Inked

If you weren’t looking for it you’d miss it.

Of course, you’re looking for it. You sought them out not the other way around.

It is a hole in the wall, a speck amongst the sprawling skyline, and hustle and bustle of Lower Manhattan. The cobblestone “street” it called home gave it more of a back alley feel rather than the distinction of a formal address. All the shops and establishments along the cobblestone passage knew they were holes in the wall; the entire area felt as if you had been led behind the facade, behind the curtain and into the underbelly of what made the city tick. It was nerve-racking and electrifying. It was the feeling of strutting around the city. Head constantly on swivel, all senses heightened, thoughts racing a mile a minute, but still singularly focused on your final destination, your reason for subjecting your senses to this onslaught of activity.

Your final destination stands out, adamantly not garishly, not ostentatiously, garishly, commanding even. The storefront is a pillar of glossy black with tinted glass simplistically displaying its purpose for being there: tattoos. Whether you want one or not, abhor the idea or not, you are compelled to stop and squint through the glass.

Standing before the shop yourself, a glance at your phone confirming you are, in fact, at the correct location, you think, I’m in the wrong place.

You don’t belong.

Exclusive.

Yet, you are here. After years of careful placement planning, scouring the internet for the perfect reference images, and making sure your mesh of ideas were meaningful, deep, and complex without coming off as complicated and pretentious — you are here.

Don’t turn back now.

Without a second thought, your hand shoots out to grasp the door handle. It isn’t until now that you take in the grandiose size of the door, the storefront. It truly is a pillar, towering far overhead.

Breathe.

Squinting inside, you are met by three pairs of curious, slightly amused eyes. There is a hint of smugness, too — but not in the way you’d have assumed. There is no judgement, not one of them is judgemental. They are excited for you, but not overly so; it’s subdued in a way that you know glean from having experienced this experience with prospective clients time and time again. And at that moment you are glad while this is your first, you are glad you’re not their first nor their last. It quells the anxiousness that arises when stepping into any new situation. It is a temporary feeling — and unfamiliar at such an early stage of a new interaction — of relief.

Welcome to the club.

Street King by Sam Crescent

“West Gallo is not a good man . . .“

Truer words have never been spoken, but like Hannah, the object of West’s devotion, love, possession and obsession, that doesn’t make me crave the man any less. He’s a true alpha-male, completely willing to do whatever he can to make his girl happy without compromising his dominance and protective nature, and thankfully he’s got a woman who does not want for much. However, I definitely agree with Hannah’s reaction to finding out all that West did to arrange her life in a way that would lead her right to him. It was a little scary and overwhelming, but also very sweet; what a lucky girl.

I loved Hannah’s character. She’s not overly whiny or optimistic or pessimistic. I like that she’s real: she overthinks, she rambles when she’s nervous, she zones out, and lastly, she takes time to enjoy and appreciate the things that are often thought of as mundane, insignificant things that are just…life. She’s not (according to the author and other characters) a knockout, she’s the girl-next-door, but not in a saccharine way that’s too Mary-Sue-ish or eye-roll-worthily meek.

West&Hannah’s dynamic is literally what we as readers want when we read these type of books: a chance to experience the all-encompassing love illustrated on the page; so meta.

I’m used to short, erotic, deeply romantic tales from Sam Crescent so I was pleasantly surprised at how well-thought-out, detailed and descriptive this book was while still maintaining her usual less than 20-chapter book format. She answered every question Hannah and I wanted to know, and even some we hadn’t known we wanted to know.

You definitely won’t want to put down “Street King” until the very end.

Planting the Seeds, Spreading like Weeds

​I slink and I slither wherever you are, I writhe and I wriggle very near, never far;

I’ll consume your every thought until your “coulds,” “shoulds,” and “woulds” are all but not;

Could you have illustrated the beauty that surrounds, in colors so lifelike, vivid, profound?

Should you have weaved words to gentle melodies as intricate as a loom and, like sirens, lure men to their doom?

Would you have twirled on the weight of the wind, with a gait, graceful like horses, winged?

Tears will stream as you grovel on your knees, begging me to let your dreams be;

Your heart will echo at a breakneck pace, at the thought of me baring my face;

In the recesses of your mind in my shadowy corner, I’ll grow​​ my fortune, do not say I didn’t warn ya;

And who may you ask am I to turn your exhalations to whispers, make you hesitant to speak, thoughts muddle and spiral, swirling like twisters?

My name is well known, so I shall not say it,

No.

Instead, I will let it fester in your throat like a lump of brittle clay;

A crescendoing chant that resounds in your head, millions of beady eyes staring through your very soul;

Because when it’s just you alone, I’m your biggest threat.

Sprinting in My Yatins

Do you remember your first steps?

