New Site

Please follow MaddiGoLightly.com from this point forward.

GREAT NEWS EVERYBODY

HOKAY. So.

I’m developing a new blog, and It will have it’s own domain.

So officially, you’ll be able to go to MadisonRussisthecoolestpersonever.com and my writing will pop up

Just kidding it won’t be called that. But I AM, however, having a contest. Here’s the deal…

 

I need a new design/header for my new site.

Ideally, I would like a cartoon drawing of yours, nerdy, truly with Zoey. If you don’t know who Zoey is, you loose already.

 

So if your up to the task I’ll need

1. A colored cartoon of myself with Zoey

2. It has to be large enough, with a decent amount of pixels so it doesn’t get blurry when I upload it.

3. You have complete creative reign

4. No nudity or furries

 

The new site is going to be called “Maddi Go Lightly,” so go crazy! You can email me at Mdangerruss@gmail.com for more info, yo. Start sketchin’!

Hello everyone!…

Hello everyone! I know I said I’d start blogging every Sunday as a part of my Facebook hiatus but as it turned out, I ended up being really busy these past two Sundays and wasn’t feeling my normal level of wit.

In my free time, if there is any, I pass out with my mouth open. Rinse, then repeat. So that’s been pretty much the story of my life right now.

Book for your Face

Which brings me to my next point, thank god I’m not carousing Facebook on a daily basis anymore with the new schedule I have. There was a time and point where I thought I could never possibly live with out it. How would I get in touch with people? Where would I post pictures of my cats? What could I possibly ever use as a pedestal to make fun of the rest of humanity?

As it turns out, I’m far too busy to be on Facebook these days. Between work at the Awesome Bank of Awesome (cannot use real name here for legal reasons,) being the Editor of Atlantic Cape Review amidst a scandal (cannot discuss scandal here for legal reasons,) and going to school full time has been really grinding my face into the ground. You know it’s bad when my favorite class is biology, despite the copious amount of new, fear based anxieties it has caused me*

Oh and the Communication Awards, let’s not forget that either.

Really though, towards the end of my Facebook career I was just becoming belligerent. I was using it as my soap box to barred 90% of the people I went to high school with in a passive aggressive way.

On the flip side however, I still find these things deeply irksome and now have to resort to stuffing them down into my soul where they one day will manifest into either a total mental collapse, some magnificent art project built out of angst, or a rampage to end all rampages.

Children are tiny indentured slaves.

So as of late, I’ve been staying with my boyfriend Kody who lives with my best friend Angela, who is engaged to his brother Justin.

Ye-Haw.

Tightly knit family affairs aside, Angela is the mother of my goddaughter Lily and they also live with Kody’s niece Sara. Periodically, Kody’s sister will bring down her two sons and the house turns into a crayon colored-screaming-milk sodden cavern where exhausted adults go to find salvation in a 5 minute power nap while the children eat each other alive over coloring books and Weeble Wobbles.

But when sanity is maintained, or rather, who has the loudest voice order can be established. It was in this particular incident where there was four children wandering aimlessly around the living room, crying, or pooping their pants that Kody and I had developed the good-cop-bad-cop routine.

Children, after all are completely dependent on adults otherwise they would starve to death or sit in their own excrements forever. Also, without us, no Christmas.

So once you can get passed the whole hippie parenting techniques of rationalizing with them and realizing that they are tiny, erratic human beings with no method towards their madness (like seriously, what rational adult would eat Play-Dough?) you can accomplish a lot with the tiny, strong hands of children.

In the end, our tiny indentured slaves cleaned the living room and I rewarded them by taking them to the park. Which really, is just a double edged sword because they end up running themselves down into unconsciousness and all the adults get to watch something on TV other then the Backyardigans.

Say what you want about sweat shops, but someone had the right idea.

Colonoscopy

I get both the joy, and pleasure of being rendered unconscious through anesthetic so someone can stick a camera inside of me and poke around at my colon.

Thank you Ulcerative Colitis, will do business with again.

So for two whole days, I am only allowed to have clear liquids and then no food at all. At which time and point, I will have to ingest some undefined liquid that’s comparable to poison that will ravage my  body.

Did I mention it’s on Valentine’s Day?

But in all seriousness, from what I heard from the doctor while I wasn’t thinking about turtles or lunch I heard:

“Blah blah blah 200 polyops, blah blah blah could be Cancer.”

So the “C” word kind of puts a damper on things. Although I’m pretty sure they were just trying to scare me into a 4,000 dollar procedure, I can at least make poop and cancer related jokes now without anyone getting mad.

Will do business with again.

How safe are school buses?

So I was driving to work the other day when I saw two consecutive school buses broken down and everyone standing around, scratching their head like “Da hell we do wit dis here doohigger paw?”

And I thought, “Hmm, that’s funny. Those carry children. Shouldn’t they be safe?”

Then I remembered a wild memory of when my school bus crashed into a sedan and the sedan got trapped under the bus. While everyone cowered into the back of the bus and cried, I got my first glimpse of the jaws of life.

