Day 2 of Bath Products Research & Theory: Envy Organics

Today's going to be a shorter blog. I want to write about other things going on in my life so this post on my research will be brief. A good friend of mine knew that I was doing research on products and knew that I like organic products so she gave me a bottle of Envy Organics Nutrient Shampoo & Conditioner. She sells this product from the Envy Organics line and I highly recommend buying it for several reasons. For starters, it smells delictable because it's scent is papaya pineapple - which is a heavenly aroma that I could sniff all day long like crack. Secondly, I lost less hair using the product. Please view my youtube video to see the results from my hair loss. When I used the "Yes" products I lost significantly more hair and on the video it almost looks like double hair loss. What's more interesting is when I use other hair products that are not natural/organic I lose even more hair! Crazy!?! I know!!! What are we doing to ourselves? Or an even better question - what are companies doing to our hair???

The only thing about Envy Organics Nutrient Shampoo & Conditioner is that it's pretty expensive for such a small bottle. It's an 8oz bottle for a whopping 18 buckaroos - that's a bit pricey for my blood. My friend said that it takes a month and half to 2 months to finish the bottle which is crazy because I usually use the same bottle for MONTHS. But here's the thing - if I do these testings and find out that this product makes me lose LESS hair than all the others, I may just be pulling out the wallet and buying this product. Which by the way - if any of you are interested in buying this product now or once I'm done with this testing - please let me know so you can buy it through my friend and not just the company.

On another note, my friend Lacey was over at my place today and I was showing her my hair loss between the 2 products and she actually made a great suggestion. She said I ought to use the same shampoo & conditioner for a whole week and record the results rather than day by day. She said this will help weed out other possible side affects that could cause hair loss like what I eat during the day or any other factor. Now, don't worry, I'm not going to get all technical about this experiment and tell you the details of what I eat every day, but I will be taking her suggestion and testing by the week to see if my hair loss is different throughout the week so that we know that the hair loss from the products are consistent to the product and not some other factor.

Again thanks for stopping by and I hope you feel more informed. Here's the link to my youtube video & sorry that's its shaky: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6fs8Av-dAY8&feature=youtu.be

Peeta's POV: Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It's 1pm. I finished decorating every last piece of the baked goods around 12pm. After I had finished at noon I decided to bake up a cake for a family who's having a baby soon. I shaped the cake into a baby monkey and I was putting the final touches of icing on it when I hear my mom scream, grab something—probably something to beat me with—and then she proceeds by yelling my name. She must have come across the iced goods I started putting in the other rooms to dry. I ran out of counter space to store the goods, so I started stacking them on counters in the house. She finds me in the front of our bakery shop. Her face is flushed red, she's staring at me with those angry eyes, and there's a broom in her right hand. I remember when I used to hide from her when I was little, especially after the first time she hit me. I don't bother to hide from her anymore. I just tell myself her hits make me stronger. Stronger for the games. Sometimes I wonder what makes her so angry. I've never asked. I just assume the world's made her the way she is.

She's about to hit me when my dad grabs her lifted arm. He looks her straight in the eyes and says, “not today Agnes. You can't hit him today."

My mother looks shocked that he stopped her and I'm sure I look just as shocked. My dad never intervenes with the way my mom discipline's us. My mom's about to protest but my dad says to her, "I was the one who told him he could frost the goods.” That's a lie, but it's hard to tell because my dad's got such and even voice.

My mother looks at him angry that he would do such a thing and I know she's about to bite his head off. “After the reaping Agnes, you can have him all you want afterwards, but not before.” He takes the broom she was about to hit me with and walks away. She's standing there, frazzled that my dad stopped her, still mad at all the frosted goods and probably calculating her loss from what I've done. Her face is flushed red and sweat is on her head. If I didn't know any better I'd think that steam was about to come out of her ears because she's so mad.

“Go get dressed Peeta,” she says with harsh voice. As I walk pass her, she grabs my arm sternly and says under her breath, “you better hope you get picked Peeta because if you don't, after I'm through with you, you're going to wish that you were.”