Remember the feeling of hesitation yet the confidence that came with taking those first few shaky lifts of your legs?

I certainly don’t.

I remember as much about my first steps as I do about what I ate for lunch an hour ago, but what I do remember is running; running, I remember.

I remember races up the street, ‘round the corner, down the block, through the sprinklers, over the river and through the woods to Grandma’s house we go . . . well, maybe not to my Grandma’s house, but you get the idea – it wasn’t hard, it was instinct and boy, was it a rush.

On Your Mark…

For me running was never about the sport of it. For me, it was just something most girls could do better than boys (something I still hold to be true). Granted, even at five years old we still treated it as serious as you would any Olympic Track & Field event. There were rules and regulations known throughout every grade, age, race, gender, or neighborhood.

Get Set…

• You must start behind the line

Whether it is a crack in the sidewalk, the curb before the lines of an empty crosswalk, or a straggly chalk line: crossing the starting line was an unfair start and grounds for immediate disqualification, and being branded a cheater. The cardinal rule for all games on the playground. Life may not always be fair, but fairness in schoolyard play was everything.

• Shoes don’t make the racer

Whether you’re rocking a fresh pair Adidas, Pumas, or Converse, you are here to race, not strut down a runway. No shirt, no shoes – it didn’t matter just come prepared to race…and to win. Besides, the more worn out the sneaker is the luckier they’ll be.

• There’s always next round

Everyone wants the chance to race, even if they don’t know it yet. Just get in line and wait your turn; get into your running stance, one foot and the opposite arm staggered behind the other, and let the world fall away as the “magic word” is uttered.

GO!!!

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Happy Halloween!!

‘Twas the afternoon of Halloween, and all through the hood
All the children were stirring they were up to no good;
They dawned their costumes, ready to scare,
There was Batman, and Dracula, even Chewbacca was there;
Yet two costumes just couldn’t be missed;
Dawned by two little men, too cute to resist;
One was a pirate, the other a tiger,
And they would have been menacing if they were more than two feet higher,
With bags wide open and still missing teeth,
In baby language(I’m guessing) they exclaimed “Trick-or-Treat!”

 

For the first time in my (insert age here) years on earth, I finally participated in the annual nightly, door-to-door tradition of taking candy from strangers without it being considered solicitation of minors or as it’s more commonly known: Halloween. No, I did not dress up. Instead, I helped chaperone my one-year-old cousin and his two-year-old godbrother.

Now, seeing as it was, again, my first time celebrating Halloween (indirectly), I wasn’t really sure what to expect when we ventured down the block into the bustling throngs of costumed little boys and girls. I wasn’t expecting staunch organization — they’re kids— nor was I expecting all out brawls over various chocolate treats(although some parents were clearly more enthused than their children), but I was expecting more than one measly piece of brand-less, no-name candy. Television lied to me; no one was giving out jumbo sized candy bars or fistfuls of sweets. The Chinese restaurant was giving out fortune cookies instead of candy! A fortune cookie?! That was the biggest trick of night. However, even despite the stinginess of my cousin’s local vendors and neighbors, I definitely enjoyed myself and felt the exuberance all children feel in anticipation of the night’s ultimate prize: free candy.

UpDate

So I don’t do this often, but I definitely want acknowledge the fact that yes, I was on a year and a half hiatus.

I’m sorry.

The summer I started my blog was the summer before my senior year in high school, so you can imagine how hectic my life became at that point.

Long-story, short: I’m back!

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To and From Bradford, PA

Vast. That would be — is, my one word to describe it all.

Vast.

Expansive.

Barren.

Lifeless.

Dead.

Only mere spots, patches even, of green. Evergreens. The pine needles stay all year round, but now with the weather warming up, the trees seem to stand a bit…prouder, taller. They’re waiting for their chance to shine and overpower the landscape with a luscious brush stroke of a singular green. Even the road as intrusive and vast as it is, in it’s own right, is belittled. The road, I would describe as…vast, yes, but more so barren. At night you are alone. Not lonely: completely and utterly alone. It is pitch black, not a star in the sky to light the way until morning peeks out somewhere over the horizon; somewhere far off in the unknown. Even then you are still alone — there’s light, but it’s lonely. The sky begins to take hue, battling with itself between it’s familiar, uniform blue vs. the array of colors that paint the sky; that people whisper in awe and marvel at during these hours of daybreak. Customary morning dew coats the ground, blade by blade, but as you climb higher up the mountain there is fog. Fog that consumes and engulfs you. Fog that leaves us to our thoughts, the low buzz of the radio, and the roar of an engine.

It intrigues us.

It scares us.

It is the vastness of the world around us.