I was a pretty dark kid.

And I also remembered, how not a single person on my bus wore a seatbelt. And although I endured the taunting for buckling up, I privately though, “You’re all fools, if this thing crashes you’ll all be dashboard ornaments or skidding down the aisle on your head.”

So I went to my trusty confidant google, to see how safe school buses actually are.

As it turns a couple people have covered this same exact thought. I’m assuming these are the same people who have witnessed a meth high bus driver nearly careening into their car or into a ditch.

“According to the Washington Post, the study affirmed that, not only were buses “safe enough without seat belts,” but because of their dimensions, were six to eight times safer than riding in cars. The study also highlighted that belt installation could range from $11,000 to $15,000 per bus, a cost that could be more effectively spent on safety measures for loading and unloading students from buses where a majority of accidents occurred.” (via Huffington Post here)

Then there were a bunch of websites such as “School Bus Safety CrisisPrevention.com”discussing how the problem isn’t the bus per-se, but the student’s behavior on the bus. Now, I’m not an expert on this. But I’m pretty sure there is only one person driving that bus, and if said driver crashes into a ditch and it turns out that the bus driver is drunk as a skunk. Am I suppose to believe that it was a couple of kids acting rowdy in the back row that caused this accident?

Evidentially the issue of bus drivers being drunk and/or high isn’t uncommon because it’s something that is being “cracked down on,” (article here)

All in all, I think it’s pretty safe to say that a bus is just a bigger capsule to die in with a driver who constantly yells in vain for everyone to shut up and will inevitably blame you if his drunk ass crashes the bus into a lake.

1.  Purell hand sanitizer, Viruses, penicillin resistant bacterias…all reasons to complete end of the world plan.*   2. Plan: Build a cabin on a mountain and a buy a bunch of cats basically.

Occupy, what?

It’s a cold day in hell when I get this fired up.

Normally, it takes a lot to get me this enraged. There I was, on a Tuesday night enjoying television and a tasty sandwich when the commercial promptly cut to the breaking news that the New York Occupy protests are done. After listening to NPR’s coverage of Philadelphia’s loosing their permits (and the protesters campsites “dividing,”) It doesn’t take Nostradamus to figure out that Philly is next, and cue the unceremonious collapse of the whole movement.

Now let me take you back a few weeks. I had actually been researching the Occupy protests and its trickle down affects to college. I’ve researched statistics of what actually makes someone an 99%-er and interviewed a gamut of history teachers, individuals who protested from the sixties, people from the protests, and other’s who organized their own rallies.

Obviously, I am not alone in thinking the whole movement has been convoluted. The real issue is the economic unease that is occurring in our country. If you look back at the 60′s protests on Vietnam (which this movement is constantly compared to), those individuals were protesting the war. There was one, clear goal in which the government could change. What these people don’t understand, occupying banks and Wall Street, are that they are private sectors hold NO OBLIGATION to us. However, our government does.

Flash to my interview with someone who went to Stockton and Philadelphia’s protest. While he did inform me that Philadelphia’s  is was much more organized, I was also interested in the fact that there were several, different groups protesting several, different concepts. Clean air, social issues, environmental issues,…basically anything and everything. And researching it, that’s exactly what it’s become. I guess everyone got a memo to go to all the Occupy protests and muddle them up with their own causes; and the real issue at hand got lost. People are sick and tired, of being poor and tired. What is so hard to get about this?

Why couldn’t our movement have been simply the recession at hand ? There could have been so much done with it. People die in this country everyday because they can’t afford the necessities of life. And with the recent debt crisis in Greece (and now Italy is coming under pressure too) and Europe taking on the debt—we can all hold on our pull ups because we’re no where near coming out of this. If anything, we’re moving at a glacial pace. And with a foundation SO sensitive we could at any moment back slide.

But I don’t blame the trust fund babies, who squander their baby boomer parents money on bullshit graduate degrees and hustled out to the protest so they could relive some 1960′s fantasy. There they had the opportunity to wave a sign about some unknown cause, hoping it would get its limelight on television and someone would care whether or not we run our cars on vegetable oil — well, I don’t blame them entirely.

The media had a field day with this. From moment one, they shooed away anyone who had anything intelligent on this matter and showed the idiots acting like fools with their picket signs, incoherent babbling, and pension for “occupying,” places of no relevance. They showed the people who broke the law, had nothing intelligent to say, or rambled on a soap box. But the media, of all people, should be the one’s treading lightly and I would know. It’s no joke that the communications and journalism industry is do or die these days. Long gone is the time that you could pick up a note book and write without a degree. You need not only a degree but to be savvy, and be willing to do whatever it takes to get even the lowliest reporters job. A lot of people don’t have that gumption. And many of them won’t end up the bright toothed, anchors they see on TV.  So while the media did a proper job of disinteresting the public and making the protest seem like a bunch of yuppies playing 1960′s dress up — it worked, and maybe not even to their benefit.

