You can’t have a rainbow without rain.

Y’all know how I feel about colors.

People can only truly love you when they see the true colors of their soul.

Sometimes people are like crayons in a weird color. You can’t complete the masterpiece that is your life without weaving them in somewhere.

Creativity is just intelligence puddle jumping in pools of color.

And this article from Thought Catalog agree with me:

I hope you appreciate some of these vivid colors and incorporate them into your day. There’s nothing better than a day that shines a little brighter with a splash of color.

In case of Armageddon, steep 3-5 minutes.

Japanese teapot:

I was rebelling from ‘Merica and following in
the footsteps of my British ancestors faithfully.
My mind was roiling like bubbles in the kettle
and yet there I sat, sipping Earl Grey tea.

I took it black: no milk, no sugar, no honey.
It was like coffee without the bitterness
and it matched my own atmosphere, with
just a hint of attitude and restlessness.

I swallowed slowly, liquid pooling on my tongue
and slipping around like the thoughts in my head.
The teapot understood and swirled the steam my way
like Mrs. Potts comforting me over Belle instead.

The cloud boiled in the sky, gunmetal grey to charcoal
and the teacup kissed my lip softly and lingered.
The winter wind rustled though the bushes
and the leaves, like my soul, grew withered.

Red Japanese ceramic teapot.:


We say we want to disappear when we really just want to be found.

I was cleaning out my purse.

It was a normal occurrence.  As a college student, it’s easy to get bogged down with the Target tags ripped hastily off over-sized sweaters that resulted from the impulse buy after the last failed test, the Starbucks receipts that demonstrated just how deep the self-medicating went, and the used tissues that proved your immune system was in the toilet from lack of sleep and the anxiety that gnawed at your temples.

Amid the scraps of white, there was a mint green envelope.

I opened it, a wish for an unused gift card burning in my greedy eyes as I slipped the card out.

I couldn’t have done this without you!”

Your future shines brightly and I can’t wait to see what you do!

You are the only reason I passed this class.  An absolute God-send.”

Amidst the gentle loops of the mom’s handwriting that spread significant surface area of the card were small pockets of neat notes written by students who had clearly learned how to write notes efficiently.  Even the word choice indicated that they had cleverly picked words that needed few details.

You’re the best tutor ever!”

“Thanks for all your time spent teaching us!”

You are a great friend and an even better tutor!”

Nursing students are always the most encouraging because they know what it’s like to never receive themselves.

I don’t do what I do for the money — part-time wages aren’t nearly enough for the services that tutors provide.  I also don’t do what I do for the credit — the grades are entered under the student’s name, not my own.  I don’t do what I do for the pure enjoyment of it — sometimes you just have to smile and explain to that jerk for the fifth time that you didn’t design the calculator and you don’t know why the parentheses buttons are where they are.

Sometimes I can convince myself that I enjoy helping people and I enjoy my job.  But sometimes, and this is one of those days, I have no idea.

That’s the thing about nursing students. Most of them still enjoy what they do.  As a tutor, the last thing I should become is apathetic.

And yet, here I am.

I put the card back in the envelope and put the envelope back in my purse.

I don’t feel real unless someone is watching.

He was a writer.

“Are you happy?”

I tossed my curled tresses over my shoulder as my mouth curved with forced laughter, the red lipstick blazing a crimson streak across my pale, exhausted face. Winter’s breath tapped on my neck before I answered quickly, took a sip of coffee and excused myself to rush to my next class.

He was a writer and he knew.

He was a published writer, actually (you’d be surprised how important the clarification is). His wife works for a fashion designer in New York City and it was clear based on his cuffed grey-wash jeans, the striped socks and the black anorak jacket that they got along just fine and compromised often.

He was happy. But he was a writer and he knew what diction was.

I listened to him speak and I was reminded of the seductive power of words. 20 minutes later and I was blinking ferociously to keep his syntax from enticing me away from my textbooks and my lab goggles, from the hours of studying and self-loathing in the library, from the periodic table plastered on every surface I could find. The sound waves spun in my cochlea and I distracted myself from the interpretations of the frequencies by mindlessly listing off the anatomy of the ear.

He was a writer. He knew what diction was and he knew better than to ask a person with my eyes whether or not they were happy.

My answer was as bitter as the coffee that followed and swallowed out the retort that did not come quickly enough. Was I, the analyst of scientific articles, the cleaner of lab tables and fume hoods, the dissector of cadavers, happy?

The wind that ran his icy fingers over my neck poked me in the eye and I felt hot tears prick. How rude.

“Of course.”

He was a writer.

He knew.