Category: Me

Midnights: Album Review

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The moment Taylor Swift announced that she was releasing a new album at the 2022 MTV Video Music Awards, I may have done a happy dance and then spent the entire next few weeks waiting in eager and impatient anticipation for Midnights. As stated on several occasions in several blogs, I am a major Taylor Swift fan. I am a Swiftie. I’m not ashamed of that at all. I’ve listened to her since her first debut album came out in 2006. I was twelve at the time. Now I am 28, and I am still listening to Taylor Swift. I don’t see that changing anytime soon.

So the second Midnights dropped on Friday, I had it on my Spotify to play on the way to work. I listened to the entire album, all thirteen songs, in the 45 minutes it took me to get to work. Then I went back and played the 3 am edition. My mom (my aunt, but I call her mom) saw that it dropped, and she’s like, ‘Well, I know what Keely is listening to for the next month.’ (She’s right. I’ve listened to the album since Friday on repeat.)

Now, most of you probably know that Red (Taylor’s Version) is my favorite album. Red has always been my favorite album of hers. Even before she re-released her version. Then she re-released her version and I loved Red even more. Not to say I don’t love all her albums, because I do. Hello, “cardigan” was my top song for 2020 and 2021. Red just clicked with me for some reason. A lot.

Well.

Move over Red because Midnights has taken over.

Even the songs that I perhaps don’t like as much as others, I still listen to them because of the lyrics, the music, and the whole vibe. This album is like she took all of the beautiful, breathtaking lyrics from folklore and evermore then combined them with the sound of like 1989 and Lover with some Reputation in there. Midnights, just wowza. I love this album. I may never listen to another album again. (Kidding, I will.)

Midnights is thirteen nights in Taylor Swift’s life. So they’re throughout her life. I find that absolutely fascinating, and I have so many questions.

Now, rather than go through all these songs, I’m going to talk about my favorite ones. These are the ones that hit me the most, and I’ve been playing on repeat for a while now. Seriously, I end my day with Taylor Swift, and I begin my day with Taylor Swift.

We’ll start with her newest single, “Anti-Hero.”

“Anti-Hero” is the third track from Midnights. While it’s not my favorite song, I do like it. It’s got an upbeat sound to it, which is funny because it’s a song about self-sabotage. It’s about how sometimes the person who is blocking your way. . . is, well. You. 

"I should not be left to my own devices
They come with prices and vices
I end up in crisis."

Who doesn’t feel like that? Who keeps climbing that ladder over and over again and keeps falling, toppling down everyone in your path?

Who can’t relate to this song?

And it’s about acknowledging your own flaws and seeing them and kind of hating them. Wondering if you could just fix them, maybe you wouldn’t be in your own way. But then, the song is also about accepting those flaws and realizing that, hey, you’re human.

Also, the video, as always is a gem. I love her videos. Taylor needs to make a movie. Oh, wait, she sort of did with “All Too Well.”

Pretty sure every millennial is like, “Damn, dude,” when it comes to this song.

Do I think it should’ve been the first single? No, not really. But I do get why. It’s catchy and pop. It’s got a nice beat to it. I personally wouldn’t have chosen “Anti-Hero” as the first new single, but I do like the song. It’s, like, maybe six or seven on my top five of Midnights.

As for the song that I’d chosen for the single, I’ll have to think about that.

My top five from Midnights keep changing, so we’ll go by track.

The next one that’s on my top five favorite songs from Midnights is “Snow on the Beach.”

Not going to lie, this song is like the theme of a new fanfiction I want to write for Law & Order: SVU. (Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. I’m a giant nerd.)

This song is about falling in love with someone while they’re falling in love with you. It’s one of those songs that you’d see in a TV show or a movie where the two main characters are circling around each other, making dinner together, going to the movies, all the little dates, and the feeling of just pure happiness.

It’s like snow. The first snow that falls, and it’s beautiful and perfect. But this isn’t just any snow. It’s snow on the beach. It’d unexpected, but it’s remarkable. It’s something you didn’t know would happen, but it did.

The combination of Taylor Swift and Lana Del Rey makes this song so heavenly and so sweet, with lovely yet simple lyrics. “Snow on the Beach” is a song that would be a romantic comedy, and I mean that as a compliment. I want to make a music video for this song (okay, so I want to make videos for like a lot of Taylor Swift’s songs). It’s just so lovely. 

"I've never seen someone lit from within
Blurring out my periphery
My smile is like I won a contest
And to hide that would be so dishonest."

The next song I listened to on repeat for like three hours on Sunday.

“Midnight Rain,” is a masterpiece. It’s my mom’s second favorite song on this album. (We’ll get to her favorite later.) This song is so damn good. So good.

The beginning of this song got me from the start. It starts with a lower voice which is actually Taylor’s voice, with some synth vibes. I don’t normally like synth, but this song, it works.

This song is about putting a career before a relationship. It’s about how the other person wanted a real relationship. Marriage, the white picket fence, the whole kit kaboodle. But she didn’t. She was working on her career and making a name for herself. Then, you have this relationship, and it’s like it never happened. Neither of them think about the other. 

"My boy was a montage
A slow-motion, love potion
Jumping off things in the ocean
I broke his heart 'cause he was nice
He was sunshine, I was midnight rain."

Excuse me while I play it on repeat for the next few hours.

I need a video for “Midnight Rain,” like stat. I’ll make it myself if I have to. Like with “Snow on the Beach.” But the song I want a video for the most is this next one.

“Vigilante Shit” gives me such Cruella vibes. Emma Stone’s Cruella de Vil. Like damn. Tell me that this song doesn’t give you all the villain vibes. The femme fatale vibes. It reminds me of Cruella, Maleficent, Yennefer, all those powerful women who were wronged (by men mostly but also by other women) who said, ‘You know what? Fuck you.’

