My Atticus pt. 2

I don't know how you do it, Atti.

You're there for me when I need you to tell me what to do or just to let me know things are going to work out. I mean, you don't even say anything that I don't already know. But hearing you say it always makes me feel better. You're straightforward and honest. But you believe in me. Sometimes it feels like you have more confidence in me than I do. But I'm glad you do.

It's getting harder, Atti. Harder to see purpose in what I'm doing.  I feel like I'm trapped in a perpetual state of 3 a.m. and I can't seem to find my way to tomorrow.  Every morning is suppose to bring me new energy, new strength to keep going, to become someone I've always wanted to be. But lately I awake to mornings lacking connection, lacking a sense of familiarity. I wake up and it's like I never slept. My ambition feels more like a burden than a motivator and part of me thinks I can't make it happen, I can't be successful in my passion.

That's why I love you, I guess. You believe in me more than most people. And you remind me why I should believe in myself. You once told me I'm too hard on myself and I have to live in a world that never reaches my expectations. Both are true, they've always been true I guess. Maybe I need to be less critical of myself and the world. Or maybe I just need you around more often to remind me to stop seeing the darkness and look for the light.

If I ever do write a book, I might dedicate to "my yellow bird." You deserve it more than most in my life.

Love you.
Mean it.

Being a Professional According to Joe

I am currently taking a class called, "Professional Considerations for English Majors." It's a required class for all English majors who don't have an emphasis in education, or, in other words, English majors who more than likely don't know what the hell they're going to do with their lives after graduation. We're reading this lovely & brilliant book by Tim Lemire called I'm an English Major--Now What?, a title that still makes me grin every time I hear it. It's a great book actually. It outlines several career options available to English majors after graduation. It's some pretty thought provoking stuff, especially for people like me who only have the vaguest of ideas of what their professional futures might be and are basically temporary at best.

I was thinking about this at work. It was the first day of my new job. I'm a tutor/mentor for high school students at Spanish Fork High School. No one came in for homework help so I had plenty of time with my thoughts. I made a list of all the other jobs I've had in my life:

• Sales Associate at Pac Sun 
• Sales Associate at Bed, Bath, & Beyond 
• Cashier/Cook/Stocker at The T-Bird Grill 
• Hostess (glorified waitress) at Courtyard at Jamestown Assisted Living Community 
• Child Supervisor at Red Hills Southern Baptist Church 
• English Language Teacher at International Language Program in Russia (volunteer position) 
• Private Math Tutor at SUU/Vocational Rehabilitation of Utah 
• ENGL 1010/2010 grader at SUU English Department 
• MATH 1030 T.A. at SUU Math Department 
• ENGL 1000 Writing Assistant at SUU English Department 

Some of these jobs were terrible.
Most were tolerable.
One was the best job I've ever had.


That one job was the most recent one, being an ENGL 1000 Writing Assistant. Basically, I was paid to have fun and do what I love. I got to help students become better writers and I became close to them & cared about them. I became better friends with the fellow writing assistants who were also English majors and in my my English classes as well. But the best part was working for Professor Joe Willis. He was the main contributor in making that job so awesome. Joe loved what he did. He had fun in his classes but was also a talented & effective professor. But what I remember/loved about Joe the most was how he redefined for me what it means to be a "professional."

When I picture Joe, he's in his typical teaching attire: a solid colored button down shirt, a tie in a full windsor knot, either a vest or a jacket, the kind with leather patches on the elbows, dark nice jeans, and Converse shoes. He'd have a messenger bag with the Green Lantern symbol stitched on the side. The first time I went in his office (really a closet, poor guy) I saw superhero action figures, a Fight Club poster, and stacks of comic books next to great works of literature on a bookcase. Joe was a professional in his field, and a damn good one too. But, for Joe, being a "professional" didn't mean being boring & stuffy, nor giving up what you're passionate about.

Everyday in Joe's ENGL 1000 class, he would write a prompt on the board that his students were to respond to. One day the prompt was, "What's your dream job?" After the class broke up into their workshopping groups, I told my group, which was situated by Joe, that my dream job would be a personal assistant because, to me, it would be like problem solving. As Joe was walking by, he commented to me, "My dream job is to be a college professor who teaches comic books. Oh, wait..."

I thought about that story when I read a quote from Lemire's book, "I would call a real job any job that pays you a livable wage for doing something that you would do even if you weren't paid to do it." According to Lemire, Joe has a real job. He is paid to read & talk about comic books, something he is going to do anyway.

When I think about what I want to do with my life in regards to something I'm going to do anyway, I keep coming back to writing. Working for the UVU Review has (not to sound too corny) opened up so many other career possibilities that I had never really considered before. The idea of me being a writer for a magazine (not vogue or cosmo but something that actually has some substance) has taking root in my brain and has begun to grow.

However, this idea has been growing under the constant shadow of my natural practicality/cynicism. I have a voice in my head repeating over and over,

"A writer? You want to be a writer? Do you have any idea how ridiculously pretentious and stupid you sound? How do you expect to make money out of being a writer? This isn't Bohemia, sweetheart. Chances are you're going to end up being one of those stupid struggling starving suffering writers with plenty of pages on your desk but no money in your wallet."

But I'm trying to either shut up that voice or ignore it long enough for that idea of being a writer to grow enough to be substantial. I mean, there are writers out there. They do exist. That mean if it works for them, it can work for me. I know it'll be hard but, you know me. I'm driven, passionate, and stubborn as hell. And I am very used to getting what I want. If I want to be a writer, heaven help anyone who tries to stop me.

Love you.
Mean it.

I'm Glad I Woke Up Today

"Tomorrow may be hell, but today was a good writing day, and on the good writing days nothing else matters."

-Neil Gaiman

Twitter Account

The time has come for all of you awesome people out there who read my blog to get to know me on a more "what's Kelly like on an average day" kind of basis. Therefore, I am announcing the Love You Mean It Twitter Account!

And there was much rejoicing and celebrating in the streets. 

The blog will post all of my super special tweets on the side column right underneath the pretty tag cloud.

If you have a twitter and want to follow me, you can do so here. And if you tweet me and say you read my blog, I'll follow you. That seems fair, right?

So stay tuned and go nuts.

Love you.
Mean it.

As Said By Jared Leto

I just got back from the 30 Seconds to Mars concert. I was there to write an article about the event for the Review. I had a freaking blast. The best part was lead singer, Jared Leto. They guy was awesome. Here are some of the quotes I was able to write down during his performance.

"This is the best crowd we've played for the entire tour so far." -p.s. this was the first show of the tour.

"I want everyone to jump so high and so hard we put a crater here."

