Handing Your Heart Away

Everyone has a heart. The heart is a clump of muscle imbedded inside your chest, hidden behind your lungs and ribcage. Upon first glance, upon first experience, you plunge your hand into your chest and enclose your fist around your heart.

You’ll keep your hand enclosed around that heart. Maybe you will release your heart, sew up your chest, then wash the blood off your hands.

Or maybe something will happen, and you begin to pull your heart out of your chest. Strangely enough, it doesn’t hurt. Just don’t pull too hard or too fast, you could bleed yourself to death. No, pull slow, allow time to clot, then keep pulling.

Who knows how long it takes until you can hold your heart at arm’s length? Maybe it takes two years. Two years sounds like a good amount of time.

Your heart is enclosed in your hand, pumping, pumping, slightly connected to your chest and the rest of your body. You look up. There it is. There is the thing, the person, the place, the reason you pulled your heart out in the first place. Blood soaks your footsteps so you’ll always know the way you came.

You have two options.

The first option is to cut your heart away from you body. Hand it to that person, place it on the ground, do anything that shows that your heart is no longer your own.

They could crush it. Stomp on it, squeeze it slice and dice it up. They could do anything at all and you could do nothing about it. It is no longer your heart.

You have another option.

Turn away. Put your heart back into your chest. Stack your ribs on top and peel your lungs back into place. Sew yourself up. The heart is yours. It will stay yours. Do not ever let it go again.

The Watchful Poster

Three o’clock, sharp. That’s when the metro train always comes along. And yes, there it is, you can just see the bright headlights of the train. I glance at the ground, taking heed of the chipped yellow “CAUTION” paint. I put my feet squarely on the line and lean forwards slightly.

The oily, grungy, and smokey smell of the tunnels rush up onto my face as the train speeds by, missing my face by inches. I always feel a slight sense of ecstasy whenever I did this. “It’s the adrenaline rush,” I’ve been told, “you’ve probably turned yourself into and adrenaline junkie.”

Adrenaline junkie or not, this is what I did every day, and this is honestly what the highlight of my day is. Sad, isn’t it? That my life is so lifelessly boring that the only joy I feel is having a metro train decapitate me.

After sitting in the train for around four minutes, eight minutes tops, I would squeeze the horde of people and make my way up to my workplace. Well, not before pausing to look at a poster.

That poster had been there since I was just a little girl. After my parents died in that train accident, it seemed like that poster was the only family I had left.
She was a beautiful woman, with long raven hair and a shapely face with soft features. She was posing similar to the world-famous Mona Lisa, the only difference was that she lacked a smile. Her dress, though I could only see the top part, was a stunning emerald-green, still shining through decades of dust on the glass covering of the poster.

Her eyes were coloured out. I know now how or why, but I remember one day looking up into her eyes, the original colour I remember not, and seeing that her eyes had been scribbled out. It looked as if an infant had taken a chalky black crayon and coloured her eyes. The only issue with that theory was that the glass case was framed to the wall with solid steel bars.

Her eyes were so startling black against her milky white skin.

I loved that poster. Like I said, she was almost like family, as I had never missed a day where I would not look up to her beautiful face and give her a swift not, a curt wave, or even a rare smile. Every day was the same; boring, rut-like, and lacking of everything any human could ever want.

Her eyes would always follow me. Every once in a while I would lean in closer to the passing train, allowing it to clip my bangs or chip my nails. Every time I do that I can feel her unseen eyes burning onto my body, either as a warning or an encouragement, I do not know.

So I leaned closer every time. I began to get bruises on my forehead, my hands, even my shoulder once. I was called in for suicide attempts but was released, for there was nobody for them to call to confirm my personality or histories.

Her eyes had never felt so hot in my entire life.

One day I may have leaned in too far. Too soon. I may have fallen in. I saw the familiar headlights, the rushing of the oil-stench wind, but this time I felt the ecstasy before even the train reached me. My, how wonderful that felt.

Really, it only hurt a little.

The secret for an easy life

Life is hard and it never gets easier. However, there is a way to make life simpler.

My father, a wise man, has discovered a way to make himself worry less than he usually does. He has stopped reading the news.

Not reading the news means he can stop worrying about problems he can’t change.