Also, I feel like this song is like a cousin to songs from Reputation. Songs like “Don’t Blame Me” and “I Did a Bad Thing.” It has that kind of revenge and woman power vibe but not up in your face.

Also, the first line of this song, y’all. 

"Draw the cat eye sharp enough to kill a man."

Damn, Taylor. Yes. Just yes, girl. Yes. Women are told to dress pretty. It’s always about appearances. That their make-up must look pretty. Be pretty. Be quiet. Be obedient. All that shit. This song is like, reclaiming it. It’s saying, ‘I’m not dressing for you, baby. I’m not dressing for you or anyone. I’m dressing for me.’ 

"Ladies always rise above
Ladies know what people want
Someone sweet and kind and fun
The lady simply had enough."

This song might be my theme song from now on. Just saying.

The next song is “The Great War,” which is one of the seven bonus tracks on the Midnights (3 am Edition). “The Great War” reminds me of folklore. Like if “The Great War” was on folklore, I wouldn’t even bat an eye. It would make sense. It’d make sense for “The Great War” to come after “exile.”

Look, I love all of Taylor’s songs. Obviously, but “The Great War” might be my favorite song. (At the moment, at least.) It has the most beautiful, raw lyrics. It flows so well, the lyrics, the music, everything. She’s painting a picture, and it’s gorgeous. You can see it in your head. The way this couple is.

This song is about being in a relationship and comparing it to all your other failed relationships. It’s about fighting and realizing that this isn’t the same as all the others. That he’s not the same. Something about this song touches me. All her songs touch me, but this one hits differently. Just like the next song hits differently. It’s like, she’s speaking what I can’t put into words. I write poetry, but I can’t write songs like she does.

She loves him, she does, but she has a past, and she thinks that’s all he sees. All she sees are her previous relationships. “The Great War” is about pushing past that doubt, the insecurities before she ruins a good thing. 

"You drew up some good faith treaties
I drew curtains closed, drank my poison all alone
You said I have to trust more freely
But diesel is desire, you were playing with fire
And maybe it's the past that's talking
Screaming from the crypt
Telling me to punish you for things you never did
So I justified it."

Just. . . .*chef’s kiss* I can’t stop listening to this song.

The last song is my mom’s favorite song.

“Would’ve, Could’ve, Should’ve” hit me like a train wreck. This son is about a relationship. Specifically, the relationship that Taylor had with John Mayer. she was only 19 at the time, and he was 32. There was a lot of heat for that age difference. “Dear John,” one of my favorite songs off of Speak Now, is also about him.

She’s saying that she regrets this relationship the most. That if they hadn’t dated that maybe she wouldn’t have had the experience she did in her next relationships. That this youthful, rebellious relationship with him scarred her. That was the beginning of her issues when it came to relationships. It’s raw and powerful, and the lyrics are incredible. This song. . .jeez.

Who hasn’t had a relationship that they regret? That they wish never happened? I know I have. 

"If clarity's in death, then why won't this die?
Years of tearing down our banners, you and I
Living for the thrill of hitting you where it hurts
Give me back my girlhood, it was mine first."

That last line hits me the hardest.

As for which should’ve been the single, I think it should’ve been “Vigilante Shit” or “Midnight Rain.”

Thus concludes my semi-review on Midnights. If you haven’t listened to the album, do so! There’s not a song on it that’s not good. That someone won’t relate too.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to play Midnights on repeat. Again.

Oh, and check out the video for “Bejeweled.” It’s shiny. (See what I did there?)

-K

What Song Would Save Your Life?

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Music has always been a huge part of my life. I grew up on Garth Brooks, Alan Jackson, The Chicks, and Shania Twain. Just like I grew up on Eminem, DMX, and Tupac. And like I grew up on Fleetwood Mac, Prince, and George Michael. In middle and high school, I listened to Taylor Swift, Paramore, The Fray, Avril Lavigne, Panic at the Disco, Evanescence, Daughtry, and so many others. My life has a musical thread to it. Music is the one constant. Music has never let me down. It’s always been there. Whether I need to listen to some heavy rock like Metallica, Disturbed, Shinedown, Sick Puppies, or Skillet when I’m trying to calm down. On those when I’m tangled up in anger and frustration that I can’t explain, I turn them up loud. Or on the days when I feel strangely apathetic when I need some softer music, music that hits me deep within my heart and soul. Music like Lord Huron or LEON or BANKS. Music that makes me feel a bit more connected and makes me feel when I’m not feeling anything. Or on those days where I’m sad, but I don’t know why, so I turn on some Ed Sheeran or some of my favorite musicals like SIX, Rent!, or any Disney movie soundtrack, because it makes me feel better. It puts a pep in my step, and it’s like, okay, everything will be okay because we have music. Music is there. It’s real.

There are songs that I listen to that instantly bring back memories. Like “Bad Girlfriend” by Theory of a Deadman, my friend and I danced in my house, the walls shaking with how loud the music was. we once were hanging out and having a ball when Facebook started blowing up, and my mother called me asking if we were okay after the earthquake. My friend and I didn’t even realize there was an earthquake. We were having so much fun. Even listening to Jesse McCartney makes me think of her. Two extremes, Theory of a Deadman and Jesse McCartney, and bam! All the memories, ever.

Like the fact that even though I don’t like Bon Jovi, sometimes I’ll listen to “Wanted Dead or Alive” because it reminds me of my brother Tristan, just like listening to the Red Hot Chili Peppers does. He went to a concert maybe like six years ago, and he recorded my favorite song of theirs just for me.

