Story of a Girl

Randomly random musings from a 20-something Midwestern girl who hasn't accomplished much of anything... yet.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Eight Years Later


8 years have passed.

"Whoever said it gets easier as time goes on lied."

The memories aren't as accessible as they were at first. It's harder to recall exactly how we felt, what thoughts went through our minds as we learned of the tragedy that was unfolding in New York City, at the Pentagon, and in a field in Pennsylvania. It's not so hard to remember all the people who lost their lives that day, though. They're impossible to forget.

"For the moment, your husband and father's name is on someone's mind and lips."

Ruben D. Correa, known as 'Dave' to friends and family, died 8 years ago today at the World Trade Center. He was a firefighter with Engine Company 74 in the upper west side of New York, and he gave his life to save another.

"You are an angle, a hero to all, but to me you are just my dad."

He was a husband to Susan, a father to 3 girls named Yvette, Stefanie, and Brittani. He was an uncle, a cousin, a Marine, a friend, a godfather. And he is missed.

"While it still feels like a dream, I hear your name being called and that makes it all the more real."

There are messages, prayers, and offers of gratitude from all over the world on Dave's memorial page. His daughter keeps him updated on family news through her messages. She told her father about her marriage after his death, and her husband left a message to his father-in-law as well. She announced the birth of her 3 children over the last 8 years, and her sister's pregnancy. She said that she knew her father would be happy to finally have grandsons after raising his girls. Her messages are often filled with apologies and regrets, but mostly she just wishes her dad was still here.

So many things have changed over the last 8 years, but one thing is still the same. Dave is still in their thoughts, and he will be for the rest of their lives. He still guides his friends and family, and they still remember him.

"The sound [of your laughter] is fading in my head, but I want to keep it in my heart."

His daughters make sure his grandchildren know him through their memories. They spend occasional evenings watching home videos, reliving happy moments with Dave and refreshing their memories of the man who meant so much to them. Keeping him in their hearts is the only substitute for having him here.

In 44 years, Dave affected so many lives.

"There was no room for us to enter [your funeral] so I cried outside."

He was just doing his job that morning. No one imagined that two planes would hit the World Trade Center that day, that nearly 3,000 people would die. But they are all heroes.

"All I could remember was when Sue called the house and said 'Please find Dave.' "

There's no need to find him. He's always in your hearts.


This blog is part of Project 2996, a memorial to all the victims of 9/11. Please click here to read about the other heroes who lost their lives that day.



Sources:

http://terroristattack.com/messages.php?id=552
9-11heroes.us/v/Ruben_D_Correa.php
legacy.com/gb2/default.aspx?bookid=5708011640393

Friday, May 21, 2010

Why didn't this shit ever happen when I was single?

The other night, I got the coolest voicemail EVER.

And I'll tell ya, I know a lot about cool voicemails. I leave them all the time. At least, I used to before I stopped using the phone for anything other than ordering food...

I checked my missed calls list and saw a random number. Thinking it was probably just an old friend who I'd deleted, I listened to the message. I should have saved it so I could quote it word for word, but I wasn't thinking that far ahead.

"I just called to tell you that I totally called the wrong number, but you sound really hot and I'd like to get to know you better."

Dana can confirm that one for you. I have a voice designed for phone sex hotlines, apparently.

He went on for a couple more minutes about how hot I sounded, and that I should get a hold of him. The more he talked, the more drunk he sounded.

But damn if my ego didn't grow two sizes that day...

It's just nice to be reminded by someone other than the guy who is legally required to tell me I'm hot on a regular basis that I am, in fact, hot. And hearing it from the boys at work doesn't count-- they're all pretty fucking desperate.

And then? Tonight? Like half an hour ago?

I got a random IM from one of my exes. Most of you were around for my Caterpillar blogs, and I introduced him there. I usually refer to him as "the bad one." That kid was the biggest waste of my fucking life for damn near 3 years, but I was completely unable to pull myself away from him. Then I finally realized that he sucked just as much as everyone said he did, and I finally got the balls to be done with him.

Me? Needing to get some balls? Unheard of!

I swear, it happened. There was a point when I didn't have balls. It was a sad, terrible time, and one day there will probably be History Channel documentaries about it.

So anyway. He tried to talk to me a couple months after we broke up, and I blew him off. It's been 4 years since that conversation, and then he IMs me out of the blue tonight. He just wanted to "see how things were going."

Yeah, right. I told him that I just got married, and that I may very well be in NC in a few months. Take that, asshole. I'd like to say that I took the high road and hoped the best for him, but you've all met me before. I hope he's sitting there at his computer screen in a daze, berating himself for every detrimental thing he ever said to me, for every time he ever made me feel like shit. I hope he cries himself to sleep and wakes up knowing that no matter what, he'll never amount to anything more than a lonely, pathetic asshole who no girl in her right mind could EVER care about.

Was that too harsh?

It kinda feels good to be "the one who got away..."

And I'm so glad I'm married to Brad and not that asshole.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

I was on a journey...

I made a late night run to Walmart. As usual. That place just sucks during normal people hours. Not that it doesn't suck all the time, but normal people hours are the worst.

