My Golden Fluffy Monster

This is my dog, Duke. I have the wonderful honor of being his human. 
And before you ask, why yes, he did get part of my lunch. What can I say? I'm a softie. I probably wasn't going to eat those vegetables anyway...

Duke deserves his own blog post. 

All animals are angels, really. There's a lot they teach us. They love unconditionally, they forgive without hesitation, and they're loyal to the bone. They make us laugh. They care about us. They keep our secrets.

Duke is part American, part British Golden Retriever. Meaning if he could talk, it'd be with an accent. Brit Retrievers usually are beefier than American ones, explaining why Duke is massive in the chest and ranks around 120 pounds. (I'm sure he'd be thrilled that I announced his weight to the entire world)

 Duke is a happy golden fluffy monster, except when my family leaves. This is him pouting on my little sister's bed. I've had him for about 2 years now. It's amazing how human dogs can be and how they can communicate with us. I know when he's hungry, when he needs to go outside. He knows when I'm busy and when I want to cuddle. I can't sleep without having my dog on my bed. I've even resorted to bribing him with his favorite snack food, Cheetos, to get him to stay on my bed. 

As a writer and an artist, I can't help but wonder what Duke's story would look like. If he could talk, what would he say? How would he say it? 

Sometimes I wish my dog could talk, and other times, I'm thankful he can't.

What Does Your Crazy Look Like?

You are stronger than what you give yourself credit for.

Hello, my minions! I have recovered from my battle wounds and am now ready to return to the wonderful world of Blogger.
A few weeks ago, I went to camp. It was a great experience for a People-Watcher like myself. From the energetic, perky, possibly indestructible Rec Team, to the Southern pastor who faced his fear of heights and was the first going down the zipline. How often do you meet a boy who's the exact imagine of a human pitbull, a girl wearing a hotpink tutu with part of her pinky missing, AND a 5 foot nothing real life Flash? Then there's the location itself...
The air in the mountains feels different in your lungs than in the city. It's purer. Being surrounded by a clear blue sky, mountains and trees, you remember how small you are. The adventures I had can easily be stretched to fit into fiction. 
For example:
Crawling up a very steep hill on my hands and knees, in the pitch-black night, with the fear of being left behind or getting lost driving me on. The person ahead of me shouted. They slide backwards, and promptly used me as a stop. Captain America's (that was his nickname) boot heel drove itself into my shoulder. This can easily be stretched into a story about running away, surviving in the savage wilderness, or why guys should not wear boots with heels on them.


Standing on the creepy platform, seeing nothing but treetops for miles, while a woman attaches you to the harness for the zipline. Your heart is speeding, your body is shaking, the world very possibly could black out at any given moment. Of course, once you take the step, it's a wonderful ride. It's thrilling. It's joyful. It's FLYING.
....until you hit the brake and find yourself on solid ground all at once.


Last but not least, there was Goliath.
Goliath is best described as a military-style obstacle course. The hike from the main part of camp to the desolate corner of Goliath is an exercise in itself. Everyone is standing around, wanting to see how it's done before they go.

Unless you're me, who was the only girl to go. Then it's perfectly okay to call a bunch of jocks chicken and try to tackle it first. (I did horrible, by the way. It took me 5 minutes and I fell 4 times.)
It's as much as a physical test as it is mental. By the time you've Army-crawled in the scorching hot dirt, climbed a rope over a 5foot tall wedge thing, and nearly fell off the tire mountain, your body is asking what in the world you're trying to prove. Your brain does not help with the constant reminder that you need water, that the boys laughed when you fell right off the bat, and that you are not tough enough to finish this.
But I did. Three days later, even with a pulled thigh muscle, PitBull-Boy talked me into trying to run it again.
I made it as far as the wall before I climbed down and limped off in search for an ice pack. But hey, I tried.

Now don't get me wrong. You don't need to go do something crazy to be able to write, but man, it sure helps. Everyone has a different definition of "crazy" and that's where the fun kicks in. Maybe your crazy involves eating deep-fried squid with chocolate syrup on it. Or maybe it's grabbing a surfboard and going down the staircase. (I actually want to try this someday) 
Find your craziest moment, and fiction-fy it. 
Go on.
I dare you.