I blame every dirty hand that dug greedily into this movement for either press or personal gain. Because, essentially, we’ve blown it. People don’t care anymore, I don’t care anymore. I’m tired of seeing their tents and their drum circles. What myself, and the people of America who are slaving away everyday to just get by on a tinsy bit wants to see  is a touch stone moment. A pivotal point in history where we actually do something. Where Nixon steps down and the war ends. Where politicians don’t lock up like the jaws of a pit bull, refusing to budge, and realize the severity of our situation.

I can’t say this any other way, we are loosing. And now it is our fault.

For the people who sat around and laughed at this and not doing something about it. For the people who turned this into a joke. And the media of making light of something that was born out of total, frustrated, desperation.

We’ve ruined this movement; it can’t be scrapped at this point. It could have been something productive and there’s nothing I hate in this world more than waste. And that’s all this was, wasted energy, wasted time, and a waste of heart. I honestly don’t believe people will be as willing any time soon to get out there and show themselves on the frontline again. I can only hope that someone will come along with some sense of sanity to pick up where we failed and accomplish something before it’s too late. And with Occupy Philadelphia tacking on a $492,000 bill on to our tax dollars; we mid as well all just stock up on a life time supply of ramen noodles.

I won’t even bother with my normal disclaimer. If this offends you, I’m sorry but this is my opinion and I’m entitled to it. From the stand point of someone who slaves away with school and work just to ensure I won’t die in a refrigerator box; I am entitled to be angered by the fact that our hopeful prospects of change are crumbling at the very, shaking foundation in which they were founded.  With any stroke of luck, I’ll be able to upgrade from the box to a dumpster with my cats. This is what we’re facing ladies and gentleman, absolute collapse. I’m not sure what’s so convoluted about that.

 

Tags: fail, hippies, journalism, media, New York, Occupy, Occupy Philadelphia, Occupy Wall street, Philadelphia, protests, Vietnam

What I love about Women II

If you read my original blog, What I love about women, then you know I gave a little shout of to my fellow ladies. But  I never really got around to discuss why I love MY ladies, and how more than ever, they’ve proven themselves to be stellar examples of quality woman.

Once upon a time, my boyfriend broke up with me over the phone on a Saturday night. I won’t pretend that I’m inhumane and that it didn’t hurt, (you’d know I was a big liar), and spent a lot of those existential moments wondering where I’d go now from square one. I’m 22, on the brink of getting my associates, transferring, and starting a somewhat lucrative career. I am like any other woman, when faced with breaking up with someone whom they were serious with, wondering who is going to be there to share your day with. Who’s going to go to the movies with you, kill spiders, diagnose your car issues, tell you that you don’t look fat, or eat ice cream with you in bed? 

The night we broke up, my friend Erin refused to let me sink into my own doubt-filled, self pity. After immediately finding out, she hiked her cookies out to my house to rescue me from the listening to Coldplay in the fetal position. She let me talk all night to our girlfriends, hashing it over and then re-analyzing it. She let me rant, rave, pace, lapse into a painful silence until finally we snuggled together in bed and watched old school Nickelodeon cartoons.

This is, a girlfriend at her best. A real friend doesn’t placate you or tell you that you’ll get over it or worse that “you’ll meet someone else!” A real friend picks your ass up out of bed, makes you take off those sweat pants and put make up on. A real friend makes you write, even when you feel like all the creativity in your body was sucked out of your soul by some heartless god named Cupid, and spins you back to who you were, and where you were before.

The next night, my girlfriends cajoled me into a mandatory girls night where they promised they would get me drunk on wine and talk to me until I was blue in the face. At first, the idea of going to hang out with my mostly married and in relationships friends seemed as if it would feel like a significant failure. While their diamond rings sparkled around their wine glasses, what would I have to show? But to my surprise, and not so surprise, woman are incredible beings.

Not only did they stress that I was lucky, young, and a whole life of lucrative love a head of me, they stressed that despite the big, white, Disney wedding there is a lot more waiting; a serious commitment. And with that, comes a certain pressure to conform to “be,” the wife, when really you’re still just a young woman. You become a “We” over night and inevitably, end up baring the brunt of the relationships responsibilities. Kids, laundry, dogs, cooking; it adds up. And while it’s all lovely, and spending the rest of your live with the person you love is a dream come true, it’s not what we single girls envy. It has its own equal challenges compared to dating, if not more as the collateral in the relationship has a much higher of a price. You can throw an old present at your ex-boyfriends head, but you can’t throw a kid. The grass is not greener, and married woman or women in serious relationships have just as much to vent about as us single woman.

A few jello shots, cupcakes, and silly games later I found myself laughing. Something that at first seemed like it would be too painful to partake in. It’s been my general observation that when the men in this world disappoint us, women are usually the best medicine. 

One day, Corinthea and I were talking to a mutual friend. It was on this particular day I had holed up in my office to sneak in some Coldplay so I could get good and sorry before class (it hurt so good). As I stared vacantly into space, wondering if I’d be one of those people who’s cats ate their faces when they died Corinthea said something to our friend.