(FYI: Normal people hours= any time before midnight, usually.)

I understood why there are people out there who always carry a camera.

First, I saw a sign outside a salon. It said, and I quote (halfassedly): "Tired of summer frizz? Brazilian Blowout!"

Really? Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't a Brazilian something for your lady parts? I've never noticed mine to get more frizzy in the summer... And I gotta say, that isn't the best advertising strategy for frizzy hair OR waxes.

Then, I saw new diapers at Walmart. No, I was not diaper shopping myself. They just happened to be next to the shoes. I am not, nor do I plan to be in the near future, knocked up.

On with my point.

These diapers? They were made to look like jeans. For those poor folk out there who can't afford to dress their kids. Or are just too damn lazy to do it. Was this invention really necessary? Or is Huggies just hard up for sales? Jeez.

Then I saw a guy I used to work with. I noticed that he disappeared one day, but I didn't know his name so I couldn't ask about him. I figure, once you get past the first conversation without getting introductions out of the way, it's too late to ask. You just have to wait and hope that you hear someone say their name. I suppose you could ask them how to spell it, but you kinda blow your cover if they say "B-O-B" or something equally simple. So, I had an entire let's-catch-up conversation with a guy whom I talked to on a daily basis for a year and I still don't know his name.

And that was my excitement for the evening. Woot.

As a side note, Haley Joel Osment was much cooler before he hit puberty.

Seriously, people?

I could've sworn something happened today that was blog-worthy... but no, it didn't. Just more work. Can I just mention that I never want to see another clipper EVER again? I swear, at least 99 times a day I consider hanging myself with a clipper cord. Not that I wish annihilation on the company I work for, but couldn't we just run short on parts for 1 week? Preferably the week before Memorial Day so I don't get in trouble for taking that Friday and Saturday off? Please?

Ok, enough about that.

So, I have a question. It's mostly for the boys, although I know none of them will give me a serious answer. See, the hubby is constantly afraid that I'm going to leave him. I know my "get the fuck away from me" attitude that I have a lot of the time doesn't help that, but jeez. I was like that before we got married. As I've explained a million times, it's nothing against him. It's the fact that he's people and he's on my planet. However, it seems like every time we get a chance to talk for more than a few minutes, I spend it reassuring him that I'm not going to fucking leave him.

I gotta tell ya, this shit got old a while ago.

Marriage isn't a temporary thing for me. I made the commitment knowing that it's forever, good and bad, all that jazz. But he seems to think that I'm every other female on the face of the fucking planet. Really? I just don't know how to reassure him that I'm not going anywhere. I tell him, I'm completely honest with him about everything, we have yet to argue, but he still thinks I'm just here for now.

So how do I make him believe that I love him? He knew exactly how I was before we got married, yet now he wants to be everything I'm not. I'm not a nympho, or one of those dumb whores whose status updates are always about "my man." I don't spout out my feelings to him every day because it's just not who I am. But really? This coddling bullshit I have to do every other fucking day is getting fucking ridiculous.

Any suggestions?

Friday, May 14, 2010

Soooo....

I have absolutely nothing to say. I'd like to think that the best blogs start out that way, but that just isn't the case. I mean, really. Who wants to read the completely incoherent thoughts of some random person over the internet? And to make things worse, my computer is being a cranky little bitch. It acts like it's the one working 60 hours a week...

Oh yeah, did I mention that? 60. Fucking. Hours. Every week. No end in sight. I know, I know, I should be thankful to even have a job right now. Hell, that's why I go in. But seriously? This shit is bananas!

*B-A-NA-NA-S*

I'd apologize for the fact that you're going to have that song stuck in your head all day, but I'm not sorry :D

Anyway. I need to get back into the swing of blogging. Just writing in general, really. I don't have time to write my story about the baseball player and the stripper (it'll be good, I promise), so blogging every day will have to do. Only problem is, I have nothing to write about other than building clippers and being a newlywed.

I won't assault you with blogs about how I burnt dinner, oops!, mostly because I don't have time to cook. And, even if I did, I wouldn't burn it. I'm a goddess at the stove. As long as the package has directions, that is. Wanna hear about my diaphragm instead? Did I even spell that right?

Yeah. Pain in the ass. I mean, vagina. When I went to get fitted for it, the doctor wasn't even sure he'd be able to find a kit since it had been so long since he last used it. But he did, and now I have non-hormonal birth control that has a 16% failure rate. Awesome. And I have to drown it in spermicide, stick it in my hoo-ha (no more than an hour before intercourse, mind you!), and then remember to take it out later. Not immediately, oh no. Optimum time frame? 6-8 hours later. I suppose that makes sense. Have sex, go to sleep, and then take it out when you get up in the morning. Or early afternoon, in my case. Good times. And then it takes not one but TWO fingers to get it out, and I'm always still a little sore, and ooooooooooh, ouch, and no wonder I never want to have sex anyway.

Is anyone still reading?

So yeah. Life is boring. I'm happy, though. At least, I think I am. I dunno. Life is drama-free and same ol', same ol' all the time, and that's what I wanted. I knew boredom was going to be part of it. I have a husband who worships the ground I walk on, who's afraid that I'll leave him if he breathes the wrong way, and who would fuck me all day long if he could. That's how it's supposed to be, right? Then why I am already questioning whether or not I did the right thing?