"You in the back, you'd better jump. I will come down there and straighten you out if I have to."

Stops the song to point out people who are not jumping- "You! Guy in the white shirt with his arms folded, what the fuck is wrong with you???"

"I love every single person in here. Thank you so much!"

"Hey guys. Uh, anyone have any requests?"

"That was beautiful. Thank you so much. "

After audience attempts to sing a super high part of the song "Yeah Yeah Yeah."
"It's pretty fucking high, isn't it? Now you see what I have to go through every single night. I think the only people who can hit that note are, pardon my language, people who don't have a penis or testicles...or people like me who wear really tight pants."

"This next song is off our new album. If you don't own it, shame on you. Shame on you. I give you all permission to go home and steal it."

"I'd like to dedicate this song to someone very special to me. All those out there (points to the crowd) , the dreamers, the wishers, the believes, and those people who have been with us on this dream. You're all lovely. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

"I want to take a picture of you all right now and put it up on my twitter."

"Should I put it up now? What should I write? Kings & Queens of UVU. "

"This song is for the mosh pitters cause they look like they were having fun."

"I want to go on record, this night has been on of the best shows ever. We're going to come back and do this again really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, soon."

"God, I love it here."

"Yell hallelujah! Praise the Lord! Now jump your asses off!"

"From all of the 30 Seconds to Mars family, we will never ever forget you."

"Did you guys have fun seeing New Politics? (one of the opening bands) They're really nice. Did you know they're from Denmark? The Danish are nice people. Just watch out for your wallet."

"Look at her nose! (Points to girl in the crowd) Holy fucking shit! She must have been moshing hard cause her nose is broken & bloody & shit. Let's get this girl on stage. Let her through, let her through. She's covered in blood and who wants to touch that?"

"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. See you guys soon! THANK YOU!!"


My new life goal is to one day be as cool as Jared Leto.

Love you.
Mean it.

My Atticus pt. 1

I like how we've been talking again.

I mean, we didn't stop talking because we got in a fight or anything. We both were just busy with our lives. It happens. But I'm glad we're talking again, even if it's just texting and facebook, which really doesn't qualify as "talking." It's more like communicating. But whatever it is, I'm glad it's back.

I had forgotten how good it is to talk to you. You always manage to make me smile. Part of it is from how well I know you. I can imagine exactly how you would say a text I receive. The other part is how well you know me. You can often predict what I'm going to say or how I'm going to react. That's a nice feeling. I never realized how wonderful it feels to have someone who knows every detail about you not because you keep reminding them but because they pay attention.

Things have been going well for me. Despite all the shit I've had to deal with for the past seven months, one week, and four days, things seem to be getting back to an elevated normal. I say elevated because my "normal" usually consists of frequent bouts of depression. But lately, I feel like I'm falling in love with my life once again. You know better than most how tempestuous my relationship has been with my life. But right now, I feel as though I am in a perpetual state of falling in love.

Remember the other day I was talking to you about that guy I had re-met? We'll call him "Thomas." We've had a chance to spend a bit more time together. And the more I think about it, the more he reminds me of you. He's intelligent, cultured, poetic, well-read, and a true-romantic at heart. But where you have an overall lighthearted, satisfied disposition, Thomas is more melancholy and pensive. If you'll excuse my lame attempt at being poetic, his temperament feels like that of a passionate lover who suffers from unrequited love or unmitigated circumstances. He constantly faces situations and circumstances that do not live up to his hopes and it leaves him feeling dejected, as if he's starting to believe his hopes cannot exist in this world. He suffers for his passion. When he does love, he loves so fervently, so intensely that it borders on that of a consuming insanity. It reminds me of something Françoise Sagan once said,

"I have loved to the point of madness, that which is called madness, 

that which to me is the only sensible way to love."

Yes, he burns with a passion that might one day destroy him, but he cannot see the point in loving any other way. Of all the people I can think of, you probably understand his perspective the best and why I would find it intriguing & irresistible. I have been single for over a year now and while it has been hard, it has never truly bothered me because I never found anyone interesting enough to consider being with, until Thomas showed up in my life again. Part of me wishes he hadn't. I don't know if I can handle waiting and seeing if he could ever become interested in me. Yesterday you told me a french saying,

"La faim est la meilleure sauce--Hunger is the best sauce"

God, I hope you're right.

I hope you know how important you are to me. It's funny. We met by the most random of circumstances and now you are one of the very, very few people I completely trust in this world. If I never get a chance to tell you, thank you being "my Atticus" no matter what happened.

Love you.
Mean it. 

Morning Tattoo

She rolled over and kept her eyes shut out of principle. The bed had stopped being comfortable about an hour ago but she didn’t feel like starting her day yet. She could hear him in the shower but she couldn’t remember him getting out of bed. He was always good at not disturbing her when he’d get up at an ungodly hour. She checked her phone for the time. 7:23, seven minutes until her alarm went off. She switched it off and rolled over again so her back was facing the room. She pulled the IKEA comforter around her even more. She wasn’t cold, she just wanted to keep out the day. She let her mind wander over what needed to be done today and what could be left for tomorrow.

She didn’t notice the water had shut off and the door was opening. He startled her when he crawled back into bed. He smelled clean. Old Spice and minty toothpaste. He wore his old gray shirt with the Batman logo on the chest. It was her favorite shirt of his and would often steal it from him. He didn’t mind. She looked good in it; she looked good in all of his t-shirts.

He had his arms wrapped around her and he pressed his wet hair to her bare shoulders. She let out a sound of protest and half-heartedly shoved him away. He kissed her where his wet hair had been and she made a sound of approval.

“Are you going to be able to get up in time?” he asked her while studying the contours of her neck. She used to be a morning person, waking up as early as 5 or 4 in the morning. But she stopped once she had a reason to stay up late at night.

“No promises,” she said. Her eyes were still closed but pulled him closer to her. He knew if she had her way, neither of them would leave the bed until noon. He didn’t deny the thought was appealing but he had class and so did she. He leaned above her and kissed her on the cheek.

“I’ve got to go,” he whispered. She turned and opened her eyes. They were tired and still had remnants of her eyeliner smudged underneath. They were hazel with a twinge of green in them. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him softly on the lips.

“Have fun,” she said. “I’ll meet you for lunch out in the courtyard, okay?” He kissed her again and got up to grab his shoes and bag. He looked back as she rolled over and her back faced the room once again. She was wearing a black tank top and he could plainly see the tattoo on her back shoulder. It was an intricate letter P with blacks and reds woven in and out of the letter. Her favorite novel was The Scarlett Letter. P stood for Proud, her own public sin.

“Love you,” she called without turning over.
“Love you too,” he said as he slipped out the door. 