How when I listen to songs like “I Love Rock n’Roll” by Joan Jett or “Heartbreaker” by Pat Benatar, I think about those rare moments when my sister Chloe and I were home alone, just us girls. Those rare beautiful moments where we’d dance and sing (scream, really), and we were sisters. How much fun we had just being silly.

When I hear “1985” by Bowling for Soup, and “Mr. Brightside” by The Killers, I think of being at the club Decades with my best friends Caroline, Abby and Nick and we’d be singing it to each other like there was nothing wrong with the world. Like it was just us friends against the world, and that’s all we need. The end of last month, I went to Abby’s bachelorette party, and there was something about being back in Decades, about dancing and singing and being with friends. It was amazing.

Music reaches a part of you that sometimes you can’t explain, and in one of the shows of the summer, it addressed this. In Stranger Things, how they save Max is through her favorite song, “Runnin’ Up That Hill” by Kate Bush.

That got me thinking.

What song would save me from Vecna?

It didn’t take me long to figure it out.

“Freedom” by George Michael immediately came to mind. I can’t help it. I hear that song, and I am instantly happy. It’s like a power ballad and just, yes. Hell, I might get “Freedom” tattooed on my arm. or you know, some of the lyrics, who knows.

This song is like, a new start for George Michael. It was him saying, okay, I’m here but I’m not the same, and my music isn’t the same, and ain’t nothing wrong with that. He wanted to make his own music, and how he wanted. It’s such a power ballad and he’s like, taking back his power. How can you not like this song? Also, you’ve got supermodels lip-syncing the song, and it’s glorious.

And because of George Michael, we got this:

Yes, that is Zachary Quinto aka SPOCK lip-syncing to “Freedom” and it. is. glorious.

The point is, it’s one of my favorite songs, and if I was trapped with Vecna, I feel like it’d be that song that would bring me back.

Then I remembered that Stranger Things is set in the 80s, and this song was released in 1996, a full ten years after the newest season’s events but whatever. It still would save me.

Though if we are going based on, you know, what was available in 1986, then it would probably be a Fleetwood Mac song such as “Dreams” or “Rhiannon.”

Music is such an important part of us, who we are. you hear a song, and it brings back memories. It makes you feel something, whether that’s a good or a bad feeling. So of course it’sa song that saves Max’s life. It makes perfect sense to me.

So my question for you is: What song would save your life? Let me know in the comments!

-K

19

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As most of you know, I’m the oldest of six. I have three younger brothers and two younger sisters. Their ages are 26, 22, 18, 18, and 13. The two 18-year-olds (No, they are not twins, they don’t have the same mom or dad) have graduated high school and are off to college to discover themselves. You know how teenagers do. The thirteen-year-old will be entering eighth grade. That much closer to high school.

19 children will never go to middle school. 19 children will never go to high school. 19 children will never attend college. And as I sat on the couch yesterday, crying because I was sad for those poor parents who lost their children, angry that this is our new reality, our children’s reality, I had a sinking thought.

This could happen to my thirteen-year-old brother. My little brother who loves Batman and Star Wars. My little brother who sends me a picture of every new sketch. That could be him. That could be my professors who have children of their own in elementary, middle, and high school. That could be us at the universities and community colleges. That fear that we can’t even send our children to school, a place where they are supposed to be safe. That we are afraid to send them school because we could get there and they could be gone.

I was sobbing yesterday. Some children had to be identified by DNA. Parents talked about how their child was on the honor roll, how they wanted to be a lawyer like their mom, how they loved football, just over and over, all these parents who lost their children. Most who were maybe only ten years old. It was the day before summer vacation started. Now, instead of planning trips to see grandparents or to the beach, 19 parents will be planning funerals.

It’s more than tragic. It’s more than awful.

I mean this has been a problem since Columbine. And yet, nothing still hasn’t been done about it. Some talk about arming the teachers. Yes. Because more guns is the solution. Why don’t we figure out why these kids shoot up schools? Did you ever think about that? Mental health is a major problem and it needs to be addressed. I do think there needs to be background checks for guns. It needs to be necessary. You want a gun? Cool, fine. Whatever. But first, you have to have a background check. You have to learn some gun safety. I don’t think 18-year-olds should be able to own a gun. They can’t drink or smoke cigarettes at 18. Raise up the age to 21. And personally, though I know I’ll get some hate on this, I don’t think anyone needs Aks and the assault automatic rifles. Why do you need that? To protect yourself. Please. You don’t sleep with that in your nightstand. No, it’s probably a pistol or a handgun. Why do civilians need guns that are for military use mostly? Just saying. I’m not saying take the guns. I’m saying that there is a clear problem. It’s been clear since Columbine.

This isn’t about guns. It’s about protecting our children. Because honestly right now, I wish my brother was being homeschooled. Now I wonder if he’s safe. I wonder if he has to do intruder drills. We did. In middle school and high school, much like we did fire drills and tornado drills, we did intruder drills. The teacher would close all the blinds if we had windows in the classrooms. We had to either hide under our desks or crowd in a corner as far away from the door and windows as possible. Because that’s going to work when the intruder has an assault rifle.

At my old office, maybe a year and a half ago, we talked about what we would do if someone came on campus with a gun. Our office doors are glass.

Glass.

There was no safety measure we could really take because the doors are glass.

I wish there were more words to say. I wish I had something I could say. But it’s all been said. Over and over and over again. It’s been said. This isn’t new. This is our reality. Our children’s reality. The tragedy is that this didn’t have to happen. That if for once we could come together as a country, set aside our differences, and finally be together and realize that it’s about our children, and come to terms on gun regulations and fixing the mental health crisis. That maybe what happened in Texas wouldn’t have happened. But we can’t even do that. I’d like to say that we won’t have another school shooting, or another shooting at a mall, concert, grocery store, etc., but until people in the government finally do something, we probably will.