Thanks mom. I'm feeling the love now. Love you too. That's what I wanted to say, but I don't. That's that emotion I was talking about keeping in check. I know she doesn't mean it. She says things like that all the time to dad and the rest of us. She's a constant ticking time bomb ready to go off at any moment. I always tell myself something horrible happened to her and that's why she's this way.

I go upstairs to put on something nice. Everyone must look their best if they get picked to go the Capitol. Last year, one of the boys from the seam didn't have anything presentable to wear. His family was so big they didn't have money to afford to buy something nice. It was his 3rd year of getting entered into the games. I saw him before he got to the square. He looked so sad. He and everyone else knew he could get a beating for it because it's viewed as being rebellious. I stopped him, took off my shirt and gave it to him. Then I ran home and grabbed another one. It almost made me late. His 12 year old brother ended up getting picked and killed in the games. It's sad that such a young boy had to get picked, but such is the life of the districts. The funeral was even worse. I never go to them because they're depressing, especially since there's no body to mourn over. The Capitol never sends the dead bodies back home to bury. It's just another way of showing us that they own us. You don't even own your body—we do. After the funeral, I went home and decided I didn't need all my extra clothes. I bagged up all my old dress shirts and gave it to the boy's mother. She just grabbed the bag and sobbed. Their father came over and shook my hand. The next day the boy I gave the shirt to came to our door asking to help out for free. My dad and mother were so confused. They had no idea what the boy was doing there. The boy said something about me and I said I didn't know who he was and that he must be confused. He looked at me with sad eyes. Eyes I'll never forget. It's like he was pleading to do something in return for what I had done for him and his family. But I couldn't. If my mom found out, she would...I didn't know what she would do, but I knew it wouldn't be good. I had already gotten beaten that morning when she couldn't find my one shirt to clean. And then I did something I'll never forgive myself for. I pushed him out into the mud and said as sternly as I could, “LEAVE.” His eyes started to water as he got up and ran away. When I got back in the house that day my mother was so proud of me. She said that I just might have some fight in me yet.

It was 1:30 pm and I made it to the square. Boys are lined up on one side and the girls on the other. Everyone dressed in their best outfits waiting to find out if they will will be picked for the impeding doom. It's interesting that we dress our best, only to be possibly get picked to get slaughtered in an arena. Here we are. Waiting the slaughter house. It makes me wonder what it was like before the rebellion. But even to think or speak of such things is an act of rebellion. Every year its the same scene. The stage is set up in the square and there's three chairs on the stage—one for Effie Trinket, who's our district's representative, one for Mayor Undersee, and one for Haymitch—the only person from our district who has ever won the hunger games and who always seems to be drunk and late every year. My mom constantly says he's such a disgrace to our district. I don't know what I think of him, but I sure couldn't imagine what he went through during the quarter quell. Especially since twice as many people had to die than in a normal game. Wow, did I just say normal? Well it is normal. It's the only normal that I've ever known. That any of us have known. It's normal for families to watch a television screen as their child, brother, sister, friend, neighbor die at the hands of another child. It's all normal for those of us that live in the country of Panem except for those that live in the capitol. They don't have to send their children to an arena where they fight to the death. They don't have watch as their child fends for their life and then dies. They don't have to attend funerals because their child lost the hunger games. They don't have to starve because they don't have enough food. People like Effie Trinket dressed up in her fancy clothes, with her hair colored bright pink, and her strange capitol accent don't have to put their child's name into a glass bowl in order to determine their fate. As the thought passes through my mind, Effie Trinket has just arrived and she's carrying the glass bowl with the girls names in it. Mayor Undersee follows with the boys names. The two glass bowls that determine the future of one girl and one boy every year.