Love you.

Mean it. 

I Hate Missing You

The following people I miss terribly (in no particular order & for various reasons):

Augustus Johnson
Sean Kendall
Leila Warring
Kelly Rodkey
Blake London
Joe Willis
Jim Ailey
Royden Shurtz
Dallin Bundy
Kristy Denlein
Bri LeBreton
Andy Sherwin
Kalle Bland
Wes Bills
Paige McGuire
Ashley McNew
Jacob Ludlow
Devan McLain
Cameron Hoskin
Ryan Hedstrom
Christina Metz
Brian Chamberlain
Damian Mora
David Ashworth
Seren White
Jesse Durant
Josh Spongberg
Stephany Grass
Mary Cate Greene
Maygen Simm
Neil Womack


Love you.
Mean it.

Things People Have Said That Made Me Laugh

"Kelly, it's going to snow Saturday & Sunday. Just thought I would ruin the rest of your day."

-Adell  May Kirkman

"I like Spanish Kelly. It's fun!"

-Bryan Shumway

"It's not hard to be a teenage girl. Just make everything a really big deal. Go!" 

-Dallin Bundy

"It could be really shitty, as in death..."

-Damian Mora

(on upcoming spring break in Mexico)

Eric Waits: You're a math major?

Kelly Cannon: Yep.

Eric Waits: God, you must have a terrible life.

"My mission would've been awesome if it weren't for all of the mormons."

-Joe Willis

"I was a horrible person and graded papers in church... Yeah, sorry Jesus."

-Joe Willis

Joe Willis: I'm going to be a really weird parent. That's probably the reason I haven't reproduced yet.

Kasi Henderson: Yeah, THAT'S the reason.

"Geez, Neil. Why don't you go read a book or something?"

-Josh Snow

"You look like a lesbian rugby player."

-Kathy Cannon

"You love Shark Week more than Jesus???"

-Kristy Denlein

"Hobbits are dope. All they do is party and farm."

-Neil Womack

"Bah! Travis Barker is an asshole."

-Neil Womack

(after failing at drums on Rock Band)

"Call me sadistic, but there is something great about watching Nazis get shot in the face."

-Chris Bodily

(on  Inglorious Basterds)

"Relationships are like rubik's cubes. It only takes a few moves to mess up but a ton to put back together."

-Josh Keele

"Okay, Thursday night and there is stuff to be done. I need to-- Oh look, comic books."

-Joe Willis

"One day, I hope you'll appreciate your own kind."

-Jon Timothy

(on my hatred of girls)

Kelly Cannon: UVU is going to be the death of me.

Gus Johnson: There's that good ole Cannon optimism I grew to know and love!

Love you.

Mean it. 