My heart goes out to those who lost a child in Texas. I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m so sorry that this happened. That this keeps happening.

-K

A poem from Amanda Gorman:

“Schools scared to death.

The truth is, one education under desks,

Stooped low from bullets;

That plunge when we ask

Where our children

Shall live

& how & if.”

3:30 AM Thoughts on Friends

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I used to think that I was a horrible friend. Maybe it’s because in middle school and high school–especially high school–I was always told I was. Maybe not in those words but I felt like I was a horrible friend. I won’t lie, I did things I’m not proud of in high school. I got caught up in the petty drama and I hurt my friends, but can we also acknowledge a few things?

Like the fact we were teenagers. Teenagers are stupid. They do and say stupid things to impress their friends. They say and do stupid things just to do it. Teenagers want to fit in and be cool, and I was acting like every other teenager, more or less.

In high school, my friends would act all supportive and then call me a whore and slut behind my back. They’d talk about me, the constant whispers took a strain on me. That happened a lot in sophomore year. I’d hang out with them and then the next day a rumor would start about me. It hurt. So you know what, I did retaliate. I stirred the drama pot. Looking back at it now, I think I wanted to fit in, I wanted to not be the whore or the slut. Or the girl who was causing problems. I just wanted to blend in and be the wallflower. Instead, I ended up as the doormat.

I think we need to realize, or rather acknowledge and understand. that in high school, I wasn’t just going through the regular teenage stuff. We all had our own problems and issues that we were all going through. You never know what’s going on in someone’s life.

Now that’s not an excuse. I wasn’t the best friend, but it is a reason. But come on. What teenagers make the right decisions? No one does. Add in hormones and peer pressure, you get a disaster of a human beings. Then on top of all that teenage idiocy, I had adult problems.

I had to figure out how to pay for bills and food.

I had to get up early to make sure the kids got on the bus.

I had to help the kids with their home, cook dinner and clean the house.

I had all of that on top of teenage life and school work. And I think that’s why I was a doormat.

My friends got me through high school. They were my safe haven. They gave me a place to go when I needed a break from my shitty life. When I wanted to just be a teenager and that’s it.

But you know what? My friends also hurt me the most.

I put up with the whispers and the taunts because I didn’t want to lose them. I didn’t have anyone else I could turn to but my friends. So I shut my mouth, most of the time, smiled and bared it, and you know what, I did lash out after I’d had enough. Then I was the bad guy. They made me feel like I was always the problem. Like I was the one who had to apologize for my shortcomings. But they never did. They made me feel like my words were insignificant because no one ever listened anyways. They made me feel like I had to change and adapt to the situation, and then they’d call me manipulative and a liar. They’d call me fake. I got called that a lot. Along with a whore.

You know what? I did fool around in high school with different boys and a few girls. But I didn’t have sex with anyone until I was 18. After high school. I was experimenting during high school. What teenager doesn’t? I will say that it was nice when I did come out as bisexual and the support I got from my friends, it was great.

My mother on the other hand. She said it was ‘phase.’ I hated that.

But honestly, all that experimenting in high school, it was detrimental to my health. I was lonely and hurting. And honestly, I wanted to feel something. Life was rough and I wanted to feel something. It didn’t make me feel better. It made me feel worse. And I think a part of me went ‘Well if they’re going to call me a whore, I’ll give them one.’

When I got back from Iowa, I slept around. I screwed over my friends, both literally and figuratively. I burned a lot of bridges. I was angry and hurting. I thought I had finally escaped my shitty life with my shitty mother, but I hadn’t. I was right back where I started. That pissed me off. So yeah. I slept around. I messed up some friendships. I regretted it afterwards.

And when I moved to Arkansas, and I was in a better headspace, I apologized. I apologized to the guys for using them and hurting them. I was hurting and barely any of my friends reached out and thought to ask hey are you okay? What do you need? Instead, I was alone. Maybe not all the way alone but often times I felt like If I reached out to complain they wouldn’t care. That it was just typical Keely.

I know I was awful then but I was going through a lot. And honestly, I don’t think I was near as awful as I think or how people made me out to be. It doesn’t excuse it, but I have apologized, and I think it’s time that I gave my 15 year old self, my 19 year old self, and the ages in between some credit. I think it’s time I apologized to myself and to realize that I was only 15. Yes I made mistakes, but I don’t need them thrown in my face.

I was only 19, angry at the world. Yes, I slept around and screwed over some guys. But come on. What 19 year hasn’t? That’s the time to explore and figure out who you are. Now I wasn’t trying to figure out who I was. I was self-flagellating. I was hurting myself by letting guys use me however they wanted because again, I wanted to feel something. I’ve acknowledged that. I’ve apologized. I don’t need it thrown at my face every time. I needed a friend then, and I didn’t really have one. Not a consistent one.

I used to think that it was all on me why I have this habit of losing friends. Like it was all my fault. That I was the awful friend. Truth is, after a lot of thought, I’ve realized that I’m not an awful friend. In high school I wasn’t the best but I tried. Now I do more than try, but I think I have the tendency of getting friends who don’t try. I claim everyone as my best friend but I’m not theirs. I cling to them. I make excuses. I don’t see the fact they’re not a good friend to me. Like the fact I always answer their call when they need me but they are always too busy to talk. If I don’t answer then they get angry at me. How I spend a week with them and they made me feel like an inconvenience the entire time. How they treat me like an idiot, talking down at me, being condescending. How I can never get a word in edgewise. It’s always about them.