Oh yeah. It's because this whole marriage thing hasn't sunk in yet. It's been 2 months, and we were only together 5 months before that. It all went so fast, and I was just looking for a reliable fuckbuddy when I met him. I'm still getting used to the fact that he's not the "strong silent type" like guys are supposed to be, and that he just wants to be with me constantly. I haven't had a day to myself in waaaaaaaaaay too long. I need that time to recharge, to get my bearings again, to blog about stupid shit that is totally irrelevant to everybody else.

But no. I get one day a week to not be at work, and he has decided that MY one day belongs to him.

It's so hard to be understood as an introvert. That, hopefully, will be the most retarded statement in this blog. But seriously? He just doesn't realize that I need to be completely, 100% alone every now and then. Otherwise, every little thing gets fucking annoying and I want to shoot a fucker in the fucking face. But I can't, because then I'd have to go to jail, and I can't fight for anything as far as I know, and I don't want to be some butch dyke's bitch.

Sigh.

We filled out applications for North Carolina jobs the other night. Maybe life will be more exciting there. I can dream, can't I?

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Dear Taylor Swift:

Stop it. Just stop. Seriously, for the sanity of every person who has ever turned on a radio, just fucking quit now.

I hate you. I mean, really hate you. A lot. This goes beyond the average run-of-the-mill hatred one has for a celebrity. With you, it's like I know exactly how you would be in person, and I can see myself stabbing you in the face with an ice pick. That's how much I hate you.

The first time I saw you, I wondered aloud why there was a picture of a porn star on a t-shirt in the middle of Walmart. Go ahead, put in your favorite porn. Is there an anorexic, overly made-up, completely whorish blonde in it? Does she remind you of... you? Exactly. Stop molesting unsuspecting music lovers with your incessant crap and start having sex on camera for money. Need a little practice, you say? Just shove that microphone down your throat. If you happen to get electrocuted in the process, so be it. You'll save yourself the trouble of becoming a 40-something nobody who's still trying to act like she's a teenager.

And also? You're a homewrecking slut. Yeah, I said it. Try to fucking deny it. All of your songs are about how some guy should be with you rather than the girl he's with. Have you ever stopped to think that there's a reason these guys don't want to be with you? Maybe it's because they don't want to take a porn star home to their mothers. Really, though? Go find your own man. Stop trying to break up everyone's relationships just because you're apparently so much more compatible with these guys than their current girlfriends. If you stay on this path, you'll end up being that crazy whore in a hotel bar who "accidentally" drops her room key in front of some unsuspecting businessman. Honestly, each new (I use that term loosely because all your songs are exactly the same) song you come up with makes you sound more and more pathetic. Stop fucking begging for affection. If you were as great as you think you are, you'd either have a man or you'd realize that you don't fucking need one.

I have no idea how you won an entertainer of the year award. I'm guessing it involved a lot of cocksucking. Just saying. I'm at a loss to understand how parents can let their little girls idolize you. Even moreso, I don't get how these parents can put your CDs in and be tortured by the monotone whining that you refer to as your singing voice. You are the epitome of everything girls shouldn't grow up to be. Eventually you'll get old and ugly, and then you won't have anything left to hide the fact that you have no talent at all.

So please, if you have any respect for the world at all, go kill yourself. You could even change your name to something sluttier and start doing porn, although I wouldn't watch anything you were in. I'd rather see you with a dick in your mouth instead of listening to you sing, though. The world has had enough of you and your crappy pseudo-country music. Quit now while you're ahead.


Sincerely,

Toni

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Ode to Nicotine

My Marlboro Lights and I just celebrated our two year anniversary on Valentine's Day. Has it really only been two years? It feels as though my cigarettes have been with me my entire life, there to make it all better when everything just sucks. I spent years convincing myself that I shouldn't smoke. I know that I don't have the willpower to quit. However, I have no desire to quit. At all, whatsoever. I love that first smoke when I wake up, the one that I light as soon as I get into my car after a hectic day at work. I love my 3rd good night cigarette, because one is just never enough. I love inhaling each and every puff, watching the smoke swirl around my head. I love pissing off all the people who don't smoke and made it illegal to smoke in any public place in Illinois. Those bastards...

Most of all, I love that when I get stressed out, when everything is just too much to handle, all I need to do is take a smoke break and then I'm calmer.

Sure, it's a $5 a day habit. It stinks. It requires me to go outside in below zero weather just to get that fix. But ya know? I still love each and every puff. It's hell on my body, but that was the point.

You see, I started smoking to shave a few years off. It was at a time when everything sucked and I just wanted it all to stop. But when I started to freak out because I had no future, no money, almost nothing that meant anything to me, I had my cigarettes. They were there for me. They're a crutch, I know. At least, they were. Now, they're like an old friend. Only more dependable.

I can see myself as one of those old people taking a puff from a cigarette and then a breath from an oxygen tank someday. I'll still enjoy every puff.

We all have to die someday. I might as well enjoy it.

 
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