Effie and Mayor Undersee are setting up the bowls on the tables and more people are arriving. I'm usually one of the first ones to get to the square. I don't know why I come early every year, but I do know it's the one time I can spy on Katniss while no one's paying attention. Everyone's too worried about getting picked to notice me looking at her. I never make it obvious. I usually only look out of the corner of my eye and most times I only see her arm or her hair, but never really all of her. It's kind of silly really when you think of it. Why wouldn't I confess my love to her? It's not like we live in a normal society, not that I would know what a normal society would be like. But what if I were to get picked? Then I would never be able to tell her how much I love her. How I've loved her ever since she was wearing that plaid dress. How the moment she sang I fell deeply in love with her. How much it kills me not to say a word to her. How I savor every moment I get to see her even if it's just her arm or hair that I can glimpse out of the corner of my eye. If I got picked I would never see her again. Unless of course I won the games. Maybe that's what I have to do. Maybe all I have to do is get into the games and win it and then she'll finally see me. Then I would have the guts to talk to her. I wouldn't be afraid of Gale or her feelings for Gale because I would be the winning tribute. Who am I kidding? If she has feelings for Gale, what right do I have to take that from her. That's hers and not the Capitol's. That's hers and not mine. There I go again. Putting others before myself. That's exactly why my mom always says I'm soft and that I'll never make it in this world. That's it! I hate being a softy. Being a softy is getting me nowhere with Katniss. If I ever want to be with Katniss I have to man up. That's why I skin those squirrels, lift weights and wrestle. I can win the games if I just put my mind to it. I just need to be smarter than those Careers. Winning the games is probably my only chance at proving to Katniss that I'm better than Gale. It's my only chance of proving to her that I'm all she needs. If that's what it takes, then that's what I'm going to do—I'm going to win the hunger games.

I look up at the stage more determined than ever to get picked, but something catches my eye. Her dark hair tied up, eyes that see through my soul, her pale skin in contrast to her features and her dress stop me in my train of thought. Katniss never wears a dress. Of course she always looks beautiful to me in anything she wears but today she looks stunning. I've always thought she had such a natural beauty. Holding her hand is little sister Primrose—who looks more like their mother than Katniss does with her blonde hair and blue eyes. They separate and Primrose goes to the section with the children that are in her year and Katniss falling in line with the kids who are in our year in school.

The last bit of kids line up and the clock is about to strike 2pm. Effie's never late and she always starts promptly at 2pm. She gets up and steps up to the microphone.

“Welcome, welcome...

(---> Rewrite Effie's speech, Haymitch's entrance and Primrose getting picked. **Sorry folks, I don't have the copy of the first book and I want to keep it true to the scene so I opted to skip this part until I get my copy back. Once I do, I'll rewrite this section.**)

No. It can't be Primrose. She can't be the tribute, she's only 12. It's the first time she's ever been entered into the games. There's no way she got picked. Somebody has to stop this and it's not just because it's Katniss's little sister, it's because it's Primrose. She's too sweet and innocent to go into that blood bath of arena. She will NEVER have a chance in the games. For once I wish I could volunteer so she wouldn't have to go. But the rules are very strict only a boy can volunteer for a boy and a only a girl—

“I volunteer!” I hear a voice scream from to the right of me. Wait who's voice was that? Was that Katniss? No, it couldn't be.

“I volunteer as tribute!”

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! Katniss, NO! I'm yelling in my head. Or at least I think I am. I look around quick and see that I've caused no disturbance. Primrose is screaming for Katniss. Gale gets up and is pulling Primrose away. No. This isn't happening. There's no way Katniss is going to the games. Katniss isn't supposed to get picked. I am. How am I going to protect her? There's no way I can get to the Capitol. Or is there? Wait. I work in the merchant class. Shipments go out to the other districts, but what are the train schedules. Blasted Peeta! Why don't you pay more attention? Well at least my minds thinking. I could figure it out. Or maybe I could visit Katniss when she says her goodbye's and figure out a way to escape the Capitol. But how? Am I being ridiculous? NO. I'm NOT being ridiculous. I HAVE to save the girl I love. She's the only person I've ever truly loved and I haven't even told her. What if she dies? Then I will never have a chance to tell her how I feel. There's got to be—

All of a sudden everyone's holding 3 fingers up in the air towards the front of the stage. It's a sign of respect—holding your 3 fingers towards someone. I was so busy trying to figure out how to save Katniss that I missed what happened. I take a quick look around and everyone in the entire square is holding their fingers up to Katniss. It's honestly one of the most amazing things I've ever seen. No one's ever volunteered for anyone in our district. It's just not something you do in district 12. Not when you're already starving and already fighting to stay alive. I've never seen any family in district 12 do that. Most of us just accept the fact that some poor unfortunate child has to fight to their death in the games no matter what age they are. I hold up my fingers, fighting back the urge to curse the capitol for making us accept such a horrible fate and for taking away the one person I love—the only person I've ever loved. Everyone puts their fingers down and Effie steps over to the drawing for the boys.