Or how when they call and want to talk about their job, and I’m excited about my job so I ramble. I realize that I messed up and I apologize to them. They had said they were hurt that I did that. So I acknowledged that and I apologized. Tell them to call me and I want to hear all about it. Because I’ve missed them and it’s been a crazy semester. I want to caught up. I enjoy talking yo them. Then they call and tell me that they want to take a break from our friendship. That they need to work on themselves before they can friends again. And it might be the truth, but also, this isn’t the first time.

It makes me wonder if I’m the problem. If they want a break from me because I did something wrong. I apologized. But they don’t want to be friends. It makes me self doubt and think I did something wrong. Was it just that incident? I apologized and I was sincere. Was I never a good friend to them? Was I never their best friend? Do they even miss me? I’ve gone through a break up and family drama and, I, of course wanted to reach out to them but I don’t. Because they don’t want to speak to me. To be friends. Do they even care? Or are they going through their life, carefree and free of my apparently awful friendship?

Perhaps it’s petty to write it here. Maybe it’s being shady or something. But I’ve never been good at speaking. I get tripped up and I stutter. But when I write, it flows. It’s why I have this blog. I’m a writer at heart. I mean this blog is called “The Inner Workings” after all. It’s all about me and in my head.

I’m almost 28 now. I’m not the same person I was ten years ago. I’ve grown up. I’ve learned. I’ve evolved like a Pokémon. I’m proud of who I am and I can’t wait to see who I am ten years from now. Maybe it’s naive to think I’ll keep my friends from high school. It is naive. None of us are the same. I barely speak to those from high school. Only a few random messages and comments on FB. But that’s okay. We’ve all grown up and adapted and changed. We aren’t the same. We talk when we can and that’s enough. The congratulations and how are you doings. It’s enough.

And you know what, those two people may have not thought I was their best friend, they may have hurt me intentionally or unintentionally but they were my best friends. They may not be anymore but that’s okay. I’ve learned from them. We’ve had great times. And not so great times. But without them I probably wouldn’t have made it out of high school. At times I miss them, but I’ve got life to live. They can’t consume my thoughts because, honestly, I don’t think they think about me. I think to them I was a burden. I was some clingy girl who clung to them and they allowed it. But I wasn’t their best friend. I don’t even know if they considered me their friend. I do know that I ignored the issues. I ignored how one would talk down at me and how the other brought up my sleeping around with guys and accusing me of cheating on my bf at the time. And how they bowed out when I did something wrong. Like I was too much for them and they needed a break. I didn’t realize how much that hurt until now. How a friend just stepping away hurts. I just accepted it as normal. They’d come back and I’d apologize for whatever I did wrong. I always bowed down to them and always agreed that I was in the wrong.

But you know what? I wasn’t always. I’ve acknowledged my problems. I’ve apologized. And I’ve realized something.

I’m not an awful friend. I’m not perfect but I’m a good friend. I try.

Friends are supposed to build you up not make you feel bad about yourself. Friends are there to support you. They may not agree. They’ll give their opinion and say they don’t agree but they don’t leave. They support you through everything. And if you make a mistake, they don’t rub it in your face. They tell you that they’ve got you. Even if you make mistakes, they’ve got you. They are here. Because they’ve made mistakes too. Friends know when you want advice and when you want to vent. Friends can disagree but not argue. They can agree to disagree and understand that everyone has their own opinion. Friends are there. They don’t bow out. They stick through the ups and downs because a real friendship does that. They realize that hey you messed up and I did but we’ll get through this. Because I love you. You love me. Our friendship is worth more than this one down. Let’s work on this together because I’d rather have you in my life even when we aren’t getting along, than not have you at all. Friends are important because they help you grow and you help them grow and then there’s lots of growth. And it’s like, wow, look at us now. Look at what we’ve become. Look at what we can become.

I didn’t know what true friendship was until recently. Until my internship in DC, and I met some wonderful people. We still talk to this day, and we met in 2018. They’re some real friends. I know they have my back and I have theirs. We may stop talking for a few but we always come back and check in with each other. We get each other and it’s nice to have people who support you and metaphorically have Pom poms in the air. Always. We all build each other up and when we break down, we help and we say ‘Hey we got you.’ It’s a beautiful thing. It’s real. And I love it. I didn’t know that friendship could be like that until them. Just like I didn’t know what being someone’s best friend was until now. I think that’s a wonderful feeling.

So maybe I don’t get to keep my best friends from high school. That’s okay. People change. People grow apart. I’ll always be grateful for what they’ve taught me, and I wish them all the best in the world. But you know what, I’m doing alright without them. I have my friends and they have theirs. Maybe our paths will cross again.

Through all this I’ve realized that I need to stop acting like I am an awful friend. Like I am the bad guy and the one that’s wrong. I’m not. I’m not perfect but I’m a good friend. I try. And I think that’s more than good enough. That’s all anyone can do. Is try.

-K

Everyone Was An Awkward 13-Year-Old (Turning Red Review)

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Do you remember being thirteen years old? I know I do, though I definitely try not to remember. Let’s be real here. Even if now you’re some hotshot CEO or a popstar or a NASA astronaut, at some point, you were an awkward 13 year old. Don’t deny it. You might me smooth and cool now, but let me tell you, nobody was cool at thirteen. No one. At thirteen, you are hitting puberty and trust me, it’s dreadful. Your emotions are all over the place. If you’re a girl, you suddenly get this thing called a period and you don’t understand why it’s a taboo. Boys voices crack and they get hair in strange places. Basically, thirteen year olds are hot messes. They are walking disasters. In their minds they consider themselves a “young adult” but you know, most of them still have their baby fat. Thirteen is that awkward strange of not being a kid but not quite being a teenager yet either. You want to be taken seriously but you aren’t even sure who the hell you are.