“She was so different before this. She never even wanted a boyfriend and she was confident being alone.” Corinthea eventually tied that into her own single girl troubles but it stuck with me.

I didn’t want a boyfriend before. I was happy and comfortable living with myself. How could I be so melodramatic to think that I could never live with just myself? I had gotten so good at it and I was proud of it. But somewhere over romantic dinners and all night talks, I fell victim to the glittery, optimistic prospects that all women dream of. But I hadn’t been searching for it, if anything I had stumbled into it and staggered out a little worse for wear. But I NEVER wanted to be different. It was if I woke up from a long, love coma that had rendered me a mindless, zombie. My eye’s had been glazed over with visions of grandeur and misconceptions of enduring love; I, Madison Russ, was smarter than that.

Over the next few weeks, I started to feel more like myself. I cut my hair the way I always liked it, I squeezed back into my old jeans, I made writing my top priority, I made time for my girlfriends and forgotten friends, I started going out on the weekends, being creative, doing photo shoots. One day, I woke up in all my haggard glory after hitting the snooze for an hour, and realized I like who I saw. I liked how I felt, because I felt like me again. 

It’s not a myth that woman who end up in all consuming relationship usually neglect their friends and I can’t blame anyone else but myself for that sort of alienation. I buried the hatchet, and one day I realized I had gone a week without Coldplay and that spending time with my girlfriends who understood me made me feel amazing again.

But the best part? Girlfriends are all forgiving. Because they’ve been there, lived it, felt embarrassed, been heart broken, and grasped at the faintest strings to pull themselves back up again; but usually with help. What I love about woman, is that they’re always the perfect band-aids for the heart. With several snugged on every side, they have the uncanny ability to resist it from falling apart.

When there’s no one to sleep in the empty spot of your bed, woman fill it with a bowl of ice cream (and lactaid if your lactose intolerant, thanks Erin), make pina colattas, do your hair, drag you to parties, eat until you feel like you’re going to pass out, hold your hand, go to the movies with you, take you to lunch, talk to you all night long, and always, always stick up for you and all that is the sanctity of girl code. 

I never really realized how many people I had on my team, especially because I had been on a two person one for so long. But my girlfriends stubbornness to keep me from being anything but better, made it so I wake up each day excited about what’s next.

What I love about woman, is that we love each other the most when things are tough. Banded together, we stand much more ferociously then we ever could on our own. When things fall apart, it’s a woman kneeling with you at the bottom trying to pick it all up. It’s a woman who remembers you at your best and wills you back to that place. It’s our mothers who kissed it better when we were girls, and our friends who squeezed our hearts to keep them pumping.

That’s, what I’ll always love about my women.

Tags: boyfriend, Break-Ups, exboyfriend, facebook, friends, friendship, girls, love, marriage, Romance, Single, Time, Woman, women

Survivor

Sunday was a beautiful, autumn afternoon. It was surreal, really, to be at a walk for something that was so dark for me on such a sunny day. It was almost contradictory, but in away it unintentionally represented how far I’ve come, and appreciative I am.

Just a month shy of the anniversary of my accident, I was compelled as a survivor to be apart of the Hero campaign. It seemed too coincidental that both these things would happen so closely to one another.

As November 21st draws closer, I realize I’m far more introspective about the accident then ever. The scars on my arm are a little lighter, my sense of bravery grows with each passing day, and the night where I crawled out of my shattered car seems like a distant nightmare. In a split second, my life was changed by someone else’s careless decision. In one stroke of fate, I put my hands over my face. My arm shattered, but my life was saved. How could I ever forget that?

I was, for the most part, astounded by the amount of people who turned out. I think a common misconception when tragedies like this occur is that, as a survivor, there isn’t a deep sense of loneliness. For months, I struggled between the duality of anger and fear. Anger that I was completely dependent on my friends and family for everything between bathing and buttoning my coat or that it was a completely, useless, avoidable thing that happened that would irrefutably change my life indefinitely. My wrist will never bend the way it did before, i’ll always have four circular scars on my arm, it will always hurt when it rains or the temperature drops, and the back pain ranges from chronic, to debilitating.

I was, and still feel lonely. That when traumatic things like this occur; that gamut of physical and emotional pain creates a deep sense of feeling misunderstood. Even though it was justified, I felt stupid when I’d meekly explain that I was afraid to drive at night or be in a car. Or that every night, for no particular reason at the same time, I’d have panic attacks. That my hair fell out from the stress, that I wouldn’t look in the mirror for days and some days couldn’t bare to look at my arm twisted with metal. I felt deformed, broken, and terrified. I never wanted to be dramatic, but I could never shrug the shadow of fear and isolation that followed me throughout the accident. I could never stop myself from being resentful when I’d hear people complain about the mundane. I couldn’t control feeling angry at the person who did this, or angry that after they took the rods out I could barely hold a pen without my muscles giving out.

