Of Procrastination and Luck

Procrastination Club

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Every success I’ve had can stem back to two aspects of my reality: procrastination and luck.

I procrastinate everything, and it doesn’t seem to matter how important it is. Student loans are due in two months, essay due tomorrow morning, need to write a new blog post, get an oil change, maybe go on a date, transfer the funds to pay my car loan off, find a job, do my laundry, send my best friend in New York his Christmas present (yeah I still haven’t done that, sorry Joe, but I do have it, in fact, I’m currently sitting in front of it – you’ll get it eventually).

So why am I not homeless?

Because I’m one lucky bitch. Honestly, there’s no other explanation, besides my natural sense of intelligence, and the ability to compartmentalize my emotions so I can handle the sense of doom that occurs when one has 45 minutes to write a 10 page paper. Mostly though, I’m just lucky.

I lucked into school: I’m awful at standardized tests, seriously horrid, but I managed to get into a school with my shitty scores. I applied for a whopping two schools without doing much research on either, and I got into one of them. I only applied to schools because my mother was more or less standing over my shoulder. And that my friends, is how I ended up at a Christian college surrounded by Amish country for a year and a half – it’s also where I met the aforementioned Joe.

I lucked into a job: Student loans were due in like three weeks, and my only source of income was still the movie theater – not sufficient. So I applied for a sales position at a radio station. I didn’t get it. I applied for a job as a resume consultant, I was scheduled for my second interview when the guy got sick. Just as he got sick and thus unable to interview me, I was able to start the radio job after all. Crazy. Who knows if I could have gotten the other job, that’s still a mystery.

I lucked into writing stories: I’ve always been a half-assed writer. I love writing, I do. Once I start I’m all sorts of gung ho! But starting a story, whew, takes me ages. So unless I have a deadline, I never start anything. Even when I do have a deadline, I wait until I have just barely enough time and I type like the wind. Somehow my stories are good, character’s make sense, and considering it’s a first draft that I did not have the time to revise. It’s pretty damn good. Now if I ever stopped procrastinating, in theory, I could be awesome.

But now that I’m an adult and the world expects me to support myself with a livable wage – I need to stop procrastinating, like, now – or maybe tomorrow.

Of Balance and Creativity

Ballerina Hanging on a Fence

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Hey people! My apologies for the hiatus this past month. I know that the second rule of blogging is to never apologize for not writing (the first obviously being never post your diary online). But screw it, I’m going to apologize anyways. It’s too late, and no one can stop me.

In defense of my laziness, I have three very good excuses:

  1. I work two jobs 

    Yes! I’m a big girl now, with a big girl job, and the pencil skirts to go along with it. But alas, I still have the movie theater job on the weekend. The last day off I had was Christmas Day. It’s a marvel that I manage to see any of my friends, let alone sleep.

  2. It was the holidays 

    Lame excuse, I know, but regardless I’m using it. The excitement of the holidays threw my world into a frenzy. It was wonderful, I saw lovely people, and received great gifts (sans the book of psalms that I’m trying to not be bitter about).

  3. I’m trapped at my parents house until July

    Twenty-three years old, college graduate, work two jobs, DJ when I can, and yet I’m back in my high school bedroom surrounded by all the articles of Sarah’s past. That is until my future roommates lease runs out and I’m able to move.

Living in my old room zaps away my creativity. Normally I live in a world of narration, plot planning, and characterizing every person I see. But something about my parents house turns my mind to mush, my plots to pointless, and my characters to unbelievable. It’s unfortunate, but alas, true.


Though, now that I’ve started typing, I feel like me again.

So I guess I’ll do some belated new year’s resolutions:

  • Post here at least five times a month (min).
  • Start my nightmare novel.
  • Write a literal account of The 12 Days of Christmas before the arrival of the 2013 holidays
  • Get better at footwork when dancing.
  • Buy a new laptop and practice DJing for club music.
  • Get a Nexus pass

Of Childhood Journal’s

Dear Diary

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The longer I reside in my childhood room, the more I realize what a vastly different person I was growing up. On the walls there’s photos of mission trips, a porcelain doll angel that literally watches over me while I sleep, a poster of a giraffe, and joy products. Oh the joy! Since my middle name is Joy every Christmas, I receive a slew of joy products. I have joy building blocks, moose antlers, ornaments, stamps, even a flag. Playing “Count the Joy” in my room is like saying, “I spy something red,” when you’re standing in a white room with only one rose laying on a white table – it’s super easy.