Books I Want to Read

1. 300 by Frank Miller 
2. A Doll’s House by Henrik Ibsen 
3. A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway 
4. A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis 
5. A History of Violence by John Wagner 
6. A Passage to India by E.M. Forster 
7. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce 
8. A Room with a View by E.M. Forster 
9. A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dicken 
10. Absalom, Absalom! by William Faulkner 
11. Adverbs: A Novel by Daniel Handler 
12. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll 
13. All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque 
14. All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy 
15. Am I Not A Man? The Dred Scot Story by Mark L. Shurtleff 
16. American Zombie Gothic by Dr. Kyle William Bishop 
17. An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser 
18. Bachelorhood: Tales of the Metropolis by Phillip Lopate 
19. Batman: Sword of Azrael by Dennis O’Neil 
20. Beloved by Toni Morrison 
21. Ben Hur: A Tale of the Christ by Lew Wallace 
22. Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin 
23. Boy: Tales of Childhood by Roald Dahl 
24. Breakfast at Tiffany’s by Truman Capote 
25. Candide by Voltaire 
26. Cannery Row by John Steinbeck 
27. Capitalism: The Unknown Ideal by Ayn Rand 
28. Cinematic Storytelling: The 100 Most Powerful Film Conventions Every Writer Should Know by Jennifer Van Sijil 
29. Come Up and See Me Sometime: Stories by Erika Krouse 
30. Confessions by Augustine 
31. Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton 
32. Cyrano De Bergerac by Edmond Rostand 
33. Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather 
34. Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak 
35. Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes 
36. Double Indemnity by James Cain 
37. Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson 
38. Dracula by Bram Stoker 
39. Dress Your Family in Corduroy & Denim by David Sedaris 
40. Dune by Frank Herbert 
41. Everything Is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer 
42. Fanny Hill, or Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure by John Cleland 
43. Farewell, My Lovely, by Raymond Chandler 
44. Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, and other American Stories by Hunter S. Thompson 
45. Fever Pitch by Nick Hornby 
46. For the New Intellectual by Ayn Rand 
47. For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway 
48. Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger 
49. Fraud: Essays by David Rakoff 
50. Freakonomics By Steven D. Levitt, Stephen J. Dubner 
51. From Here to Eternity by James Jones 
52. Fugitives & Refugees: A Walk in Portland, Oregon by Chuck Palahniuk 
53. Generation of Swine: Tales of Shame and Degradation in the ‘80s by Hunter S. Thompson 
54. Generation X: Tales for an Accelerated Culture by Douglas Coupland 
55. Going Native by Stephen Wright 
56. Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell 
57. Great Expectations by Charles Dicknes 
58. Grimm’s Complete Fairy Tales by The Brothers Grimm 
59. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad 
60. High Fidelity by Nick Hornby 
61. Hip: The History by John Leland 
62. Howards End by E.M. Forster 
63. I Am Legend by Richard Matheson 
64. I, Claudius by Robert Graves 
65. In God We Trust: All Others Pay Cash by Jean Shepherd 
66. In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust 
67. Interrogating the Real by Slavoj Zizek 
68. Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice 
69. Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison 
70. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte 
71. July’s People by Nadine Gordimer 
72. Kim by Rudyard Kipling 
73. Kingdom of Fear: Loathsome Secrets of a Star-Crossed Child in the Final Days of the American Century by Hunter S. Thompson 
74. Lady Audley’s Secret by Mary Elizabeth Braddon 
75. Les Miserables by Victor Hugo 
76. Life of Pi by Yann Martel 
77. Light in August by William Faulkner 
78. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov 
79. Lord of the Flies by William Golding 
80. Love in a Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez 
81. Love Is a Dog from Hell: Poems , 1974-1977 by Charles Bukowski 
82. Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert 
83. Madness of the Day by Maurice Blanchot 
84. Math Through the Ages by William P. Berlinghoff 
85. Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis 
86. Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka 
87. Micro Fiction: An Anthology of Really Short Stories by Jerome Stern 
88. Middlemarch by George Eliot 
89. Moby Dick by Herman Melville 
90. Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf 
91. My Antonia by Willa Cather 
92. My Left Foot by Christy Brown 
93. Mysteries of Pittsburgh: A Novel by Michael Chabon 
94. Native Son by Richard Wright 
95. Neuromancer by William Gibson 
96. No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy 
97. Nostromo by Joseph Conrad 
98. Nothing Feels Good by Andy Greenwald 
99. O Pioneers! by Willa Cather 
100. Old Goriot by Honore de Balzac 
101. On the Origin of Species by Charles Darwin 
102. On the Road by Jack Kerouac 
103. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey 
104. One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez 
105. Paula by Isabel Allende 
106. Pentimento by Lillian Hellman 
107. Persuasion by Jane Austen 
108. Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie 
109. Philosophy: Who Needs It by Ayn Rand 
110. Point Counter Point by Aldous Huxley 
111. Psycho by Robert Bloch 
112. Ragtime by E.L. Doctorow 
113. Sense & Sensibility by Jane Austen 
114. Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Works by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 
115. Sin City by Frank Miller 
116. Slouching Toward Nirvana: New Poems by Charles Bukowski 
117. Some of the Dharma by Jack Kerouac 
118. Sons & Lovers by D.H. Lawrence 
119. Sophie’s Choice by William Styron 
120. Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert Heinlein 
121. Sudden Fiction International: Sixty Short-Short Stories by Robert Shapard 
122. SuperFreakonomics By Steven D. Levitt, Stephen J. Dubner 
123. Superheroes and Philosophy: Truth Justice, and the Socratic Way 
124. Take the Cannoli by Sarah Vowell 
125. Talk to Me, James Dean by H. Lee Barnes 
126. Tender Is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald 
127. Tess of the D’Ubervilles by Thomas Hardy 
128. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon 
129. The Associate: A Novel by John Grisham 
130. The Beautiful & Damned by F. Scott Fitzgerald 
131. The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath 
132. The Best of H.P. Lovecraft: Bloodcurdling Tales of Horror and the Macabre by H.P. Lovecraft 
133. The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler 
134. The Book of Illusions: A Novel by Paul Auster 
135. The Book of Laughter and Forgetting by Milan Kundera 
136. The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole 
137. The Communist Manifesto by Karl Marx 
138. The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen 
139. The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas 
140. The Crossing by Cormac McCarthy 
141. The Death of Ivan Ilych by Leo Tolstoy 
142. The Devils: The Possessed by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 
143. The Diary of a Madman by Nikolai Gogol 
144. The Dog of the Marriage: Stories by Amy Hempel 
145. The Executioner’s Song by Norman Mailer 
146. The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan 
147. The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand 
148. The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams 
149. The Golden Bowl by Henry James 
150. The Good Life by Jay Mcinerney 
151. The Great Shark Hunt: Strange Tales from a Strange Time by Hunter S. Thompson 
152. The Handmaid’s Tale by Margarat Atwood 
153. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers 
154. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams 
155. The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien 
156. The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton 
157. The House of the Dead and Poor Folk by Fyodor Dostoevsky 
158. The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky 
159. The Importance of Being Ernest by Oscar Wilde 
160. The Inverted World by Christopher Priest 
161. The Island of Dr. Moreau by H.G. Wells 
162. The Jungle by Upton Sinclair 
163. The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien 
164. The Malady of Death by Marguerite Duras 
165. The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett 
166. The Man Who Was Thursday by G.K. Chesterton 
167. The Mystery of the Yellow Room by Gaston Leroux 
168. The Naked Lunch by William Burroughs 
169. The Night Torn Mad With Footsteps: New Poems by Charles Bukowski 
170. The Outlaw Bible of American Literature 
171. The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry 
172. The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky 
173. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde 
174. The Postman Always Rings Twice by James M. Cain 
175. The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark 
176. The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli 
177. The Public Burning by Robert Coover 
178. The Puppet Masters by Robert Heinlein 
179. The Rules of Attraction by Bret Easton Ellis 
180. The Rum Diary: A Novel by Hunter S. Thompson 
181. The Scarlet Letter by Nathanial Hawthorne 
182. The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis 
183. The Sorrows of Young Werther by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe 
184. The Souls of Black Folks by W.E.B. Du Bois 
185. The Sound & the Fury by William Faulkner 
186. The Stranger by Albert Camus 
187. The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway 
188. The Thousand and One Nights by Anon. 
189. The Trial by Franz Kafka 
190. The Unabridged Journals by Sylvia Plath 
191. The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera 
192. The Vicar of Wakefield by Oliver Goldsmith 
193. The Virtue of Selfishness by Ayn Rand 
194. The Week You Weren’t Here by Charles Blackstone 
195. The Winter of Our Discontent by John Steinbeck 
196. The World According to Garp by John Irving 
197. The World’s Shortest Stories of Love & Death: Passion, Betrayal, Suspicion, Revenge All This and More... 
198. The World’s Shortest Stories: Murder, Love, Horror, Suspence, All This and Much More in the Most Amazing Short Stories 
199. Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston 
200. There’s No Business by Charles Bukowski 
201. This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald 
202. Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome 
203. To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf 
204. Tom Jones by Henry Fielding 
205. Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller 
206. Twelve Angry Men by Reginald Rose 
207. Ulysses by James Joyce 
208. Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe 
209. Unless by Carol Shields 
210. Utopia by Sir Thomas More 
211. V by Thomas Pynchon 
212. V for Vendetta by Alan Moore 
213. Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray 
214. Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett 
215. War & Peace by Leo Tolstoy 
216. War All the Time: Poems, 1981-1984 by Charles Bukowski 
217. Waverley by Walter Scott 
218. Ways of Escape by Graham Greene 
219. We the Living by Ayn Rand 
220. What If? by Stephen E. Ambrose 
221. What Matters Most Is how Well You Walk Through the Fire by Charles Bukowski 
222. What We Talk About When We Talk About Love: Stories by Raymond Carver 
223. Where I’m Calling From: Selected Stories by Raymond Carver 
224. White Noise by Don DeLillo 
225. Women by Charles Bukowski 
226. Women in Love by D.H. Lawrence 
227. Wonder Boys: A Novel by Michael Chabon 
228. World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War by Max Brooks 
229. Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

Names I Am Fond of

Girls
Gloria Peach
Lily Marie
Jovie Camille
Gracie Tulip
Olivia Bea
Eliza Anne

Serenity
Alice Coraline

Boys
Atticus Sage
Rex Bennion
Gregory Rhead
Jude Casteel
Bryan Augustus
Jesse Kostya
Sean Konstantine
Damian Thomas

Love you.