But that day, I saw people holding signs conveying many of the same emotions I’ve felt. That drunk driving was selfish, careless, and it’s affects ripple to everyone close to the victim.

New Year’s Eve came a few days short of my second surgery. I remember not wanting to go out or even, giving up on wearing that sequined black dress that I had been saving for the ideal New Year’s. That I wanted to leave 2010 quietly, on my couch with my deformed arm. As the ball dropped, anti-climatically, and I sipped sparkling cider with Juli, Joe and Sean I distantly thought about the person who hit me. If they were kissing someone, toasting, or laughing with their friends.I’m sure my friends would have preferred to be somewhere more exciting, but they stayed the whole evening. I was grateful that I wasn’t alone.

More than anything,  I wanted that year to be over. I wanted the snow that had built around my house and kept me from venturing out to melt away… I sometimes even wanted to melt away, and come back a new person. I wanted more than anything, to pretend it never happened. Go back to a life where my biggest concerns in life were homework and my social life. But it never happened that way.

At the walk, they have a Hero banner where all the groups can get their picture taken in front of. I knew some of the groups were bi-products of community obligation (colleges, companies), but there were some teams with specific names. One little girl, as she had her photo taken, held up a framed picture of a girl who could have been her 10 years from now. Without a doubt, I guessed, it was her sister. She had a small, distant, smile about her that comes with experiencing loss at such a young age. I felt the anger burn inside of my again, despite not feeling it in months. That there would be no sister for her to tell her about boyfriends, stand at her high school graduation, or fill more frames with her. I thought about the person who killed her and if they ever saw this little girl, if they could ever live along side their mistakes.

As I positioned myself with my family in front of the tarp, one of the volunteers who was taking photos lightly thumbed my evil eye necklace.

“I’ve been looking all over for one, but I haven’t found one yet that I liked. This one is pretty.”

I clutched my necklace, in shock. After my accident, my mom bought me the evil eye necklace to protect me. I haven’t taken it off, and at times where I felt afraid I dug my fingers into the corners of the eyes to soothe me. As long as I’ve worn it, I’ve always had the usual questions, “Is that an eye?” “what is that?” and I’ve always explained it’s meaning and why I wear it. For the first time, someone knew why I was wearing it, and in their own sense of lingering fear; sought safety in it too.

—-

After the walk, my family and I had lunch at a new place that had just opened up. Outside, there was a group of people wearing shirts with a name on the front, and the back read “KILLED BY A HIT AND RUN DRUNK DRIVER.”

The one woman turned to me and smiled. “Thank you for coming out and supporting today.”

“Oh well, I was hit by a drunk driver.  My family and I really wanted to do this because it’ll be a year in November, I had my own team. Team Madison.”

“Oh!,” she said, “ I checked you in but I was in a different shirt.” In her hand she held a photo, “This is my son, he would be 26 in December. He was hit by a drunk driver at 18 and she left him. You’ve probably seen his memorial, I’m the crazy candle lady,” she joked.

I was alarmed that this woman could be so happy, so strong after loosing her child. It rendered me somewhat speechless, I could only ask. “What happened to the person who hit him?”

“She appealed, but I put her back in jail. Now she’ll have time to think about what she did. But today is a happy day,” and her group nodded with her. “It’s a happy day indeed.”

She asked me about my accident, and I dully explained what happened and that in the last seconds I put my hands to cover my face which they said, prevented me from breaking my neck and dying.

“Well, i’m glad you’re here,” she smiled, and it was genuine. How could this woman, who lost her son, say that she’s happy I’m alive? “If you ever need to talk to someone, vent or anything. I’m here for you and you can call me.”

It was then, as if I had felt it for the first time again, I started crying. As she wrapped her arms around me and told me not to cry, I couldn’t help but think. Why me, and not her son? How is it this woman, who is so brave and has never stopped fighting for her child, still reach out with such strength and generosity? How is it, that I ever felt so hopeless at times? And how in this world, could or would I ever be as brave as she was? I suddenly felt the burden or even the tremendous impact that the accident has had on my life.

I was hurt, but I am alive. And it would be shameful to live any second of it, ungrateful for that. I am no more selfish than the person who hit me, if I ever loose my sense of touch with this divine, unexplained, miracle.

“We need more survivors to speak,” she said when I finally stopped crying and she handed me a shirt with her son’s name on it. “We need more survivors to share their message.”

As I clutched her sons name in the car, I asked my mom. “How is it fair, why me and not him? Why am I alive, but so many people never made it?”

“You made it for a reason, you have a purpose for being here. You can write, communicate and convey your experiences to others in a way that reaches them. Not everyone has that ability, it’s a special gift. You can do something with this.”

I won’t ever think my writing is the reason why I both squeaked my way out of high school and out of dying. But I did remember the story about the old blind woman, who took all of her money to buy oranges to feed her many children. On the way home a few village boys knocked her orange out of her hand and switched it for lemons. When she got home and sliced it up she realized immediately from the sour smell. But instead of feeling hopeless or griping about a few hooligans who had tricked her, she scraped together to make lemonade for her children instead.