Since there's no chance of me getting picked, even though now I couldn't even bare getting picked simply because I couldn't watch Katniss die in front of me, I have to figure out quick how I can save Katniss. There has to be an escape from the Mayor Undersee's house. I look over at his house trying to figure out where they have the tributes when they say their goodbyes. Dang it. I should have dated Madge Undersee when everyone said we would make a good couple. If I had just gone on a couple dates with her I could have seen the inside of her house and figured out where they store the tribures while they say their goodbyes. But I couldn't date Madge and I never would have because I would have never been able to look Katniss in the eye if I shared what was hers with anyone else. No. That's the part of me that's mine. It's the part of me that I saved for Katniss and her alone. What am I—

Someone nudges me and I jump back to the present. It's the guy standing next to me. He's looking at me with a somber expression and nods his head forward. I look back at him in confusion and then I hear Effie Trinket say, “Peeta Mellark.”

And then my world just starts to spin. I grab the guys arm and he helps me stand straight so I don't fall flat on the ground and then I put my foot out in front of me and start walking to the front. How many times am I going to scream no today? How could I have wished to be in the games today? It's a cruel evil joke. I get what I want but with a horrible twist. How can I kill the one person I love? I look up and Katniss is staring at me. She looks petrified. I look down. Great. She hates me. I hate myself. Can someone just shoot me and end my misery? No, no one's going to shoot me. I have to be beefed up and prepared to fight in the games. I have to be prepared to kill. A mean lean fighting machine—exactly what I was wishing for this whole morning. Only now I wish someone would just kill me. Which the Careers will have no problem doing and it's exactly what I'm going to allow them to do. It would be better than seeing Katniss die or worse yet—having to kill her. Kill Katniss. I could never kill Katniss. Wait. I don't have to kill Katniss. I don't even have to see her die. I know exactly what I'm going to do. I take the steps and get up in front of everyone feeling more resolve than ever. I'm going to protect Katniss at all costs and then I'm going to let her kill me.

Peeta's POV: Chapter 1

Chapter 1

It's early morning. Somewhere between the hours of 5 and 6am. I'm laying awake in bed and I can smell the fresh aroma of bread cooking in the oven downstairs. I can tell by the smell that there's several batches. Today's the worst day for everyone in all the districts. The one day of the year that everyone dreads—the day of the reaping. You would think that I was going to sleep in like the rest of the merchant homes on a day like this, but I've never really connected with the rest of them. Even though my dad's a baker, we always get the stale bread, leftovers and overcooked portions. All the best bread has to be sold to the wealthy people and merchants to put food on the table.

Food. At least I have that. There are people who live in district 12 that don't even have that. Most of those people are the ones who live in the seam. Those families, those kids—they’re the ones who starve to death. They're the ones who have to put their names in the drawing multiple times to receive extra portions of food throughout the year. It's called tesserae—all you have to do is put your name more times into the reaping and you'll get a chance to live, a chance to not starve. I used to complain about the burnt bread—all of us did. But I stopped. I stopped because of a girl who lives in the seam. Her name is Katniss Everdeen. She's the first person who made me realize what real hunger looked like. As soon as I realized what it meant—I hated it and hated the people who made us this way. But what could I do? Any sign of rebellion from anyone in the districts is an act of treason and the punishable by death. Most of the people in the merchant class just accept the way things are. They don't question things and they sometimes look down on those people from the seam—a soft knock taps our back door and interrupts my thoughts.