My father has chosen to be oblivious to the world and so far it has worked.

After all, ignorance is bliss.

Greek Food

I am part Greek, and I have grown up knowing that hummus, pita, tzatziki, and spanakopita are only a small portion of a wide array of Greek food, and that they are all delicious. Strangely enough, most of my friends don’t seem to know what Greek food actually is.

I even had a friend argue with me that hummus was in fact Jewish.

So for those of you who don’t know, Greek food is absolutely delicious. The appetizers, which could arguably be the best part, are amazing. Spanakopita, one of  the most famous ones, consists of fill dough wrapped around spinach and feta cheese. Similarly, and if not even better, tiropita is spanakopita without the spinach. My family has been eating dolmades since we were real little, which are stuffed grape leaves. Often they are stuffed with a rice of sorts, but sometimes a bit of ground lamb is added in as well.

And then, of course, there is the famous pita bread and dips. You can’t go wrong with pita bread, especially when it is fresh out of the oven and perfectly seasoned. But when you dip it in hummus, or tzatziki, yogurt mixed with cucumber, garlic, and other herbs, the pita becomes even more heavenly.

As for the entrees, the Greeks cook with a lot of seafood, octopus in particular, and lamb. My favorite dish is lamb souvlaki, skewers of lamb often accompanied by potatoes or vegetables. Contrary to the more American way of cooking lamb, which tastes rather gamey, the Greeks smother the tender meat in lemon and garlic, making it irresistibly delicious.

And then the desserts. Baklava is my favorite. It’s wonderfully messy, and is made of chopped nuts wrapped in fill dough, and coated in either honey or syrup. Another all time favorite are kourabiedes, which are similar to what we most often know as mexican wedding cookies. They are butter cookies with walnuts in them, and disguised by a generous coating of powdered sugar.

Caution: when eating, do not inhale.

Greek food is possibly one of the most hidden and underrated forms of cooking in America. I have decided to drag my friends to try Greek food, and I encourage you to find a local Greek restaurant near you and give it a try. It’s definitely worth it, and I can promise you won’t leave without feeling like you need to unbutton the top button of your pants, it’s that good.

RIP the Man


Nation divided white and black.

Will the freedom ever come back?

One man rises and leads the way.

Confined to a room for thousands of days.

Spirit holds and so does resolve.

He emerges from chains standing tall.

Arguing and breaking down the destructive rule.

His people had suffered like diseased mules.

Cocoon broken he comes alive

He sees freedom for which he has always strived.

The fight over, it is time to rest.

His nation has not seen its final test.

The little Dolphin that couldn’t


The little dolphin that couldn’t. When he was born his mother was ripped apart by a Great White Shark. Mr. Dolphin now had brain damage. Furthermore, his fins where shredded to pieces he could barely swim, he was slow.

While swimming in the seas of Japan Mr.Dolphin encountered some cold hearted fishermen. Mr. Dolphin was not smart so he approached their vessel slowly and foolishly. The fishermen viciously harpooned Mr. Dolphin inflicting life threating wounds to him. Close to death Mr. Dolphin decided to let the currents carry him westward.

Mr. Dolphin found the coast of Hawaii, where he met an average looking dolphiness, looking for a mate. Mr.Dolphin approached her, Mr.dolphin was instantly rejected by the Dolphiness. The dolphiness would have a child with another dolphin. Mr. Dolphin would swim far out to sea where he would die alone and forgotten.

(this was  experiment made with my friend infamousdolphin to test the power of cooperative creativity.)

Gingerbread Houses

One of my all time favorite things to do in the Holiday season is to make a gingerbread house. This weekend, I made my first gingerbread house in years. It was so much fun.

Making gingerbread houses is a good way to celebrate the Holidays. It’s creative, fun, and delicious. You can do the simple out of the box gingerbread houses, or go way over the top and make your own crazy creation.

Gingerbread houses are a fun group activity to do with kids of any age. Young kids, especially, love it, but even older kids will enjoy the activity and take the chance to be creative.

It’s also a not-so-healthy way of snacking. When I was little we would always eat our gingerbread houses after making them. I’m proud to say that wasn’t the case this year.

So if you’re looking for a fun activity to do this Holiday season, I highly recommend decorating a gingerbread house.