I can make something good of this, I can live with this and make something better. One day I can stand there and feel as if it’s a happy day, not saddled with pain. I am not a victim, I am a survivor. Two words can convey such a huge difference in character, and even purpose. My reality is that I didn’t die in that car, on that night in November. I am walking, breathing, speaking and living for every second that every other victim never made it.

When your palms are read, they say the right hand is the destiny you were born with and the left is the one you choose. Dug into my left hand, is the choice to embrace this and a new path on my journey.

After all,

“Ruin is a gift, ruin is the road to transformation.”

Tags: accident, car crash, drunk drivers, experience, gift, hero campaign, journey, life, pain, ruin

So this is a new year,

and as Death Cab would say, “I don’t feel any different.”

I was never entirely sure why New Year’s takes place on January 1st (other than the obvious facts,) but for me, my new year always seems to occur in fall.

Fall has always been the season where I have a fresh start and presented the opportunity to reinvent myself. It’s the season where I shed what’s left of summer and the previous school year to start as a fresh, new person.

As some of you have probably seen, I just got out of a relationship which I won’t elaborate on but what I can say it’s not the only big change that’s happening.

I’ve started my rigorous set of new classes (five, including Journalism, TV Production, US History, Computers and Math,) finally regained much of my health as well as body back, and starting to write again from a new place, as a new woman and a new adult.

Much of my mandatory writing usually involves news writing which leaves little space to implement ones self. But I’ve found a new enjoyment in writing candidly, of the best and worst parts of me from a place that is so honest that I surprise myself often on what it is that’s left on the pages. It’s helped me realize that I am a deeply complex person, filled with experiences that attribute to a priceless wisdom at a young age. We always interpret the bad moments in our lives as just misery and even the happy ones, fleeting. But so much of this I’ve come to realize are merely just the paths that have etched themselves along my heart, my soul, and body.

I do not frown at the almost indefinite stretch marks, the scars on my right arm, the laugh lines, or the one faint frownline that’s in the center of my forehead. They convey a story of hardships, love, deep thought, and unmistakable triumphs when all seemed lost, or a dark, brooding ellipsis.  And really, my body is just only that, a vessel in which a profound story is encased. A body, that can speak of it’s hidden chapters.

I’ve always been known for my story telling and hence this blog was called “The Honest Fabulist,” for a reason. I am a painfully honest story teller. Of all the moments where I’ve been good, bad, and better. Of all the lessons learned in humility, heart-break, and success I’ve never once hoped to depict myself as a heroin or even a role model, but simply just someone who has lived a life like anyone else. I’ve never romanticized my flaws, the mundane or casted myself in a hero’s costume. And at this point in my life, the aspects that make us all fundamentally human in it’s rawest form makes us relatable to one another through this experience.

With the one year anniversary of my accident (and Lilly’s birth,) approaching I find myself more introspective than ever. My journey as a writer has evolved in so many ways and without a doubt, my accident solidified that I am 90% writer, and 10% Madison Russ.

When I first began writing, as a young girl, I did it for fun as a natural story teller. As a teenager, it was to release the pain of feeling what all teens have felt; misunderstood and frightened of the sudden complexities of our feelings. As a young adult, I wanted notoriety. I didn’t want anyone  who had ever doubted me before to pick up a major publication without seeing my name and face. It was simply to prove something to myself, and others, that I was tenacious beyond their control.

In my mid-twenties, with a quieter peace of mind, I want this to make people feel. To be aware of themselves, of their enviornment, of world issues, and of one another. While we all questions if we are alone in this life, living solely within our own human experience, I want to convey that we are never; that I have lived through this with you, and you’ve lived it with me.

I always said I would never start my memoir until I lived a full life, or had a voice that could resonate without sound but with feeling. But on this October day, with the wind creeping through my windows and my mind swirling with incidents of the past, I believe at this point, I’ve lived a well enough life to share. Maybe even, at the very least to invoke hope that nothing is ever lost, and we all have the capability of being survivors. That in unguarded moments, without even realizing it, sometimes we are our best saviors.

 

So I write again, in my diary, with what I see and what I feel. With a body that has seen better and worse days. Two symmetrical freckles under my eyes, hands that even when broken are determined enough to write, when weak can still hold a child, legs that can carry me to where ever I dream to go, a heart that will always love despite it’s protests, a mind filled with invaluable life stories, and lips to speak of this, and so much more.

 

After my accident, I privately conveyed to my friend Sophia, that I was dissappointed inmyself that I was living in debiliating fear. I had been given a second chance at life, and there I was crippled with thoughts of dying and mortality, when I should be out soaking up every inch of my second chance.

Sophia told me that I had been given a chance to feel everything again, and most importantly, to learn how to be brave again, “So be brave,” she said, “you’re allowed to be scared, but always be brave.”