It's Gale. I knew he was coming. He and my dad usually trade squirrel for bread, but every day on this day my dad seems to make a little extra bread for everyone. My window just happens to be over the back door of our shop. I always crack it a little just in case Gale or Katniss decide to drop by. I envy him. He's always with Katniss. I never see them together in school, only when they bring kill to our house. He's older than Katniss and I—we're actually in the same year at school. The same year, but yet I'm too much of a coward to speak to her.
“I set up snares for them last night,” Gale says to my dad.

“Do you mind skinning the squirrels so I can cook them this morning before my wife wakes up?” my dad asks with no tone in his voice. He barely ever has voice inflection, except when he's teaching us boys something or when he talks about Katniss's mom.

I hear Gale pull his knife out and skin the squirrel. Steal against flesh. Blood touching the knife. My stomach queezes at the thought of if. I don't know if I could ever be a hunter. I hate having to take another life. It makes me sick to my stomach. After watching all the games that I have you would think it wouldn't bother me to kill something, but it does. It bothers me so much that I had to do something about it. My father can't stand skinning animals and hated doing it until one day I volunteered to do it. I was 12. It was the morning of the reaping. He told me that it wasn't my job and as much as he hated it, he was going to do it himself. But I insisted. I told him if my name gets picked I have to get used to seeing blood. He looked at me like I was crazy, but then his face changed. He looked sad, and then his expression changed to understanding. With the knife in his hand and squirrel in the other, he looked me in the eye with a stange look, handed me both and walked away. I now know it was fear. I don't know if it was fear that I might get picked, that I might die, or that I wanted to know what it's like to handle blood and meat. Honestly it was probably an accumulation of all of it, but I never asked. There are some things that you just have to let alone and I knew that was one of them.

I look down and realize that Gale is walking off with the bread in his bag. Great. I was so lost in thought I missed his conversation with my dad. He probably didn't say anything about Katniss anyways. He rarely does, and if he does—it's usuaslly only to say that it was her arrow that got the kill through the eye. She's such a great hunter. She always pierces the animals through the eyes so as not to harm the meat on the body. No one likes meat that's been shot through with an arrow. People like cutting up their own meat, especially those people in the better parts of the district.

I decide to get up even though my father had Gale skin the squirrel. I don't know why he did that when he knows that's my job now. My brown boots are sitting next to my closet. They're nothing like coal miners boots. My boots are the boots of a merchant. A baker's son's boots. I bet Gale hates me. He probably loathes the fact that I don't have to work in the mines. At least that's one thing I have that he doesn't. Maybe when we turn 19, Katniss will see me as more of a suiter than Gale. She would never have to worry about me working in the mines like Gale. I would never die if something went wrong. I wouldn't die like her father did. How can I even think such a thing? Well it's not like I haven't thought about it before. I don't stand a chance against Gale. I've overheard guys being jealous of him, even my own brother. All the girls want him. Yeah I'll admit it—he's a good looking dude. He's athletic, smart, can hunt, and gets to spend hours in the woods with Katniss. Who wouldn't be jealous of him? He's got a different girl every couple months, except in the last year or so. I don't know what changed—except he's probably dating Katniss. I wouldn't know though because neither of them talk much to anyone but themselves. Who knows, maybe the way they are at school is similar to the way they are with each other? Dammit. That's why I don't think about them and that's exactly why I haven't managed the smallest bit of courage to go up to Katniss and talk to her. She's got Gale. Why on earth would she ever want me?

I decide not to put my boots on so as not to make noise and wake my mother. She would probably not talk to my dad for a week and kick or hit me for trading with Gale. It's forbidden to hunt in any of the districts and we're supposed to turn in anyone who does. But Katniss and Gale provide a luxury in our district that no one dares get rid of. It's hard to come by fresh meat and no one wants to lose that privilege. The first time I ever had the thought that Gale and Katniss could get in trouble for doing this--a thought crossed my mind—I could turn Gale in. It was another horrible thought. I only thought it for a second because of my jealousy, but I would never do such a thing. As much as I didn't like Gale for always being with Katniss, I would never wish anything like that on him or his family. They've been through enough. Gale lost his father in the same mine accident that Katniss lost her father in. Gale was left to take care of his family. His mother was pregnant and she had 3 other kids besides him. He's all they had left. And that's just one more reason why they're perfect for each other. I don't even know why I bother thinking about her. All I know is that I can't stop. I've tried. I've tried looking at other girls and imagining a life with them, but for some reason all I can see is Katniss.