But my favorite discovery of my old room, is in the bottom drawer next to my bed. For in that drawer are at least ten partially filled out journals. I was never good at maintaining journals, but I always liked the idea of keeping a journal. Even before I could write myself, I would tell my mom what to write down for the day. As I read through page after page of my horrible hand writing, which hasn’t changed since I was sixteen, I could only think how the person who filled these pages would hate who she later became.

That girl was heading towards a life of purity: Christian husband, wanted to save her first kiss for her wedding day, longed to serve the Lord, struggled with even the slightest hint of temptation, was heavily repressed, sheltered, and didn’t actually start to experience anything for herself until college. If she found out ahead of time that she would slowly discover a world outside faith, swear, drink, realize she’s a lesbian, and lie to her family from the age of nineteen and up – she probably would have become the Christian equivalent of a nun. Looking back I see hints of where I was headed. Little moments, that at the time were either a huge scandal or a mere recording of what happened that day, ultimately led to where I am now.

I’m going to do something I normally would never do, share my journal. So here are a few of my favorite excerpts from past Sarah’s life:

Hello, my name’s Sarah and in case you were wondering, I’m awesome.


I better introduce myself, my name is Sarah Joy Luna. I am eleven (11 yrs) old and in the 6th grade. I was born on March 8th 1989. Today was my conference, every year I’m always told “Sarah’s such a wonderful student.”

The Tale of the Girl Who Lost Her Panties!


Today will probably be one of the most embarrassing days of my life. Today I was at Adventure Club. And well we were cleaning up and someone said here’s someone’s lost their underwear. I go over to look and realize it’s mine! It must have been stuffed somewhere in my pants. I have dance before church so when I was changing in the van I choose to wear my leotard instead of underwear. The underwear fell out at church! In the classroom! I lucked out though someone said, “If we throw it away the little kid who lost it won’t know.”

I offered to throw it away, I picked it up, acted like it was sick to touch it. Ran up to the library. While pacing I was wondering what to do. Should I hide it in here? Someone might find it. Keep it in my pocket? They might see it. Try to get in the van? Probably locked.

Then my mom came. I told her what happened. We both couldn’t stop laughing. She gave me the car keys. I put the underwear in the van. And that was the end of that.

I’m a woman.


I started my period today and I decorated Christina’s house with lights, next we’re gonna do my house. Bye.

When on my mission trip to Zambia, I was a creepy teenager.


I watched Bill and Mwewa kill 2 pigs today. At first it was horrifying but then it was cool. The first pig wouldn’t die though, it squealed so loud for a couple minutes while Bill was mercilessly hacking at the piggy’s throat. I got a few pictures.

I might have been a bitch – but at least I was a nice bitch.


On the way home me and Jessica took Jolene’s shoe, only one, and only gave it back when we went to eat. But then when we got back, we took her shoe again and I didn’t give it back, but hide it in the bushes, however I wanted to be nice so I made it obvious where it was in the bush.

First sign of gay, too bad I wouldn’t figure it out for another six years.


Oh my goodness or gosh as I usually say, I cannot believe what I did during English ….(It’s an improve thing) Let me just say, we didn’t get to pick our partners. While waiting for my turn I was planning my first line which was, “do you think I’m sexy?” then I was planning what to do if the person said no. Well Kristin was in the middle and she said YES! So, I’m thinking, “oh great,” so I walk in a circle around her, very slowly and say, “good cause if you said no I would have to hurt you.”

Then I sat down fast and all sexy-like and looked at her. I could tell she was totally freaked. I said something that I can’t remember, followed by asking her what she was afraid of, she said she was scared of me, so I said, “why … I’m friendly” while semi-stroking her arm (the motion of it. But not actually touching her). Immediately after I said that the teacher called switch. I thought it was funny because during it Sheridan said, “she’s like the Christian girl.” And at the end Sara said, “I wanted to see where it was going.”

Funky romance? What gross imagery – I’m picturing chunky love, ew.