 

And here I sit, twirling the evil eye I’ve worn since my accident. Digesting the good and bad in life, thankful for the fact that I’ve never stop feeling, whether it was afraid, hurt, or happy. I’ve felt it, and that’s the best thing we can ever feel being alive.

 

I’m brave,

and I’m happy.

Real Talk: I hate summer musings.

Buenos Diaz, Bonjour, Meow, Aloha, or Hello

It’s not very often that I actually do a “real life,” update where I detail what’s going on in my life (90% of the time, it’s a whole lot of singing to my cat, seeing how many apps I can work with my nose on my iphone,and watching cartoons while eating fruity pebbles, laughing like a stoned toddler.) Insert boyfriend or summer math class here and there and you’ve got yourself one day in the life of Madison Russ. Pretty charming if you ask me, but I figured i’d take this time out for some real talk. Maybe some musings, who knows.

Summer is currently winding down and I’m one of those people who is thrilled for it. Everytime I say that I hate summer, I dully have come to accept the 18 -lobsters-crawling-out-of -skull  look I get. Typically, and this will sound stereotypical (whatever, but you know it’s true,) the typical “I hate summer type,” looks a lot like this…

And, it’s typically to get some sort of response, to seem opposite from everyone else, or make their parent’s mad.

I, on the other hand, typically look  a lot like this

thugs eat dunkaroos

For no real reason at all except genetics and that sometimes, washing my hair seems like a daunting task.

Anyway, I hate summer for all the wrong reasons or right reasons, depending on which weirdo glasses you’re looking through…

A. I love school, and every time a school year ends I feel like I’m Harry Potter going back to the Dursley’s. I dawdle around Keith Forrest’s office and find excuses to not leave campus. I take summer classes, but they’re really not the same. The first day back to school is typically the best day of my year. It’s embarassing. I have a pencil case.

2. For the past two summers, I’ve had a flare up with my Ulcerative Colitis which requires me to go on a boat load of steriods. The result of this steroid usage is unexplainable bouts of anger that make me want to bite through a horses neck ( I actually said to Sean about a week ago that I wanted to do this.) But also, the heat and humidity make the side effects a thousand times worse. My skin blisters and burns if I’m in the wrong sunny spot for the wrong amount of time, I have severe heart palpatations, sweat like a pedophile on a playground, and basically just wheeze my way through the humidity.  It’s like my awkward status goes from a 7.5 to a 10.

3. Toursits. I don’t hate their money, I don’t hate their spirits, I just hate that they’ve been living in some western Pennsylvania den for so long that by the time they crawl  here they’re socially inept and incapable of acting like anything short of delerious. I gaurantee Alzheimer patients could drive better, or act more respectably in restaurants. That is all.

4. Any mundane errand that I have to run in the summer time seems so strenous, that by the time I get home I have to tear off my pants, get in bed, and watch the Little Mermaid to recooperate. Usually, it’s no later then 12pm at this point and the only place I’ve gone is the bank. It is hard, very, very hard.

I also get these weird bouts of writers block because I find nothing inspiring about my neighbor sweating in a Walmart brand tankini, tanning to 80′s hair metal.

And that’s where this post ends, I guess.

Maddi and Brittany’s List of Things that Suck Part I.

One upon a time, a woman named Miki had twin siblings. The first shining, beautiful baby came out large, pink and healthy. Her name was Brittany. The second infant came out  a little more disgruntled and spent some time in the NICU (like many pre-mature twins,) his name was Ryan.

One year, two months, 23 days later I came poppin’ in to this world with the same exact fanfare for the dramatics I have now. Anyway, my cousin Brittany is quite possibly my favorite person in this whole entire world and is my older, much more cynical counter part. (This is good, it’s kept me level headed and balanced as I tend to be a little gullible and oblivious to the dangers of this world.) We’ve always joked that her and I were more like twins, then her and Ryan but Miki has the horrifying tale of a c-section with no numbing drugs to scare anyone out of pregnancy to prove that they are in fact, minutes apart.

Once many moons ago, Brittany and I sat in an Apple Bee’s making fun of people who go there on first dates and splitting an appetizer (because we’re both equally frugal,) mulling over things we hate (there’s a lot.) We some how got on the subject of the popular blog “1,000 Awesome Things,” and somehow drifted off to some of the worst experiences in this world, which, in both of our creative opinions are much better muses than the finer things in this life.

So without further ado, I present you the some-what/half list of what we scribbled down on napkins much to our waitresses dismay…..