I'm downstairs now and ready to interrogate my father on why he had Gale skin the squirrel and not me even though I get queezy every time I do it. I smell the meat cooking and my mouth starts salivating. I turn the corner and see my dad over the stove cooking the squirrel. I'm about to reprimend him and—

“I know you like skinning the squirrels Peeta and I know you're preparing yourself to be picked in the hunger games, but just once can you just let me enjoy you as my son. Not my son who skins meat so he knows what it's like to have blood on his hand. Not my son who has to put his name in a glass bowl to get picked to kill another child. Just Peeta. Peeta Mellark, the son of a baker,” my dad says to me, his back still turned to me as he cooks the meat.

I can tell that the meats almost done. The smell is undeniable, but that's not what has my tongue. My dad never talks to me about the hunger games. Never. It's sort of an unspoken thing in our house until after the day of reaping. And even after that my dad doesn't really talk about it. My mother on the other hand always makes comments. Saying we'll never have another winner in our district thanks to that drunken slob who won the second quarter quell. The quarter quell is a special event where the Gamemakers do something crazy like double the amount of people who have to go into the games. That's what happened last time when Haymitch won. I only know the story because he's the last person who won in our district. Ever since he's been a drunk. My mother's the one who pushed my brother(s) and I into wrestling. She wanted us to be prepared for the games in case we got picked. Always saying if the Careers can do it so can we. I never usually agree with my mother, but this was actually one area that I did. The Careers train themselves to be killing machines for the games. They usually team up with each other until it's just them left in the game and then they turn on each other. Every boy/girl for themselves. It makes sense though. I might as well be prepared to fight just like the Careers so I can hold my own in case I get picked.

I'm still staring at my father's back when he turns around. He's already cut the meat up into 3 pieces. One for me, my brother and him. He picks the meat up with a fork and puts it on a paper plate in front of me. I was so mad at the fact that he didn't let me skin the squirrel and then stunned by his comment that I didn't even realize he set the table. He put out a paper plate, a fork, and a knife for the three of us to eat together. I hear soft footsteps on the stairs and I know it's my brother Jake. He sees the meat on his plate and looks as shocked as I do. We don't usually eat our meat on a paper plate or with forks and knives—that's all saved for special dinners. We usually just eat the meat with our hands. It saves us from going through the trouble of putting utensils out, but also from hiding the fact that we eat meat from Gale & Katniss from our mother. Jake looks at me with a face of understanding and I look back at him with confusion. He goes to pick up his fork and knife and we're both about to dig in and—

“I thought we could eat like normal human beings for once,” dad says in that same monotone voice as he picks up his fork and knife.

He proceeds to cut his meat up and eat it in small pieces. Jake and I don't respond and follow suit, cutting what little meat there is into small pieces and eating it. It was different. Instead of eating it as fast as I can, I chewed each piece really tasting the meat as I ate it. I guess being civilized once in a while wasn't a bad thing. My dad finishes first and he gets up and starts cleaning up the table. When he's done he looks at both of us and says, “Now you two better go back to bed and get some rest. There's a big day ahead of us.”

He turns and continues to prepare bread. Usually my brother and I help my father in the morning to make bread but I guess today's different. I'm about to get up and go help my dad anyways, but my brother grabs my arm and shakes his head. He puts his lips by my ears and whispers, “Just go back to bed.” And then before I can dispute him, he picks me up by the arm and is pushing me back up the stairs. Before I know it, I'm in our room and Jake's getting back into his bed. I'm sitting across the room from him on my bed, frustrated because I know I'm not going to go back to bed. Not on the day of reaping. Why is everyone acting so strange? All I want to do is bake some bread so I can get my mind off of what's to come.