Who was I at thirteen? Fuck, if I knew. I was trying to figure that out. I had braces, so you know I got called “Brace Face.” (I know, I know, so original.) I also had glasses so you know “Four Eyes” as well. I believe I was in 7th grade. That’s when I really started to figure out who I was. Who I wanted to be. I used to wear whatever my mother wanted me to wear, which was pink and girly and just not me. In 7th grad I was like, nope. No more. I wore a lot of black and fingerless gloves and probably the first time I dyed my hair red. I wasn’t quite popular but I wasn’t an outcast either. I was something in-between. I made decent grades. I was in choir and art. I hung out with those folks. But also with the skaters and the ones who didn’t quite fit in with the other cliques of middle school. Think like The Breakfast Club.

That was my friends and I, basically. Some hodge-podge, mismatched motley crew of people who probably shouldn’t mesh but we did. I’ve always hung out with people like that.

In 7th grade you want to stand out but not too much. You want to be cool but not a snob. You want to blend in. You want so many different things. And there are lots of shows and movies that show the teenage years. But let me tell you, this movie perfectly captures the sheer awkward, cringeworthy of being a thirteen year old.

Seriously. I got secondhand embarrassment from this movie.

Now I’m not going to tell the whole movie, because well, I want you to watch it. But here are the basic details and my thoughts.

Mei as a Red Panda

Turning Red is a Pixar film released February 21st, 2022. It follows a Chinese-Canadian girl named Mei who is trying to be the perfect, good daughter while also trying to be herself. This gets a bit more complicated when Mei finds out that in her family, the women turn into giant red pandas once they turn 13 and hit puberty. She can control the panda if she controls her emotions.

This movie talks about the messiness of being a teenager. It’s about school crushes. It’s about puberty. It’s about identity. It’s about how women are told to control themselves. To smile. To be perfect. To not show their anger or their sadness. That’s what the red panda is a metaphor for. Not just a metaphor for puberty, but the repressed emotions women have. That strain that society has put on them. It’s about the pressure that family can put on you (much like Encanto. I discuss intergenerational trauma in my blog post on Encanto too). Like the pressure Mei’s mother, Ming puts on her daughter. That was learned. Ming learned that from her own mother.

But you know what? It’s also about friendship. It’s about the friends you make that sometimes you keep forever. The friends who have your back. The friends who do silly things to try and make you feel better. Mei’s friends accepted her. All of that. And I think that’s beautiful. I know that without my friends in middle and high school, I don’t think I’d be here. My friends saved me, and in a way, Mei’s friends saved her too.

Mei and her friends

So, check out Turning Red. You’ll cry. You’ll get secondhand embarrassment, but trust me, it’s worth it. It’s a movie that I feel like everyone can relate too.

Here’s some other posts on Turning Red:

‘Turning Red’ confronts the messiness of adolescence with refreshing honesty

‘Turning Red’: Pixar’s taboo-busting period film leaves some men complaining about representation

“Turning Red” Is Finally Here, And The Reactions To It Range From Hilarious To Heartwarming

21 “Turning Red” Behind-The-Scenes Facts That Anyone Totally Obsessed With Pixar’s Latest Should Know

And check out this song!

-K

Cocoon (A Poem)

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The little green caterpillar munches on a leaf, looking around with big brown eyes as the world spins around and around. She keeps trying to catch up but her short legs can’t keep up. She keeps falling and falling, further behind, scrapping up her knees and hands, blood staining her clothes.

She tries to keep her head down, be like all the other girls.

Keep smiling. Be sweet. Shut your mouth.

Don’t say a word even as the greedy grasshopper grabs her ass.

Don’t raise your fists as the angry ants swarm her, her supposed friends, calling her names and acting like she’s all to blame, Crawling inside her and devouring her up until there’s nothing left but green goop.

Don’t try to be unique. Get in line.

Neat little green caterpillars all in a row with their perfect white teeth, every hair in place, letting greedy grasshoppers move their limbs wherever they want them to go, bending and twisting, putting on a show for the whole world to see.

You’re too thin whispers the others. But don’t they know that it’s because she has hungry larvae to feed? So she hides behind baggy clothes and shrinks into herself like she can just disappear into nothing, fading away into the mist.

The whispers get louder and louder, crueler and crueler.

She’ll spread her legs for any grasshopper, they say. Let them stick their greasy claws in and tear out her insides until she’s just a Hollow husk of flesh with empty dead eyes and a broken heart.

The green caterpillar hides away, until she’s finally free of angry ants and greedy grasshoppers.

She builds up her shell, making thick outer layers to protect herself but doesn’t harden her heart. Instead she creates solid bones, a spine to hold up her head and a sharp tongue to defend herself.

Slowly the caterpillar starts to strengthen with the care and nourishment she never had as a child, flourishing and flourishing.

She becomes strong, finding her voice and speaking her truth with no fear of the repercussions, knowing that she’s not the victim. She is the heroine in her story as long as she believes. She builds herself a suit of armor, made of the encouragement of the others before her, telling her. You can do it. You can do it.

Just keep trying.

Keep your head held up high.

She wraps herself in her own strength that she never knew she had, forming a cocoon.

She used to be so afraid but now she’s not, even as she dissolves into green sticky liquid in her cocoon, shaping into something new. Change can be scary but she’s somehow she’s not afraid even as she breaks down until she’s nothing.

But then, then ugly brown shell cracks and the caterpillar slowly breaks out, shaking the wet off her face, more pieces crumble and as she dries, she spreads out beautiful wings of multitude colors. Vibrant blues, reds, yellows, oranges, greens. All in varying shades. Some pieces darker than others, others darker, some have no color at all, instead black as the night or as white as snow.

In some places, the wings have holes, letting the light through, a little scarred, torn in places but they will still get her where she goes.