LIST OF THINGS THAT SUCK:

1. When you think you’ve found a parking spot but there’s a small car there
2. When you pay $40 for a mani/pedi and your toe nail falls off
3. When you think you’re going on a date night and you end up at Applebee’s
4. When they sell pepsi instead of coke
5. Having an amazing hair day and having nowhere to go
6. All manifestations of hangnails
7. Watery margaritas
8. No cab ride home
9. Buyer’s remorse
10. When you go to a game and your team loses
11. Running out of toilet paper in a public restroom
12. When you are trapped next to someone with b.o.
13. When you only have $5 to put in your gas tank
14. The cold
15. The feeling of impending doom when you only have an hour till work starts
16. When you open a box of crayons and someone used all the black
17. Hangovers
18. Cold sores/pimples before an important event
19. Nose vomit (ie. when you vomit so hard, it comes out your nose)
20. Mouth pain (*Brit had some serious dental stuff going on at that time)
21. When one nostril is clogged
22. Children in Las Vegas OR Atlantic City
23. When you are depending on a ride home
24. Overeating at a buffet
25. Realizing there are children present and you have to “watch your language”
26. Sneaking into a club and realizing they only play awful 80′s music
27. Waking up and realizing there is no coffee
28. When you spill your drink and everyone else continues to drink

So blog friends, readers, Grandma…which one was your favorite?

Grinds my gears

Well, since I got some really positive feed back/responses on my last serious post it’s time to move onward to the less, serious stuff that no one cares about.

Recently, my disgruntled ratio has gone from the normal 20/100 to about 45/100. This happens every summer with a heavy dose of cynicism and apathy for man kind.(I blame this on vacationers.) Every June I stop smiling at babies. So this week I’ve composed a list of things (or people rather), that really grind my gears to the floor…

(Note:This blog was completely illustrated by yours truly.)

"Good thing I got this iphone so everyone can know I'm getting drunk."

 

People who feel the necessity of telling everyone on Facebook how drunk they’re getting

I guess your family, co-workers, or any one your worried about impressing isn’ t your friend on Facebook. (Food for thought: maybe they don’t like you?)  I guess for whatever reason, you feel morally obligated to anyone who skims by your name on their news feed that inform them that you’re,

 

 

 

 

 

“GETTING SUPER WASTED TONIGHT LOL YA BRAS ALPHA DELTA

SOMEFRATNAMETHATNOONEEVENKNOWSUNLESSTHEY’REINIT”

Your statuses not only make me believe that you are no where close to having a career or that you’re a total light weight that carries around the same red cup full of warm, beer to look social and cool. (Please see Wiener Exhibit A, and Wiener Exhibit B for your name when you’re crying over your masters degree)

 

"Stop crying, I'm on Farmville."

People who comment on pictures of other people’s babies, talking about their babies.

Having kids is exciting, I guess. At least, the  people I know who have had one seem pretty stoked when they write about it on Facebook. So stoked in fact, that when someone joins their having-babies-club, they spam their infant’s photos with weird, irrelevant facts about their own children…

“CUTE PIC. WHEN MY (Insert weird 21st century baby name here like, “Apple.”) WAS THAT BIG SHE USED TO (Insert something stupid, or gross that no one cares about.)”

Unless your in fact can solve a Rubics cube with it’s toes, I really don’t think they care. Would it kill you to just say, “Nice pic.” ….?

 

"So lame, that it's cool again."

The Anti-Hipster Hipster

This guy (or girl) really kills me. They enter any independently owned coffee shop (“down with da’ man,”) or Starbucks (if their area is too rural for anything so non-conformative) with their thick rimmed glasses, some T-shirt in all Helvetica print, and a scowl. They’re the one’s that tell you that they hate those “lame hipsters,” three-seconds after telling you how progressive the new Fleet Foxes album is. These are the people who understand the stigma of being a hipster is worse than having genital herpes, but still so desperately want to be one. They’re like black Klu Klux Klan members or gay Republican politicians who felicitate little boys in rest stops. Pick a side bro. I’ll be here just kickin’ it in my Ray Bans and “Keep Calm,” t-shirt.

 

(P.BIG.S. PABST BLUE RIBBON IS GROSS AND NO ONE BELIEVES YOU ACTUALLY LIKE IT)

 

"Hey guys, wanna see my slide show of my trip to Europe again?" "God, please no."

The people who can’t stop talking about how “enlightened,” they are after traveling abroad.

Wow, you went on vacation. Good for you. Last time I went on vacation, I went to the Hard Rock Hotel in Tampa, FL before I was even 21  (fail). It must be really nice to afford things like that, I on the other hand, come from a broken home. And by broken I mean, “Broke-as-shit.” I’m really not surprised that you were so befuddled with culture after your little stint because chances are you came from the suburbs and have never seen a child robbed of their bicycle by a grown man in the projects before. (In my case, I think this child was dead or injured..ask Laura.) Either way, I don’t think anyone cares about your endless Facebook albums (“Scotland 1-400″) or every time you have a conversation once you’ve been back you immediately start your comment with, “Well in Europe,” then proceed to lecture everyone (as if they care) on how backwards Americans are. Listen up yuppy, no one’s backwards here and in my lower class language a crack head from London is no different from a crack head sister struttin’ her stuff in Atlantic City.

Some languages are universal. 

 

 

 

Stay tuned for Mine and Britt’s list of “Things that Suck,” inspired by “1,000 Awesome Things Blog.”