a friend of a friend passed away and I wish I had known him because so many people have said such great things about him. And he seemed like a great person. Earlier in August, my friends mother passed away. And then, three days ago my best friends granddad passed away. That entire family is close to mine, and I can say that his passing was felt throughout the entire community.

I’m turning seventeen tomorrow, world. And I can honestly say I’ve changed who I am a lot in the last year. I strive every day to become a better person. I believe in God, I pray, and I hope. I have faith in things. I have faith in football. I have faith in the future. Have you?

What I feel right now is a strange thing, if it can be described. I’ve been gifted a rare euphoria to string together the past few days. I got to watch football, involved my family, felt a passion for something that ignited the remains of the happiness I once felt. It seems a little too depressing hearing that. But, it’s really not. It’s always sad to admit that you can’t exactly remember what it was to be happy.

For me, it’s kind of like. I stopped a lot of things, changed so subtly I barely realized I was losing parts of myself – the parts that I loved – and before I knew it I ended up where I am now.

I stopped writing for a while, as you can see. I stuck to making pretty things using online images, and then ceased that after some time as well. And I can honestly say that when you start faltering in faith you start losing yourself. I would know from experience. It doesn’t make me a coward admitting that I’ve failed so many times. It’s made me stronger, because I know that I can learn from the mistakes I’ve made. And I do move forward and I do get better and I do have a thing for fixing things.

So, with the help of God I’m going to fix up my life. Starting with shedding off the things that weren’t good for me. I’ve already cut out AIM and MSN for the time being. I’m spending less time online, trying to get some time outside. Soaking up some vitamin D. I’m trying to move past stupid things.

To be honest, if you think that I’m not happy right now. You’re wrong. And I’m a fool for misleading you. I’m ridiculously happy. Euphoric, even. The movie I just saw has me slightly teary (Pearl Harbor) but I’m generally so happy. The fixes I started since mid-june or so have begun to turn the shell-me around.

And I could credit a load of my happiness to FIFA. Yes, Football is a big reason I’m dorkily happy. Fernando Torres, Villa, Navas, Xavi, Alonso, Ramos, Puyol, Llorente, Casillas, Pique, Fabregas, Capdevilla, my entire Spain team. The English team, the entirety of the world cup has made me ridiculously happy. And Fernando tops the list. With Football, of course, I must give credit to elsewhere too. My family, though we’ve of course been through a hell of a lot of rough patches, have helped a tad bit. (If you see cracks in my room wall, you could probably blame my family for that… I’m kind of ridiculous and punch walls when I’m angry…)

Veronica Mars; with a special shout out to Jason Dohring/Logan Echolls for his amazing character. The invisible mustache twirling and the banter was love. I owe a shout out to my homies: Britt, Jenn, Els; Saf, Saff, Ace, Waff, Lee, Jeebos, Sally, whoever elseee. Y’all probably already know. But I have to say, a large, large accolade goes out to my biff Shazzy and my cousins Rid and Riy.

I’m kind of spaztastic when I post, so I also apologize for that. This is the story of my life, therefore organization is NOT accepted.

So let me tell you what I had a dream about. The other night I had a dream about Fernando Torres and he was like, in the middle of his Nike advert shoot and I was just walking around. Except, we were in RIVENDALE. Which, I realized later was probably because I had been thinking about his tattoo which is in Elvish. He has an inner dork. Which makes him far more adorkable than anyone, ever.

Sorry, I’m obsessed, I had to go on a tangent about him. It was necessary for my sanity.

Alright. I’m just going to say…I’ve changed a hell of a lot since I last wrote these things, don’t even remember how easily it used to flow. I got distracted for like, ten minutes just now reading some shady stuff about Cristiano Ronaldo. It’s sad to say he was my love before I learned of Fernando Torres. And it’s easy to see that Nando’s so much better for someone. I liked Ronaldo and I read his wiki and then wanted to play football. I love Nando and I want to take more Spanish classes, be smarter, play football, and become more cultured. I would also like to travel the world and attempt to find a career path that’s awesome (preferably working for FIFA, perhaps?). Nando makes me think about my future.