Mean it. 

Explanation

I have a lot on my mind right now. It's starting to affect my writing, which is shitty. 

Hopefully I'll be able to write something soon. 

Apologies to whoever feels they deserve one. 

Love you.
Mean it.

Kelly Cannon, Writer

"I would call a real job any job that pays you a livable wage for doing something that you would do even if you weren't paid to do it."

-Tim Lemire

Seeing Something He Can't See Anymore

He wonders why I want to write about him.

I told him I found him intriguing and that I like writing about him. He said no one wants to read about a fucked up soldier. That’s how he sees himself. It’s the only way he sees himself. A soldier with baggage & scars just trying to function. But he’s not just a soldier to me. He’s a loyal fraternity brother, a dedicated father, a genuine friend and a kind person. I told him that once. He said those are all qualities of a soldier, except for the “kindness bullshit.” He doesn’t believe me when I say he’s gentle and kind but it’s okay. I know he is because I’ve seen it and I’ve experienced it.

He doesn’t let people close to him. He has his reasons & I’m not going to argue with them. I’m okay with waiting. In any other situation, with any other guy I would have left a long time ago. Signed him off as a prick and move on with my life. But Jack is different. I’ll wait for as long as he needs. When he’s ready, he’ll let me become closer to him. I don’t feel the least bit silly for waiting, even if others may see me that way. To hell with them. They don’t know anything about the situation and I’m not about to tell.

I’ve been trying to figure out why it’s different with Jack. When we’re alone together or just talking, I’m different. But it’s a good kind of different. I’m kinder, gentler, more patient. He brings out a better side of me, I guess.

He knows I care about him, even if he doesn’t understand why. I’m not positive myself. Maybe I see something in him he can’t see anymore. Whenever I’m with him, I feel good. I feel safe, not just in physical terms but also in regards to trust. It’s become harder for me to trust anyone in my life but I trust him. He would never intentionally hurt me. And even though he keeps people out, I’m closer than most.

I write about him because he means something to me. He’s more than just a subject of a story. He’s a mystery, a puzzle only a few have a chance to figure out. And he’s let me have that chance for the most part. I write about him because the more I figure out about him, the more I care about him.

Love you.
Mean it.

When Karma Reverses Roles.

"What are you reading?"

I looked up from my book and saw a young guy looking at me with anticipation. I sat up and said, "The Short Stories of Nathaniel Hawthorne." The guy got up and walked over to me. He was young, maybe 19 or 20. He had faded jeans that ended with black converse and a v-neck light blue shirt that hipsters wear nowadays. His hair was a mass rich dark brown with a slight curl that made him look like the creative type. He sat down at the table next to mine but in the chair across from me.

"What's Nathaniel Hawthorne written?"he asked.

I told him Hawthorne's most famous work was The Scarlet Letter. He gave me a look of pained recognition that I had grown accustomed to when discussing this novel. He recounted to me how he had read the book in high school and hated it, a similar tale I have heard from nearly everyone I encounter. I like The Scarlet Letter, though no one really believes me. I've even been toying with the idea of getting a tattoo of my own scarlet letter on my shoulder/back area, an intricate P for Proud.

My fellow reader, whose name I would learn is Nick, began telling me about how in high school he hated reading. But he recently started to read again. He commented on how he loves reading Chuck Palahniuk. My ears perked at the name. I love Chuck.

"I love Palahniuk," I said. "I've read everything he's written except for his book Fugitives & Refugees. I haven't been able to snag a copy."

Nick, seeing he had a fellow Palahniuk lover, began to discuss why he loved his work. He went on and on about the ideology of Palahniuk's work. His ideas were basic, but I attributed that to his age. If he was going to school, he would've been a freshman. His eyes were dark brown like his hair and would occasionally light up with excitement. There was a pleading look in his eyes I couldn't explain at the time, as if he wanted something that was always out of reach.

He then began to talk about how he had been really really depressed for about a year and he'd lock himself in his room and read book after book. He hated his father, who abandoned him and his mother when he was five, and he hated his stepfather. I became uncomfortable. I don't like strangers with this kind of honesty. He didn't even know my name and yet was going into depth about his abandonment issues. I tried not to show my discomfort. I remembered what I had read about conversations in How to Win Friends & Influence People. I had read it because I found a old copy of it with my granddad's name in it. I respect my granddad so I wanted to read it. I kept eye contact and responded to what he was saying.

Eventually he got back to discussing books but it wasn't a real discussion. He was the only one talking. In fact, he didn't stop talking. I couldn't get a word it. Even when he'd finish one thought and there would be a slight pause, he'd pick it back up with another thought.

I was confused. Why would someone talk this much to a complete stranger? Then it occurred to me. Maybe this guy, this kid really, doesn't have many people to talk to. Maybe he goes for days without having any meaningful conversation. So when he does have the chance to talk, all of his stored up thoughts come bursting out at once. He didn't realize he was doing this. He just wanted interaction.

This was how I was a few months ago. I'd talk someone's ear off just because I hadn't talked to anyone in so long. I felt bad for the kid. I knew exactly how he felt, like he wasn't alone but he felt overwhelmingly lonely. I kept listening. Karma had reversed my role. I had to pay back the kindness I had received.

After an hour, I had to leave. I had my film class to get to. We were going to watch Spike Lee's Bamboozled and I didn't want to be late. I stood up and thanked him for the conversation. He thanked me with real sincerity. He asked me my name. I extended my hand and said, "Kelly." He smiled and went back to his seat.

Love you.
Mean it.

The Difference Between You & Me

"Anonymity is cowardice. If you won't attach your name to your words, you aren't worthy to write them."


Love you. 
Mean it. 

#8: What was the first album you ever bought?

Believe it or not, the first album I ever bought was Spice World by the Spice Girls.

I was in fourth grade and my best friend, Kimmy, and I loved the Spice Girls. They were all about Girl Power and friendship and other things that a poor impressionable young girl might love. I played that cd every chance I got. My parents were probably ready to throw it down the garbage disposal. Even now thinking about it, I have the songs playing through my head. If I heard them again, I could probably sing all the words.

Looking back, the Spice Girls may not have been the best role models for me at such a young age. Luckily for me, I was so young and naive that half the time when they were talking about "naughty" stuff, I had no idea.

Love you.

Mean it. 

#7: What was your favorite book growing up?

In regards to picture books, it was Many Moons by James Thurber. It was about a princess who wanted the moon on a necklace around her neck. Though the top scientists and mathematicians claimed it couldn't be done because of the size of the moon and what it was made of etc. the princess explained how it could be done using simple childhood explanations. It's a great story. I recommend it.