“He doesn't want you to be baking bread on the day of reaping,” Jake says from under his covers. “Just in case it's you that gets picked. He wants you to spend your morning doing what you want to do.” He pauses, looks at me like he knows my retort and then says, “Not baking bread because baking bread isn't going to help you win the hunger games.”

It's like he was reading my mind. Well what if I want to bake bread on the day of reaping? I think to myself even though I want to scream it back at him. Emotions never help any situation. I know that because I see what it does to my mother when she gets into an argument with my dad. Just in case it's you that gets picked. I guess they all think I'm going to get picked today, but it's highly unlikely. Some people have their names entered in more than 30 times. Especially those with big families. Especially those from the seam. I'm only entered in once every year. My chance of getting picked is slim just like Jake. He was one of the lucky ones. One of those people who never got picked between his years of 12 to 18. He made it through seven years without ever being picked. Even though I feel like I'd be somewhat prepared for the hunger games I doubt I'll ever get picked. It's not that I want to go into the hunger games, I really honestly don't. I would hate being thrown into an arena with 23 other 12 – 18 year olds in a fight to the death. It's inhuman. It's disgusting. It's the Capitol. The Capitol is who makes us do this. It's the Capitol who finds it entertaining to watch as one boy and one girl from each district get picked every year just to kill each other. They've already taken food and freedom from us, why do this? Why make us do something that turns us into animals? I know why. We all know why. I guess that's why dad didn't want me to skin the squirrel and eat like a normal person. We can't let them take everything away from us. We have to stay human. We have to be ourselves. What was that that Jake said dad wanted? Dad wants me to spend my morning on what I want to do. Not skinning squirrels. Not baking bread. Not going to school to learn about mining. Not being forced to watch the TV as kids kill each other. What do I want to do? I actually enjoy making bread. It calms me and relaxes me. It helps me to forget about the miserable world we live in. I don't know if it's my favorite thing to do. What is my favorite thing to do?

After a moment, I realize I know exactly what I want to do. I get back up and go quietly downstairs to the pantry. I open the door and on the right bottom shelf I see it. Icing and food coloring. It's my favorite thing to do. I'm the best at it and that's the one thing my mother can't hit me for. If I mess up on icing something, I can usually hid it by making a different design, but most times I never mess up. It's become an art to me really. I don't know if people consider it an art or not but it's an art to me. My brothers always pick on me for it, but I begged them not to tell anyone. I don't want everyone to make fun of me for it. Actually all of district 12 probably thinks my mom decorates all the baked goods. She acts like she does, claiming that since I'm her child and she gave me birth anything I make is really something she's made because she brought me into this world. I don't mind though, I get plenty of attention when I want it.

The reaping isn't until 2pm so I have a good 7 hours of decorating to do. It's a good thing that reaping days are usually busy days for baked goods because 7 hours is a lot of work and a lot of frosted baked goods. All the families who don't have their child picked for the games celebrate afterwards. People usually like celebrating by getting baked goods. It's a huge treat for almost any family in district 12. But this reaping day was going to be even more special because usually people only ordered baked goods without icing. Icing makes the cost go up significantly. But since I'm spending the rest of my day icing all the baked goods, my mother’s not going to have a choice but to sell the baked goods at regular costs if she wants to sell anything. It's something I know I'm going to get a huge beating for.

Film and Writing: my new & final chosen path

This picture is just a random picture that I picked from my photos on my laptop. I took it after we landed in Germany and while we were riding the tram at the airport. It really has nothing to do with this post. Oh well.

Well, it's been a while since I last posted something. I realize this blog hasn't been a blog really. Aside from one of my poems. I posted English assignments that I had to do in class and just dubbed it blogging. It just shows how lazy I was even then. I've realized that I have a very lazy spirit with a lot of things in life. Eating right, exercising, cleaning (I'm not a slob but I tend to let things build b4 I clean it up--I blame my busy life), reading my bible, reading anything, and most importantly (since I'm supposed to be one) being a writer. I've always been told that if I want to do anything, I have to be in practice. I can't even begin to tell you how many people have told me this about the various different careers that I'm trying to pursue--namely writing and of course my other passion film. I've never been one of those people who sleep, eat, wake, dream, live filming or writing for that matter. I'm one lazy son of a gun. Daughter of a gun. Nope, that doesn't work, but it does make for an interesting idea for a story--sounds like a western where the main character is a girl getting revenge for some unknown reason.

