🏐✔️

C1C4C550-932F-4645-A99C-B9976DE5ADC0This season was especially meaningful to me, because it helped me find purpose after losing Alli. Everything was hazy, nothing made sense. You could have asked me what 2+2 equaled, and I would have given you a blank stare. I spaced out a lot, sometimes in the middle of when I was talking. But going to volleyball every day helped me develop a routine.
Routines I can do.
A routine provided structure when it seemed like everything was crumbling around me. A routine made seemingly insignificant actions feel like great accomplishments. And that’s what I needed: to feel like I was accomplishing something. And that’s what volleyball provided: a sense of accomplishment.
The past three post-seasons I’ve always questioned myself and had doubts about some of my decisions, but this is the first season I’m completely confident and satisfied in how everything unfolded. It definitely sucks that our first round playoff match was against the team that went on to win the entire division (Thanks, SS-CIF 🙃🙃), but I’m appreciative that our loss came from a deserving team.
These girls worked their butts off throughout the season, and it made me so proud to see them do the damn thing. We grew with each practice and match, shocking those who came out to support us.
The amount of times I heard, “Oh my gosh. I can’t believe how well the girls are doing! They’ve gotten so much better in such a short amount of time.” Like, yeah. I know. I’ve always known what these girls are capable of— not sure why everyone was so surprised by their volleyball abilities. But I am going to refrain from going off on that tangent. 🙃😉
The girls were so patient and gracious with me this season. For that, I am forever grateful. 💫💛
Cheers to another season in the books 🥂🏐
p.s. S/O to Sandis, who doubled as my statistician and assistant coach. You da real MVP.

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Wait For The Right Man

Wait for the right man. That’s what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to save myself for marriage, or at least for a man I loved and was in love with. I didn’t do either of those things. I traded the magical, romantic first time for a stoned and drunk fuck. Oddly enough, I’m not regretful. I don’t feel ashamed that I lost it to a known “player”, and I don’t feel embarrassed over the fact that I sneaked out of his house that morning. We both know what happened, but we’re not going to make a big deal out of it. If we did, we would both get murdered. Him more than me, but I’d get my fair share of an ass kicking. I saw him the very next night and everything was normal. We said our hellos, we hugged, and we flirted. Honestly, if I didn’t feel what I feel on the inside I wouldn’t think anything had happened. But trust me. My body is telling me that something happened. I get these little flashbacks, little clips of us.

Me whispering in his ear. His hand clutching my thigh. My tongue tracing his ear. His hands gripping my breast. Then our faces turned and mouths met. His teeth clashed against mine, and my tongue was trapped in his mouth. I pulled back and sucked his bottom lip with me. His hand slid up my back and grabbed my hair. I moaned. Loud. Then I attacked his mouth again. There was no shame. I didn’t think about the fact that he had a girlfriend back home. I didn’t think about the fact that we intended on hooking up with different people that night. I didn’t even think about how he played Samantha. All I could concentrate on was pushing him back onto the bed and getting closer to his body.

There was a second when I remembered that we were both drunk and stoned, but the moment passed and I was back at it. My hands couldn’t get enough of him, and his hands rested on my ass, grinding me against him. I pulled back and mumbled something about hating my long hair. I don’t remember if he responded, but it doesn’t matter now. Soon I lost my shorts, but still had on my stockings. His shirt was off, and so were his jeans. He got up and asked if I minded him taking off his pants. Of course I didn’t. The damn thing needed to come off. He got off the bed and his jeans were off. When he came back on the bed he was hovering over me. I probably should have felt intimidated, but I bit my lip and accepted his challenge. One of my hands brought his face down to me, while my other hand slid down his back and played with the waist band of his briefs.

Things start to blur from there. I do remember going down on him. I remember falling off the bed, trying to get the condom out of his pants. Then I remember him filling me. I woke up the next morning, makeup all over my face, and my hair looking a mess. I rolled over and saw that he was knocked out, with his arm around me. It took me a second to realize who I was lying with and what had happened that night. When I realized that I needed to get the fuck out of there, I grabbed my jacket, shoes, and socks. I stuffed them in my purse and called for my ride. Like I said, I don’t regret anything. I’m pretty damn happy with the way things happened. If that makes me a hoe, then I guess I’m a hoe. If that makes me a slut, then I’m a slut. If people want to judge that one action- create a whole lifestyle for me based off of one night- then let them. I don’t care. I’m not here to please anyone, no pun intended. If I can live with my decisions, then everyone else should be able to accept me too.

Mermaids.

I came across a quote the other day that I can’t escape.

“I must be a mermaid. I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living.”