Love you.

Mean it. 

#69: What is something you want to do before you die?

1. Wink at a complete stranger. 
2. Buy a genuine Amish quilt. 
3. See every movie on the AFI's Top 100 Movies of All-Time list. 
4. Read all the books on my To-Read list. 
5. See a Broadway play. 
6. Plant a tree. 
7. Buy a Dooney & Bourke purse. 
8. Be a part of a protest. 
9. Be in a fight. 
10. Own a gun. 
11. Finish reading War & Peace. 
12. Adopt a dog. 
13. Go to a NFL game. 
14. Participate in a form of civil disobedience. 
15. Hack Real Life 
16. Buy a pack of Jones Soda with my picture on it. 
17. Meet Chuck Palahniuk. 
18. Start a revolution. 
19. Punch someone in the face cause they deserved it. 
20. Offer a stranger a ride. 
21. Leave random notes for people to make their day better. 
22. Take a random road trip with no real destination just to enjoy the journey and see where we end up. 
23. Reverse Steal. 
24. Own a pair of TOMS Shoes. 
25. Attend the Warped Tour. 
26. Write my life story 
27. Watch every James Bond movie 
28. Turn off my phone for a week 
29. Raise money for a charity in an unusual way. 
30. Bury a time capsule 
31. Carve my name in a tree 
32. Learn to play a song on the piano from memory 
33. Host a cocktail party 
34. Meditate for three hours 
35. Go skinny dipping 
36. Catch a fish and eat it 
37. Take a pole dancing class 
38. Build a tree house 
39. Buy a homeless person lunch 
40. Go to a toy store and buy a toy for myself 
41. Get my fortune told 
42. Ride the Bus all day long 
43. Volunteer at a soup kitchen 
44. Send a stranger flowers 
45. Watch the sun rise 
46. Watch the sun set 
47. Take a vow of silence for 24 hours 
48. Write a letter to a celebrity you admire 
49. Send a message in a bottle 
50. Build a kite and fly it 
51. Visit every single state 
52. Jump into a pool fully clothed 
53. Have a meaningful conversation with a stranger 
54. Sleep under the stars (no tents!) 
55. Call or write a congressperson 
56. Write a thank you letter for good customer service 
57. Yell, “I’m mad as hell & I’m not going to take it anymore!” 
58. Vote 
59. Spend an entire day taking pictures 
60. Be apart of a food fight 
61. Get a tattoo 
62. Start a dance in a public place 
63. Throw a bunch of stuff off a building 
64. Ask a stranger for permission to kiss them and then kiss them. 
65. Become a licensed minister 
66. Give a kid selling lemonade a $100 bill and say, “Keep the change.” 
67. Get my friends to the top of a building and all scream at the top of our lungs 
68. Pay for someone’s groceries. 
69. Go to a Bingo Hall, win, and yell, “BINGO!” 
70. See a dead body 
71. Ask out the guy of my dreams 
72. Take a kid to a toy store and have her/him pick something out for you to buy 
73. Read a poem in public (your own or someone else’s) 
74. Buy my own star. 
75. Learn to drive stick shift

Love you.

Mean it. 

#42: What is your favorite sound?

I love the sound of babies/toddlers laughing. I can never be depressed or angry if I am around that kind of laughing. It's one of the most genuine sounds a person can ever hear because when a baby/toddler laughs, he  laughs like he has seen the funniest thing on the planet.

Love you.
Mean it.

Experiences of Beauty & Truth

For a few years, I was a dual-major in English and mathematics. Upon learning this weird fact about me, most people would stare at me with a mixture of dismay & disgust. Without fail, they would state they hated one of those subjects. Sometimes they would look at me with just a hint of mistrust, as if I was lying.  Apparently there is an unwritten rule that everyone on this planet can only be good at either math or English. Never ever both. In this regard, I was a paradox, a contradiction, an A & not A. Yet there I was, a person who was not only good at both English and math but also enjoyed them. I would take breaks from calculus equations to read Dostoevsky. I would discuss Melville with the same passion as matrices. Both subjects expressed the realest form of beauty & truth, but for different reasons.

English, or more specifically literature and writing, often reveals my addiction to words. I have never had an image or a symbol resonate with me more powerfully than a phrase or a paragraph of writing. In the English language alone, there are hundreds of thousands (if not millions) of words. And we use those words, arranged in a certain order according to grammatical rules, to communicate and convey ideas. There are a few of us that take certain words arranged in a certain way that when read can invoke so many emotions in the reader. Words can be inspirational, enraging, thought-provoking, intriguing, or just devastatingly beautiful. That is the power of words. They can have that affect on people.

As a writer, I have dedicated my life to truth, and as such I will only write what I consider to be true. And I stand by what I write and I will fight for its existence. The ability to express my thoughts and feelings in a way that gets people to read and understand what I'm thinking/feeling is one of the most beautiful experiences I have had in my life.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, there is something beautiful about mathematics. It's consistent. It transcends time & cultures. It is not open to interpretations or "feelings." You work through a specific problem step by step using care and exactness and at the end you arrive at a solution. That solution is either right or wrong. That, my friends, is beauty. It is truth. Finding the correct solution to a problem after 15 minutes of work is the closest I have ever felt to God. I've confessed to some people that the more I understand math, the more I believe in God. That is true.

In the middle of an existence that is often chaotic and out of our control, knowing that math is constant, knowing two plus two equals four and will always equal four proves to me there is a God. It isn't all just random and arbitrary. Underneath everything that does not make sense is beauty & truth in the form of consistent calculus, algebra, & trigonometry. It will not change and it will always make sense.

My experiences with math and English have been the most profound expressions of beauty & truth I have been able to have in my life. They may be a little unorthodox but I wouldn't trade them for anything.

Love you.
Mean it.

The Only Time He Made Me Cry

The only time he ever made me cry was when he cut his hair.

I am not kidding.

I was dating his good friend at the time. He had long-ish hair, light brown with a very slight curl. I've never considered myself a "hair" type of girl but he had the hair of an Olympian god. He once mentioned he thought about cutting it. I freaked out, told him he couldn't. It would have been like destroying a piece of art. He would tease me about cutting it really short and I'd pout. It was weird. We were flirting with each other even though I was dating his friend.

I confess now I liked him more than his friend. There was just something about him that was so intriguing. He was smart, funny, and genuine. I loved being around him. I never thought we'd ever end up together since he was loyal to his friends. He'd never make a move on his friend's girl. 

