just alyssa

Dating. The sucky, inevitable, and completely necessary act of getting to know your future spouse. I don't know the exact number of hours we spend trying to get to know someone, but I'm sure it's way too many to ever count. All the minutes I spend analyzing small "hellos" or the awkward hug of a "goodbye", is enough to completely ruin an entire day.....or week. We choose the information we tell people. We allow them inside small cracks of our exteriors, hiding behind walls, tucking ourselves in the safe cocoon of the unknown. We keep our bad habits and issues to ourselves, hoping our partner won't eventually catch on to all the flaws that make us human. But they do. They always do. The thing is, if I had to lay out what my future husband looked like, I wouldn't focus on his appearance or what career he was in. I would put my attention on how he views me. What does he see when he looks at me? Who does he believe I am? Whether or not I love someon...

My grandmother once told me that writing wasn’t an escape, it was just something she did. She didn’t look at it to be some other form of living or a place she would hide out. It was a piece of her that no one else quite understood; the way her words danced across paper with her beautiful penmanship, becoming a new art form. Junot Diaz once described a writer as someone who writes, not just because they can. Diaz said, “A writer is a writer not because she writes well and easily, because she has amazing talent, or because everything she does is golden. A writer is a writer because, even when there is no hope, even when nothing you do shows signs of promise, you keep writing anyway.” Sometimes we’re not looking to market on the things we say; we’re merely speaking, wondering if anyone will hear us. It doesn’t matter who locks into our statements, who picks apart our careful syllables, or who hangs on our every word. It doesn’t matter who looks through us in these moments ...

Who are you? Alyssa. 5'4'' blue eyes. blonde hair. curvy. busty. female. You put careful thought into your daily appearance, sculpting your hair with shaky hands, plastering make-up on your face to finally feel beautiful. You rummage through your closet, stacking outfits together like stage costumes, each one landing on the floor after you decide it doesn't flatter your body. You check the mirror again and again and again, wishing your skin would glow like the magazines and your hair would flow like a shampoo commercial. You run to grab your diet of the morning, before leaving for the day. You spend your day at work, trying to measure up to a man's success, throwing out your ideas even though you are a woman. Who ARE you? You are not your name, or a height, or a weight, or a gender. You are not where you're from, or what you do. You are not color or a "type". You are not your body.

Some people are really good at flirting. They know all the ins and outs of the opposite sex, navigating their words like a captain at sea. They dance over waves to capture their opponents' hearts, and jump for joy in their triumphs. And then, there is me . I don't think I was ever particularly good at dating.......or flirting.....or even talking with the opposite sex. It's not exactly my forte. I've had some good attempts, but generally if a guy is attractive, I choke on my spit trying to formulate a good sentence. The only time to actually demonstrate what would be considered good decent flirting, is when it is done accidentally. I know, I know. It's hard to believe. So maybe you need some examples. How about some totally hypothetical scenarios in which I may or may not have been a total idiot. I can neither confirm nor deny the truth in what you are about to read, as it may be ego shattering. But rest assured, if you're like me, you're not a...

At times, I  can be a bit of a poet, lost inside my head of my own metaphorical translations. The love language of my own heart. A poem. .. Someday. That’s when you’ll have it. That’s when the world will all make sense. This ever illusive “one day”, that keeps today’s hope locked tight in its hands. Some. Day. Like the longing for tomorrow; the day that’s always a day away. Someday. The day you’ll have a chance. The day when you quit getting knocked down and kicked around. The beautiful promises of the “one day” man you’ve always dreamed of. The underlying compromises of a happy ending. The chance to unveil the silver lining. This “someday” that the world keeps talking about. The day Martin Luther King dreamed of. The day Betty Friedan longed to see. The day you wait for as you go to sleep at night. The day that keeps you dreaming. Someday. Someday my intelligence will carry me far. Someday the man of my dreams will capture me so deeply in his heart...