She takes a slow hesitant step, still afraid. What if they get more torn? she wonders.

No.

She will simply add more colors, more scars and more tears that tell the story of her life.

So she spreads her wings, the kaleidoscope of colors shimmering in the sun and then she takes off to the sky, feeling the wind in her air and the sun on her face, as she finally tastes true freedom at last.

-K

The Snow Family (A Poem)

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The house looks so picturesque, like something you’d see in a magazine for Home Garden, the Christmas edition.

The front yard blanketed with a fresh layer of snow, icicles forming on the gutters, so artfully dripping as if it was planned.

A neat snowman with a black top hat, a checkered blue and white scarf around his frozen neck, little black buttons to make him a sharp jacket, a carrot for his nose and blue buttons for his eyes, a smile on his face. He carries a briefcase in his hand.

Next to the snowman is his snow wife, a pink scarf around her frozen neck and a cream-colored faux fur hat, a wide smile plastered onto her face. She holds the hand of the snow girl, a mini copy of her with the same pink scarf and faux fur hat. The snow boy stands next to his snow father, a baseball cap on his head and a mischievous smile on his face.

The house is strung up with lights that start white then flash to green, red, blue, yellow, and every color in between. A Christmas tree behind the little snow family, the decorations perfectly in place. Not a pine needle out of order.

No, no, that must never happen. Everything must be perfect.

Emerald green, shimmering silver, gleaming gold, and radiant red delicate glass ornaments so carefully set in the tree. A string of white lights and a wide velvet ribbon wrap around the tree like a noose. Glittery white snowflakes and shimmering clear glass icicles. Cranberries and popcorn on a thread in between the ornaments, snowflakes, and icicles. The snow father placed an angel on top of the tree, her beautiful face filled with reverence, gold wings stretched out behind her, and a glowing halo above her head.

Everything is perfect. They seem like the ideal snow family. Their house is seen in one of those magazines that talks about how the family, a mom, and a dad, two kids, one boy, and one girl, have lived in this house since before there were children. When it was just snowman and his little snow wife.

It seems like nothing is wrong until it slowly starts to melt, revealing what they don’t want you to see.

Snowman yells at his snow wife and broke her carrot nose, blue buttons flashing with anger. “I am the man in this house!”

Snow wife threw a plate at his head even as she clutched her bleeding nose. “It’s Christmas!” she yelled. “How could you?”

Snow boy hid with his little snow sister in their closet, covering her ears instead of her own. “Everything will be okay,” he whispers even as the shouting gets louder, flinching at the sound of glass shattering and their mothers cries. The front door slams.

The icicles dripped onto the polished wood floor.

The angel turned up her nose as her wings turned black and charred, a broken halo on her head.

Snowman knocked the tree over, scattering pine needles and glass for his snow wife to cut her feet on as he fled. “Don’t come back!” screams the snow wife.

Crows eat the cranberries and the popcorn while the snow wife cried, her tears freezing on her face.

Snowman grabbed his car keys and screeched out of the driveway, running over the snow boy and snowgirl in the yard, leaving a track of mud.

Snow wife pours herself more mulled wine, telling her best friend over the phone, “I can’t do this anymore.” Her face in her hands, the tree still laying on its side, needles bent and broken. The first ornamanet they ever bought, a simple blue ball with a pretty white Christmas tree painted on it, laid in pieces on the floor.

Snow boy creeps out of his room, sneaking a candy cane to give to his sister. He carefully picked up the pieces of the ornament and took it to his room, spending all night trying to glue it back together, cutting his little fingers, his tongue sticking out of his mouth in determination.

Snow girl hides under the covers, crying but not understanding why, sucking on the sweet candy cane but not tasting it, clutching her stuffed bear tight, a red bow on his neck.

Snow man drives to the bar, picking up a blonde with too much red lipstick smeared on her face. “Make me feel something,” He tells her. But as she leaves red stains on his tie, the one his snow wife bought him as a gag gift, the one with little briefcases on it, he feels nothing. He shoves her face further down, closes his eyes, and finishes the bottle of whiskey, melting into the bed that smells like piss.

Later snow man will come home. He will kiss his snow wife’s cheek. “I’m sorry, baby,” he’ll say. She’ll smile and forgive him, like she always does. “It’ll get better,” says the snow man as he kisses her frozen lips.

And maybe it does. For a while. The snow boy proudly shows his parents the blue ornament he spent all night fixing, lines of silver glitter hiding the Elmer’s glue. The snow wife will say, “It looks even prettier now.” Presents will be given, red and green wrapping paper on the flooring.

The snow man gives his snow wife a heart shaped dimond to hand around her neck. It will get heavier and heavier as the years go by as her smile gets wider and wider. Back to crisp suits and steak and potatoes on the table. Back to screaming and crying, slamming of doors and broken bottles.

The snow man will continue to see random, nameless woman with lipstick smeared on their faces and cheap perfume. He’ll end up dying of a heartattack, sitting in his own filth in front of the television and leaving his wife all his gambling debts.

The snow wife will drink, throwing herself into PTA meetings, soccer games and ballet recitals, and trying to make everything perfect, putting so much Botox in her face, it’s like she’s permanently smiling. She’ll have to get a job after her husband dies, then another until she’s working three jobs.

The snow boy will drown his pain in pills and whatever else he can shove down his throat to forget the yelling that happens. He’ll turn to a life of petty crime, begging for someone to see him, to save him, until at 17 he ends up on a slab with a bullet in his head. His own hand pulled the trigger.

The snow girl grows up with earbuds in her ears, locked inside her own mind as she makes red lines on her arms and writes into a batter composition note book, hiding from the world. She won’t even mourn her father. She barely knew him.