One day I was walking out of the ELC on SUU campus. I was in the middle of a horrible, horrible day made worse by finding out I had failed my discrete mathematics exam. I was good at math. I knew I was good at math. But this class was kicking my ass. I was beginning to think I wasn't cut out to be a math major when I looked up and saw him. He had cut his hair. And not just cut, he buzzed his hair off. It was like he had enlisted in the army and he was prepared for boot camp. He looked at me with a mischievous  gleam in his rich blue eyes, waiting for my reaction.

I burst into tears. The day had been awful and seeing him without his gorgeous hair had tipped the scales. It was not the reaction he was expecting. He felt bad and came to comfort me. I ended up laughing at myself for being so silly. I explained to him that my day had been terrible. I wasn't just crying cause of his hair.

When his friend broke up with me, I was pretty upset. I was feeling ill at the time and homesick as well. I skipped my last classes and crawled into bed, not wanting to see anyone. He came in and asked if I was okay. I told him I wasn't. He didn't try to get me out of bed or to talk about anything. He just took off his shoes and got into bed with me. We just lied there. We'd occasionally talk but most of the time was spent in silence. I think that was the moment I knew he understood me better than pretty much everyone else.

We still talk occasionally. It's hard when we live three hours away. But the last time I saw him, his hair was long again. Not as long as it was when I first met him but it still looked great.

It's nice to know somethings will never change.

Love you.
Mean it.

Was I Suppose To Do Something Today?

"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by."

-Douglas Adams

This Ended Up Being About Loyalty

My sister is upstairs with her friends. Tonight was their high school football homecoming game. They're all decked out in the orange and blue of the mighty Timpview Thunderbirds. They're all loud and annoying, like any teenager, I suppose.

One of them asked me if I wanted to join their party. I politely decline, though the thought of punching her in the face did flash in my mind. I'm six years older than them. Is this what I've come to? I swear at one point in time I was cooler than this. Friday night and my only company is my dog, Scotty.

In my defense, I did have plans. They were cancelled last minute. I was going to hang out with this guy named Lehif (that is his real name, I promise) but his friend was having some car trouble so he was helping him out. And considering I'll pretty much drop anything to help out one of my friends, I can't be too judgmental.

I've been thinking a lot today. Mostly about the idea of loyalty. I tried to figure out how many people I'm fiercely loyal to, people I would stand by and fight against anything they were facing, people I would defend no matter what. If they needed me, nothing would stop me from helping them. And I came up with a grand total of three.

Three. That's it. Only three people I consider myself to be fiercely loyal to. I don't know what that means exactly. Maybe I'm getting smarter about who I trust. Maybe I've been betrayed too many times to trust anyone else. Maybe these three mean more to me than I initially realized.

The kind of crappy part of this is each of these three guys (yes, they're all guys. If you really knew me, you wouldn't be surprised) lives at least three hours away. This makes things hard when I feel like I need them and their loyalty to me. I know they're just as loyal to me.

Well, okay, not 100% true. Two of them I know are fiercely loyal. The other one I just hope he is. I hope I never have to test that. It will break my heart if he isn't.

This has been mostly ramblings, an attempt to get my mind off of things for a bit. Just for the record, it didn't work.

Love you.
Mean it.

Ask Away

If any of you guys out there have any questions for me, go here:
http://www.formspring.me/mskellycannon

I'll answer anything you guys ask. Promise three times.

Love you.
Mean it.

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

"A learning experience is one of those things that says, 'You know that thing you just did? Don't do that.'"

-Douglas Adams

Your Secret Is Safe With Me

"They say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time." 

-Banksy

You would never tell anyone your full name. No matter how much people begged, you always kept your middle name a secret. You told me that once somebody knows your full name, then they own a part of you that you can never get back. I thought that was complete bullshit. And I semi-knew you thought so as well. You just didn't want to admit you had "trust issues." Keeping your middle name a secret was a way to keep people out. If they didn't know your middle name, they really couldn't know you. It was the last line of defense.

I admit now, I thought you were an idiot. It was probably the only time I did but I felt justified. I was not given a middle name and it was something I've always ached for. I was denied something that helps identify who I am. You were given this extra name and you kept it a secret from the world.

When the time came for you and I to go our separate ways, me back home for the summer and you off to boot camp, you gave me a letter. You made me promise three times that I wouldn't read it until I got back home. I kept my promise (which was something you taught me) and waited until I was back in my room in Provo to read it. It was about four pages filled with your "seizure-esque" handwriting. I had also promised to never tell anyone what was in that letter, another promise I have kept. And while what your wrote has got me through a lot the past three years, nothing mattered more to me than the very end.

Under the word "Sincerely" you wrote your name, your full name. I know what you meant by doing that. It was something neither of us could say using words. A secret finally revealed to someone who understood the significance of it.

To this day, I have never told anyone your middle name. The way I figure it, it's not mine to tell.

So don't worry, love.
Your secret is safe with me.

Love you.

Mean it. 

Conversation with an Almost-Priest

It was my second time on a train.

The first time had been only a week before. An overnight trip from St. Petersburg to Moscow. We were taking the same trip but in reverse.

We rode coach because, despite the stereotype of rich Americans, we were dirt poor. The coach car was broken up into "compartments" like you see in the movies, except it only consisted of two walls with two pull down beds on each side. There was no door. The wall opposite of the compartment was lined with two pull down beds, one above the other. These were even cheaper seats.

There were nine of us: Dani, Amaryiah, Victoria, Katy, Miki, Maggie, Sharla, her husband Tharon, and myself. Since there were four to a compartment, one of us would have to be alone. I volunteered. While the vacation to Moscow had been fun and relaxing, it did define alliances a little more clearly. There was this subtle tension in the group underneath everything else. I went to my compartment and set up my stuff on the lower left bunk.

Two people, one guy and one girl came in, both in their mid to late twenties. They were dressed in all black. The guy wore a black t-shirt and baggy black pants with chains and rivets attached to them in no seeming order. His hair was black & red, neither of which was natural. The girl, a thin pale thing, wore tight black pants and a black tank top with a red bra. Her hair was long and naturally black. Both had piercing and tattoos. They saw I was American (it's sort of hard to hide) and in very broken English, explained to me they were a goth metal band. They were on tour and their bandmates were in another compartment. They gave me their business card, which was useless to me since it was in Russian. They left to be with their other bandmates while I pulled out my book, an English translation of The Brothers Karmazov.

The fourth member of the compartment walked in. He was also dressed in all black, but not like my other "bunk-buddies." He wore the white clerical collar of a Roman Catholic priest. He was in his early thirties, wore glasses and his brown hair had already begun to thin. He glanced at my book and asked me in accented but unbroken English if I was American. I told him I was and that I was an English teacher in St. Petersburg. I asked him how he knew English. He told me he was originally from Germany. He had learned English while he was in school, before he entered the Seminary. He wasn't a full priest yet. He had spent the past four years in the remote parts of Siberia doing missionary & humanitarian work. He was on his way to St. Petersburg to become an official priest.