Procrastination: Silent, but Deadly

Maybe I’ll do it now or maybe later or maybe…sound familiar? Procrastination, as defined by Dictionary.com, is the act or habit of procrastinating, or putting off or delaying; especially — you get the idea. Call it a habit, an act, or whatever bottom line is it’s neither the best trait to have nor the easiest to break.

Procrastination can stall the plans of a day to a screeching halt and leave you to deal with the repercussions of your actions until it is too late. Currently, I am shirking off my summer work as well as researching different colleges (becoming an adult: scary thought!); instead of doing either of these things I have engrossed myself in exploring the world of blogging as well as reigniting my love of reading.

I don’t know why I procrastinate especially when by doing so I unintentionally give my Mother license to harp on and on about getting things out of the way to have the day free — yeah…okay! I find that while my work may be rushed and half-assed it’s usually some of my best — a bizarre, one-of-a-kind skill I fully intend to exploit until my personal well of spur-of-the-moment, crunched-for-time ideas runs dry.

 

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. . . Who is The Blogging-est Blogger of Them All?

• Blog Name: Whenever I create a username I like to have an element of who, what, when, where, why and/or how I created the blog as well a bit of myself in it. The ‘tosh’ represents that I was watching Tosh.0 when I decided to create this blog. The ‘j’ is the little piece of me I mentioned earlier specifically my middle name which is pronounced like the letter J.

• Theme(s)/Design: I’m still not entirely sure how I want to present my blog. I know I was looking for a newspaper article motif/design to showcase my ideas, but right now I’m just looking for something that really pops and isn’t boring, yet also conveys the professionalism I hope to display through my posts and participation on this site. Right now it’s pretty obvious that I’m indecisive when it comes to decision making having changed my theme several times in the past couple days.

• Bio: My About page is pretty straight-forward in my opinion (I can’t really speak for anyone else). If you want to know more explore my blog, site, whatever; the picture of the Joker pretty much sums it up, “Welcome to the Madhouse!” (It’s not so bad once you understand what is going on at least half the time)

• Posts: My posts so far are either works I have previously written and would like more feedback on because I don’t usually let people read my work and they say that’s the best way to see if you have any talent by letting people read your works who you don’t have close personal ties to OR it’s answering this Daily Post. I’m going to eventually go beyond my comfort zone and write a well thought out researched topic that interests me or a random work that comes to mind. I’m actually thinking of doing a quotes page . . . we’ll see!

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In Tribute To A Legendary Author

When I was little my Grandmother took me to see a doctor. He wasn’t your typical white coat, stethoscope-hanging-around his neck, clipboard-in-hand doctor. Actually he wasn’t a doctor at all. In fact, I’ve never really met him face-to-face and he’s never met me, although I do check-in with him as often as possible. His last name is Geisel, first name Theodor, but he doesn’t go by either. He goes by Dr. Seuss.

Like most other preschoolers I learned to read with flashcards, ‘Hooked on Phonics,’ and some old wives tale method my grandmothers taught to my parents. After the classic Goodnight Moon, Dr. Seuss’ books were some of the first books I read all by myself and I’ve loved them ever since. I found it fascinating that there was a little creature watching over the forest named the Lorax, animals in a zoo from A to Z, and much to learn from The Sneetches and Other Stories. Dr. Seuss taught me that it was okay to be whimsical and different, rather than fit in. I mean, how many authors do you know who make up words in a rhyming fashion?

As a young kid I was shy, but with a bit of a tomboy streak in me. Just because I was a girl didn’t mean I was going to love floral print and flamboyant pink, although my mother seemed to think otherwise. I enjoyed running through the rain barefoot, squishing, squashing and sloshing through muddy puddles while my Grandmother watched from her sixth floor apartment window and laughed. I liked playing sports even if I wasn’t all that good.

I used to hate it when my family called me weird or crazy, their horrified expressions etched into my head. Now I grin like an idiot, take a deep bow and say, “Why thank you sen-jor! I do what I can!” I pride myself on being an individual even in the most minuscule of ways. Sometimes I even went out of my way just to be so. In elementary school I once tried to convince a boy in my class to change his name because our initials were T.G. and his last name was Griffiths (no relation) — I had to at least try! I don’t go to such extremes anymore, but I still strive to be original and I still hate ‘normal’. Normal is boring.

Dr. Seuss once said, “Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.” These are words I try to live by every day. At the age of seventeen, I’ve already got my high school graduation present picked out; it’s Dr. Seuss’ last book, Oh, The Places You Will Go! (Along with a few crisp hundred dollar bills.) Personally, I don’t know exactly where my life is headed quite yet. But what I do know is that I will succeed, “98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed.”

“Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”

Signature of Dr. Seuss (Photo credit: Wikipedia)