She’ll try to help her brother but it’s too late, and she’ll always remember the blood on their family portrait and he said, “I can’t do this anymore.” She’ll remember her mother screaming and hitting the ground, clutching her brother’s body.

She’ll end up going to the school counselor and pouring her heart out. Her father’s drinking. The fights between him and her mother. Her brother’s crime record and suicide. She’ll slowly heal, telling her story to group therapy sessions and then eventually to a crowd of teenagers at her old high school, with her wife by her side and her children in the crowd.

She’ll visit her mother every weekend, take care of her and talk about the good days. Only the good days though.

She’ll place flowers and baseball cards on the grave and tell her brother that she’s okay, that she still loves candy canes and making snow angels with her children. She’ll tell him that it wasn’t perfect but at least they had each other. She’ll tell him that now she counsels children who came from homes like theirs so maybe there won’t be another him. Maybe she can save another snow boy when she couldn’t save him. She’ll tell him she loves him and that he was right. It will get better. Maybe not at first but it will.

Then she’ll set a blue ornament on the grave that their mother kept all these years, little lines of white glue visible where the silver and gold glitter had flaked off. She’ll remember how she took a glitter pen to hide the glue and how her brother said “That’s a great idea!”

Then she’ll walk away, taking the hand of her snow wife, their daughter in her arms as they walk away. Money is tight. Stress is high. Their daughter is sick. Her snow wife lost her job. But the snow girl will remember.

It will get better.

-K

Bottles in the Closet (A Poem)

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You only call me when you’re drunk.

I can hear the slur in your words even as you say, “I haven’t had a drink all day.” We both know it’s a lie. I can almost smell the alcohol on your breath over the phone.

You poured another glass of red wine, instead of putting the cork in the bottle and just walking away. Drink some water and start up again the very next day. As if drinking red wine will numb the pain and erase all the memories you swear you don’t remember.

Or maybe it was a shot of vodka to chase all the bad thoughts away. When you wonder why it is that none of your children want to stay. Throwback the shot glass, the alcohol burning your throat. I bet you don’t need a chaser. You simply grab another.

You keep pouring

and pouring

and pouring,

until everything goes fuzzy. You almost feel like you’re invincible. Like you aren’t risking your life and everyone else’s when you get behind that steering wheel.

You only call me when you’re drunk.

You tell me you don’t want to be here anymore. It’s something I’ve heard before, ever since I was 13 years old. What a thing that a teenager hears from her mother. Can you imagine how that makes me feel?

That time you took a steak knife in the kitchen and cut your wrist in front of me, slurring your words as you screamed and cried. Always playing the victim and making it about you when it should’ve been about us. Your children.

But no.

I had to be the mother. Coax you to hand me the knife even as the smell of vomit on your breath and leftover wine made me gag. I had to lie and tell you that it would be alright. I had to tell you that you were a good mother and that we loved you. That we didn’t blame you for all the hard times.

And when I finally got the knife away, you wouldn’t let me call the police even as the blood dripped on the floor that I’d clean later that night.

You left to go have some fun with drinks. Drank more. It was as if it never happened. As if I was the one who was crazy instead of you. As I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the red off the floor and trying my best to erase the memory of you dragging the knife across your wrist oh so slowly, like you had to make sure I was watching.

You tell me that you’re a good mother, and that you tried your best. Yet you do the same thing over

and over

and over again. You hit repeat. You never learn. You never listen.

You are not a good mother. You never were a mother.

You didn’t do your best. You don’t even know what that means.

Your best is not staying out late partying while your oldest daughter takes care of your children.

Your best is not the water or the electricity being turned off because you got more clothes rather than pay the bills.

Your best is not the pantry and fridge being empty and children going hungry because your happiness is more important than your children’s.

But go ahead, pour yourself another glass of wine. Fill up the cup if that makes you feel better. Makes you feel like you’re not a failure of a mother. Like you’ve done nothing wrong. Like you’re the saint that you think you are.

I remember once I opened your closet door and on top of all the shoes were empty alcohol bottles. Dozens of them, sparkling in pretty colors in the yellow light. Like it was some dirty little secret that you failed at hiding.

How many times did I help you out of your shoes and into bed, making sure you were on your side so you didn’t choke on your own vomit? I couldn’t tell you, I lost track. I know it was too many for a teenage girl to have to deal with.

You always said you weren’t an alcoholic but you’ve got bottles in the closet and wine on your breath that tells another story.

You always say that you’re a good mother and that you love your children. I don’t doubt that you love us. But I don’t think you loved us enough. I think you love yourself and the bottle more. You love partying with friends and trying to capture your youth while your children are left behind. Then we are the bad guys when we want to leave. When we want out of that toxic environment and to do better for ourselves. Suddenly we are abandoning you and turning on you.

You only call me when you’re drunk.

You tell me you love me, that you are so proud of me. As if that matters to me. You had nothing to do with the woman I am. There is not a single part of you in me, and for that I am glad. I don’t see you anywhere, and if I did, I’d be terrified.

I don’t want to be like you. A woman who drowns her self-loathing and insecurities in booze. A woman is so blinded by her own perceived greatness of motherhood that she can’t see the mental scars she’s left on her children. That she still leaves on them. A woman who puts the blame on everyone else instead of looking in the damn mirror and realizing that it’s been her all along. That she is the problem. Not us.

Go ahead. Pour yourself another drink, all the up to the brim until it pours over the edges and drips like the blood did on the linoleum all those years ago. I bet you’ll lick that wine up too. Make sure you don’t waste a single drop to numb the pain and ease the guilt.

Go ahead and call me, tell me you’re a good mother and that you did your best.

I know the truth.

The truth is in the bottles in the closet.

You only call me when you’re drunk.

-K