The only knowledge I had on Roman Catholicism was what I learned from dating a Catholic named Sage the year before. I had been to Mass a few times but I was content with my own religion and didn't bother exploring any more than was necessary. I asked him if there were many Catholics in St. Petersburg. He said there were many. It was the second most prominent religion there, after the dominating Russian Orthodox. I had been to a few Russian Orthodox churches in St. Petersburg but hadn't seen any Catholic ones. He told me of the Catholic Church of St. Catherine that was on Nevsky Prospekt, the longest and most famous street in St. Petersburg. I had been there many times and made a mental note to find the church.

We began to talk about a variety of different subjects, including the concept of good & evil, who or what God is, and how there was a great need for more kindness & understanding in this world. The conversation turned to the subject of love and trust. He told me about his brother who still lived in Germany. His brother and his girlfriend had been living together for over six years. Once he asked his brother why he doesn't marry his girlfriend. He brother told him that even though they loved each other, they didn't know what the future would bring. It was easier for them to stay unmarried because they were unsure if things would work out if they got married. My companion looked at me with frustration. He repeated what he told his brother:

"Love is needed in a marriage, yes. But it needs more than just love. It needs work. Love alone cannot withstand the problems that will come up. You have to be dedicated to each other enough that you're willing to work when things get hard."

It was then that the lights were automatically dimmed, signaling it was quiet hours. I thanked my companion for the conversation and wished him luck. He thanked me as well and gathered up his things and left to the bathroom.

In the morning when we arrived in St. Petersburg, I packed up my bed and things in silence. The goths & the almost-priest did the same. I grabbed my bag and walked towards my group in the compartment next to us. As people shuffled by us to get off, they asked me how my night was. When the almost-priest walked past, he smile and waved. I smiled and waved back. I told my friends I had spent the evening having a conversation with an almost-priest. Somehow that didn't surprise them.

Love you.
Mean it.

You're a Puzzle I Can't Solve

Your last message has me worried.

You said you were having some issues and you couldn't talk for a while. You said you would explain it all later. I don't want to pry into things that aren't my business, but now knowing what's going on or if you're even okay is torturous.

You probably think I'm being silly. We barely know each other. Or rather, we don't know each other well enough to warrant me worrying like this. We see each other for two hours once a week and most of that time is spent pretending to be other people. It hasn't given me much to go on and texts exchanged at night are providing me with very little insight. You're like this puzzle that I'm insatiably intrigued by, partly because you are a puzzle I can't seem to solve. So many people I can read and figure out fairly quickly. After that, if I continue to spend time with them, it's because I like them. It's that initial intrigue that catches me. It's liking them that keeps me. But you, you continue to perplex me. I can't figure you out. And the harder I try, the more intrigued I become.

What I'm trying to say is no, I don't know you.
But I want to.
In no uncertain terms, I want to understand you. I want to figure you out.
Because I have this feeling that you may be one of the only people really worth figuring out.

Love you.
Mean it.

I Can't Explain It

"Where do I get my ideas from? You might as well have asked that of Beethoven. He was goofing around in Germany like everybody else, and all of a sudden this stuff came gushing out of him. It was music. I was goofing around like everybody else in Indiana, and all of a sudden stuff cam gushing out. It was disgust with civilization. "

-Kurt Vonnegut

Love you.
Mean it.

Thoughts On My Numero Uno

Have I talked about Sean yet?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

His full name is Sean Thomas Kendall. We call each other Numero Uno because at the time we became really close, I already had a "best friend." We needed another term to title our friendship. Sean suggested Numero Unos out of the blue and it just stuck. Even after that "best friend" turned out to be a no-good lousy bastard, we still referred to each other as Numero Uno.

Sean taught me what it means to be fiercely loyal. He's been there for me when it felt like no one was. He's always there whenever I need help or a pep talk or just someone to listen to me. He was there when my life changed forever. He was the first person I called when everything fell apart. He came over as soon as he could. He helped me pack up everything I owned and tried to stay positive the entire time. He's one of the very, very few people I talk to every day, either through phone calls or texts. I know that if I were ever in trouble or I needed his help, he'd be there for me.

In return, my loyalty lies with him. I've been by his side, fighting whatever/whoever tries to hurt him. I've been there for him when stupid girls start causing drama or just make his life harder. There was this one time where I literally threw a girl out of his house because she was starting to cause problems. It was the closest I've ever come to punching someone. In retrospect, I really should have. After I physically removed her from Sean's house, I told her that if she ever hurt Sean in any way, I would bring her the rapture. That's a true statement and it applies to anyone and everyone.

I've had people ask me if I've ever considered dating Sean. I've thought about it but I don't think it would work. We have a really good thing in our friendship. We need each other to be our friend and nothing more. And while I do not deny that Sean is attractive, he's just not my type. He's a great friend but I could never consider him a boyfriend.

Sean knows me better than pretty much anyone else. The best example of this was from a conversation we had in Wal Mart:

Kelly: I fell in love today.
Sean: Really?
Kelly: Yep. His name is James.
Sean: Oh, cool. What book is he in?

We do have some moments where we jokingly ask each other why we're friends. I've lost track of how many times he's called me ridiculous or how many times I've called him annoying. It's such a randomly matched friendship. But it works. And I wouldn't trade it for anything.

Love you.
Mean it.

Unfinished Poem

~Note from Kelly~
I was cleaning out some folders in my computer and I found this poem. I wrote it in June, though I have no memory of writing it. It's still unfinished, mostly cause I don't remember where I was going with it.

I guess my phone woke me up.
A text sent from Facebook
to tell me someone commented on a picture.
It tore me from a dream about the impossibility of family
that I still don’t understand.
I’m hot and sweaty.
My Superman shirt is clinging to me
but I guess that’s what you get
when you sleep with a ten pound furry dog
who insists on always laying right next to you
all night.
I remember there was a wedding in my dream
but the weather sucked.
It was hazy, foggy,
a sickly tan hue hung everywhere
but the wind was howling in every direction

and I didn’t want to go.
to the wedding, that is.
And not because of the weather
but because I hate weddings.
that’s a fact

(not just a dream fact.)
Besides, in my dream 

my cousins were in town for some reason
and they all had a million and one kids
I had to take care of.
Don’t get me wrong, I like kids.
Just not that many.

My dad was angry in my dream.
I’ve been dreaming about him a lot lately.
In every one he’s mad.
I don’t know what that means,
if it means anything.
It’s almost noon.
I should get out of bed.

Love you.

Mean it.