Man do I suck at ice-skating! But hey, Jessy’s the one who fell not me. Something about ice-skating feels romantic, I don’t know what it is, but cold, ice and blades make me feel funky.

First kiss innocence


I don’t think he’s worthy of my first kiss … You know how having sex out of marriage is called out of wed-lock. Well, I don’t know the term for just kissing and that kind of stuff, but I don’t want it out of relationship-lock.

Puppets and Jesus


And when we started to practice the puppet songs, they were all acting so stupid and I just realized how dumb all this was. So I let myself get consumed with sadness. During my 5 minute shower I realized that I wasn’t doing anything for the Lord but just sitting in classes.

What Would Jesus Do?


Disastrous thoughts are worthy of murder on the soul. The reality is I can’t sleep. Because almost every night Satan likes to put tortuous thoughts in my mind. … WWJD? Well I know one thing, Jesus never did anything that made him question His character.

It’s almost sexy time.


The no kissing, totally out the window, there’s a good chance sex is in my near future as well.

Birth of a liar.


I tried for a long time to be Christian. I envied the faith of my family and some of my peers at Houghton. And I hate that I can’t come clean to my parents and just be me.

This will always be true. 


Note: I hate squeaky shoes on children.

Of When the Internet Dies

Internet Down Comic

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When I came home from work on Monday my Internet was down. The little blue light on the router was replaced with an evil orange glow. This orange beam means that no matter what I do I will not have the option of going online. I can’t do anything from checking Facebook to writing a blog post, I’m in the dark, officially disconnected from the Earth as we know it.

I don’t know how I functioned without the Internet in the past.

Now, on those offline days I’m initially at a loss for what kind of activity to do. I might try to watch TV or play a game, if I can manage to get ahold of another human being I’ll beg them to hang out the good ole fashioned way – face to face. Yup, without the Internet, and practically the world in front of me, I have an impressive lack of skill regarding what to do with myself.

Before the World Wide Web existed I was very creative. As a child my imagination was  in constant free fall, I could spend a day in a tree pretending it was a spy base or an orphanage. I would spend hours playing with dolls or coloring. My brothers and I invented games and told jokes. And while my imaginative energy has transferred into my ability to tell stories and come up with plot lines at a moments notice, I’m no longer able to sit in a tree for hours (all alone) and be completely content. It’s a sad truth.

Still, I’m lucky that I have any creative energy at all. So many adults seem so dimwitted in their ability to think quickly and make stuff up. I’m constantly writing out my life in my head while I’m just walking around. But, I do miss playing and getting lost in a story I made up before the Internet came along and killed my drive to live in a world outside of reality.

Yes, I’m still forced to remain offline (I’m currently in the library writing this – I have exactly 45 minutes before they kick me off the computer). And while it sucks tremendously, perhaps I’ll be motivated to start that novel I’ve been meaning to write.

Of Tiredness Taking Over

Me asleep

Me asleep

“When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.” – 1 Corinthians 13:11 (NIV).

This verse has been in my head lately, I first heard it on a mission trip. I then heard roughly seven sermons on the subject.

It inspired me in the following way.


When I am tired, I look tired – the bags under my eyes gain a third grove and the soft skin darkens in color. Without makeup I look like a sickly patient just a few moments from death.

I conquer my exhaustion through fountains of caffeine. Coffee flows through my veins, pushing the blood aside as it pumps me full of energy. I take my makeup kit and begin to cover my flaws. First foundation, followed by spot covering blemishes with concealer, yellow goop to lighten the circles, flesh toned goop to even the tone, powder, mascara – I’m finished. But I still look tired. I’ll spend half the day checking the mirror trying to fix the bags under my eyes as makeup collects in the creases.

When I go to bed, I get distracted, despite how tired I’ve been throughout the day I watch Netflix, Hulu, On Demand. I listen to music, start cleaning, read a book. I start homework, procrastinate homework, and begin homework again.I fall asleep to Jimmy Fallon, Modern Family, or SNL. Silence makes my brain think, silence might let the nightmares return – let me dwell on the demons that have taunted my dreams for years.

When I wake up I’m still tired. I talk like a moody child, whine, and try to lift my head. I hit the alarm thirty times, roll out of bed and rush about to get ready to get ready for the day. If I had gotten up after the first ring I could have been on time. As it is – I’m late.