I used to write when I was in middle school--that's actually where I discovered that I was a writer. I had a couple writing assignments where I created some really amazing stories. Where there stories are, I couldn't even tell you. Probably lost forever. In high school I journaled a lot and I even found a friend who would journal back and forth with me. This continued on and off again until my early twenties and then it just stopped. It's like ceasing to be who you are--you lose your passion and then you lose yourself.

And as for filming...well I didn't pop out of my moms belly looking at everyone through cinematic eyes. I didn't even do it when I was a child, adolescent, or early teenager. I did however have a dream to make movies. I was fascinated by movies and wanted to be apart of it somehow. But when I was little, I changed what I wanted to be according to the person I looked up to at the moment. Funny thing is, I did that even as an adult. I would change career ideas with every person I dated. Interesting how some things never change. But the one thing I can say about film is that it does come naturally. It's one of those things that I don't have to force myself to understand. Ideas flow like a fresh cut wound. I have an eye for film and I have no idea why except that I'm gifted by God. The same goes for writing.

Now how to combine the two passions--that's easy--screenwriting. An area that I have grown to love and appreciate that it's something human beings created for people like me. I've written two treatments, which is simply a 2-4 page summary of what a film is about and mostly without dialogue. That's actually the main difference from a book verses a novel. A novel is more detail and a screenplay is more dialogue.

So where I am I now? I haven't touched those two treatments since I finished them even though I know the characters and plot really well. Yes, Dr. Watson, you've hit it right on the noggin, I'm being lazy again. I wish I had some type of weapon to zap the laziness out of me, maybe have it even sting a little so I do it less. That would be an interesting gadget that I would definitely buy. Also another cool idea for some storyline--sounds like a futuristic short where people need help to not be lazy. Instead of finishing those works, I decided to move onto coming up with ideas for this series of books. I even started writing the first chapter--wow! But to no avail, I keep getting frustrated with the characters and plot and I end up not writing. When I was younger, I never wrote my stories in order. I would write what was most vivid in my mind and then I would fill in the in between parts later. I REALLY need to just do that. Not every writer operates the same and I think I'm one of those scatter brain writers--kind of like my life--everything kind of a mess, but I somehow tie it all together. So until I start doing that with these books, I think I just need to stop and do something else. I know, I know. There I go again starting something new without finishing, but I'm not starting anything new. I'm just going to go back to my 2 treatments and write them into screenplays. Besides, it will help me to really help me sharpen my writing skills for the books. Now if I happen to come up with some idea or part from the books, of course I'll go back and write that part and then continue finishing my screenplays.

I'm really excited about both of my screenplays which I have to give thanks to God for creating me with a creative mind, my best friend Vinnie (he's like a big bother to me) for helping me to make them better, and my husband for being so patient through all my chaotic-ness of changing my career field so many times. And after all has been said and done--I've just gone back to what I've always should have gone for--writing. Now it doesn't mean I completely closed of to being apart of making a film. For some reason I still see that in the distant future or rather I think God does. Because honestly I gave up on film as soon as I realized I could write screenplays instead. I kept thinking, I'm too old, I'm married and my husband DOES NOT want to live in LA or NY, what would happen if Jared and I suddenly had kids--would I put them aside and only concentrate on my career? I all but ruled out the idea. But then I started getting those signs again, you know, those God signs. It's funny how I demand that God tell me what to do b/c I confuse myself WAY too much and then I think He doesn't care and He's just letting me disappear into a nobody. And then He starts sending me signs. Through people, sermons, situations, and dreams (this most often than not)--and it helps to remind me that somehow and in some bizarre way, I'm actually on tract. So here it goes.