That has to speak volumes, right?

Anyway, today I found three Jerseys I basically want as much as I want to meet Nando. It was his away & home Spain jerseys, and Villa’s Spain jersey. If I had money, I’d have bought them AND then found Torres’ Liverpool jersey. But I live here, where my sister can buy $80 worth of things in the mall on Monday, and Tuesday I want my three Jerseys and I’m not allowed.

So whatever.

God has my back.

What else can I possibly talk about? Oh, I generally would like to apologize to the world for how ridiculous I am sometimes. If I have ever hurt someone, didn’t mean to. If you think I don’t like you, that’s false. I like everyone, everything. I’m on my way to being a Philanthrope. As much as I possibly can be, where I am. Hm, I love life, don’t think I’ll be letting anything slip by anytime soon. I wish I could capture moments better. Perhaps I need a better camera or something, but we’ll deal with that later.

All in all. I just got distracted again by the Kickettes website and their F5 stuff. Nando’s on the list. I think, if you like pretty smesh men, you should look: http://store-na.fifa.com/detail.php?p=264593&v=fifa_national-teams_spain

And I’ll leave you with another happy treat.

smesh.

I just finished a book, not saying I haven’t read it before, because the truth is – it’s one of those corny Meg Cabbot books that you reread when you’re feeling like you need a good sappy romance or teenage cliche. And it was all of that, and it was great. I finished the book – after leering several times over parts I was appalled with (reiterating, I’ve read this before) – and stood affront the room mirror grinning like a middle school fool. Now, I’m a junior in High School, but there’s nothing I want more than to not be  living the way I currently live.

Okay, I suppose it’s not that bad. Everything that’s wrong with my life can easily be traced and reasoned to being completely and utterly my fault. No, I’m willing to admit it. I do nothing to hinder the ever increasing amounts of horror that seems to want to invade my life. In fact, I have screamed, fretted, worried, and probably pulled out hair trying to confront it. But I’m too weak. I’ve asked for help – from God (and you can laugh if you want, but he usually works.) – but it’s not enough. I’m getting something, just not enough. With me, nothing is ever enough.

I’m not going to start about how my life is so terrible. Merlin, no, if I do – I give anyone reading this permission to shank me. Seriously. I’m not on a rail. I’m looking for a remedy, and writing has helped in the past. The thing is, I’m in writers block. I’m not sure if that’s ironic (and if I get it wrong, I know I’ll regret it.)

So, what this thing comes down to is that I’m kind of desperate for some help. I just don’t have anyone else but God to ask it of. I’m kind of falling down this deep pit of failure… and it’s bad. I mean, I’m not…

I need the pressure to kind of ebb off, and for life to sort of keep me in the loop instead of pushing me out of the way. It’s all going by too slow, but I’m still getting stuck and falling behind and I have no idea how.

And yet, I’m still smiling. Because I just read a great book. And I’m about to start ANOTHER one. FTW RaRa. Yes. I’m kind of happy. Topsy Turvy feelings. It’s when I go to school (at 7.25AM nonetheless) that the whole sinking thing really hits me. Or maybe afterwards, when I struggle with what to do. Art, homework, TV, sister, masjid. WHAT?! I’m being torn apart, yo. Too many different directions. I kind of just wish I knew what I wanted to do with my life so that I could focus on what would get me there, and not have so many different things trying to pick me apart.

Well, guess what. I’m going to NOT let this happen next quarter. I’m going to get A’s. B’s at the lowest, and if I slip, I’m probably going to end up mentally hurting myself. But that wouldn’t be my fault, that would be COLUMBIA’s fault. SO. Yeah.

Anyway. I think I should probably stop my manic ramblings and head in for the night. (AKA go read Beastly by Alex Flinn.)

I love the ideas I entertain of life and how I’ll one day live it, and I guess I love you too, huh?

-Rae