When I became a woman I got a little better, started to prioritize sleep, began to take naps. But my nightly routine was still a constant game of chicken against slumber. Regardless of who wins I end up the looser.

When I sleep I feel wonderful. But I still look tired. It doesn’t matter how much I sleep, or how bright and perky I feel. If it’s eight hours a night, daily nap, waking up naturally – I’ll always look tired. The bags under my eyes a constant physical mark of my years of abuse to my body, not letting myself sleep since birth.

I am a woman, but I’ve yet to put all of my childish ways behind me.

Of Move In Day

Moving Day Box

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The moving process is nearing an end … for me, my roomie, Kiné, won’t be arriving till the sixteenth. I’m actually glad that we arrived at different times. Moving two girls worth of stuff at the same time would be chaotic. This way I can get settled and then we can rearrange accordingly when she arrives.

I’ve lined my cute but useless tea cups and tea pots along the window pane by the dining area. I say this because the cups are espresso sized, and who wants a sip and a half worth of tea? No one, that’s who. My fifty billion mugs, handful of dishes, cookware, and glorious coffee corner are all organized and awaiting Kiné’s addition. All that’s really left is  hanging up the art and figuring out where the TV will go.

I am proud to say that though my apartment is on the third floor, hardly any men assisted me. I drove the truck (it was a standard, I miss driving stick, my automatic old man car is so lame and boring to drive). My mother, thirteen year old brother, Andrew, and sister, Christina, were the ones to help lift all the heavy furniture. Until the end when my sweet grandpa felt bad for not helping (he and I carried the couch and then he set up my piano). Regardless, all in all, this was a women powered extravaganza…plus Andrew, who is an incredibly wimpy kid … slowly his strength is growing, ever so slowly.

I went from a hobbit hole in the basement of an old house that was frequently visited by wolf (or brown?) humongous spiders, had a 6 foot ceiling, and when I moved in was various shades of dirty white with holes all over the walls and ceiling (my mom and I spent at least two weeks fixing it, the new tenant doesn’t know how lucky they are). To being back at my parents. To living in an actual adult apartment.With a nice big living room, dining area, full service kitchen, breakfast bar, and porch.

I’m pretty damn excited.

*Dances with glee*

Michelle Tanner

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Of Brandi Carlile

Brandi Carlile

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A girl with a guitar and some serious talent.

Have you ever listened to an artist for years? Know every word? And actually BOUGHT the music? That’s right bought! Purposefully chose to support this artist.

You love this artist dearly and feel as though you know them. You spend hours singing in the car or in front of a mirror unable to fathom being able to create such beautiful music. In your mind you imagine that you are on stage, singing these words as if your own. Of course, now they do belong to you. The artist has been kind enough to share their music and let you take hold. Time passes and other artists take over as your top played. Then one day you decide to listen to this artist again and suddenly HOLY SHIT!! An emotional chord was struck so intense it practically brought you to tears. It felt as though everything you had been feeling or repressing was thrust to the surface. Explained in a way so perfect there’s nothing more you could say. There was a perfection to the music that you never noticed until that moment. A perfection which try as I might I cannot express in a blog post. It is something that has to be experienced. I encourage all to seek out such an experience – this will mean stepping away from the Top 40 momentarily.

I recently had such a moment with Brandi Carlile, an indie singer from Ravensdale, WA. And I wasn’t able to stop listening to her for three weeks straight. Everything else I owned seemed to fall short in comparison.

Don’t get me wrong I love pop culture. I love Britney Spears, Bad Girls Club, Tabloids, all of it. But there’s something special about finding an artist who has some meat behind their lyrics.

Excerpt from Pride and Joy

I believe this to be true
Nothing sacred nothing new
No one tells you when its time
There are no warnings only signs
And you know that you’re alone
You’re not a child anymore
But you’re still scared
All your mountains turn to rocks
All your oceans turn to drops
They are nothing like you thought
Can’t be something you are not
Life is not a looking glass
Don’t get tangled in your past
Like I am learning not to

This passage mirrors exactly what I’ve been going through. Especially,  in regards to growing up and learning that the beliefs my family enforced were not what was best for me.

That moment of straddling the line dividing a child and adult.

An amazing live performance with not one but TWO cellos! What more could you ask for?