Before you ask, yes. Yes, I do believe in mermaids and their existence. You ask why, but I ask why not. Why not believe in a creature so mystical, powerful, and evasive?

By the way, the quote is from Anais Nin.

Lovely.

Our hands are everywhere at once.  His full weight on top of my body yearning to be touching skin instead of clothing.  He is placing butterfly kisses down my neck, and I try to remember how to inhale and exhale.  Our ragged breaths are drowned out by our racing pulse.  I push my hands under his shirt trying to reach skin, but even as I feel how flawless he is, it is not enough.  I start to lift the shirt up but he nips at my neck, causing me to forget my attempt to remove his shirt.  I arch myself, molding my body to his.  He emits a sound between a moan and a growl, and I place my hands back onto his body.

As I lift my arms a final time, I slide them up to take the offensive material off of his torso.  My fingers feel like ice compared to his scorching body.  I scratch my nails down his back and feel him curve into me.  His shallow puffs of heat coast over my collar bone and drift into my ear.  He somehow gets my bra loosened and sits up to straddle my hips.  I groan from the lack of contact and reach up to bring him back to me.  He smirks and runs his fingers under my back and into the inside of my bra.  I hear three distinct clicks then feel a rush of air between my breasts.  The feel of his warm fingers against my back causes me to lean upwards.  His hands are not just resting against my skin anymore, but they are bringing my body up to meet his.

But we never collide.

“Why do you do this to me,” I whisper to him as he pulls his hands away, causing me to fall back towards the bed.

And that is it.

I lay awake in my bed, panting, with an ache between my legs.  I groan and turn over in my bed, checking to see how much sleep I got tonight.  Two thirty-seven is flashing back at me in red.

Awesome. I slept for a grand total of two hours and seven odd minutes. Lovely.

These dreams, nightmares almost, seem to get worse the longer I go without seeing him.

Trivial Trivia.

Trivial Trivia.

I know that I am about seven posts too late, but I have decided to write a little bit about myself.  If you find this text irrelevant, continue on your merry way.  Personally, I enjoy finding out the trivial trivia about people.  It keeps things fresh and interesting.

I go by Stella Thorn, but that is not my real name.  The character in my first short story was named Stella Thorn, and I have used it as a pseudonym ever since.  It is a strong, feminine name.

I have an abundance of passion when it comes to people, animals, and life.  While a lot of my posts have (and will) be about how people annoy me, I promise that I love mankind.  I believe that in order to love something (or someone), you must be able to appreciate their strengths and weaknesses.  It is much easier to write about how something irritates you, rather than describing the wonderful emotions something evokes from you.

I began writing creatively after my childhood best friend expressed how liberating writing made her feel.  The first creative writing I wrote was a song about the first time I got drunk (I was thirteen).  I like to look back on it from time to time- it reminds me to stay true to my writing style, while showing me how much I have grown in regards to my writing and my self.

My childhood was relatively normal- nothing overly traumatic or overwhelmingly glorious.  I was raised by both of my biological parents, who continued to have three more children after me.  Yeah, you guessed it. I am the oldest.  It is an all right gig.  As well, my maternal grandma and papa were (and still are) an everyday part of my life.

I went to public school from Kindergarten to eighth grade.  During the middle of my eighth grade year, my brother (who was in sixth grade) and I were pulled from public school to begin homeschooling.  Starting in sixth grade, I begged my parents to homeschool me.  A lot of the children I interacted with through church were homeschooled, and they were constantly talking about how awesome it was.  Of course it was awesome.  They created their own schedule.  They got to expand on any subject they desired.  Their mother was their teacher.  They could finish their schoolwork before noon, allowing them the rest of the day to do whatever they damn well pleased.  And the best of all… They got to do school in their pajamas! How freaking awesome is that?

While I am so happy that my parents began to homeschool, it was under unfortunate circumstances.  Basically, kids are assholes in the sixth grade, and they made my brother’s life a living hell.  When my brother finally retaliated (a.k.a. kick their ass), my parents decided that we did not need to be subjected to the public school system any longer.  THANK, JESUS.  So we began homeschooling, and I regret nothing.

I graduated from university May of 2014.  It blows my mind to think that I have been a college graduate for almost a year now.  Like, what the hell have I accomplished?  Thank God I have the rest of my life to answer that question.  My university stands on a mountain top, and the towns that surround it are barely populated.  Growing up in the city, it was quite a change to become formally educated in the middle of nowhere.  However, I loved it, and it created an even stronger foundation for me to dig my toes into.

After obtaining my B.A. in Creative Writing, I moved back to Southern California and looked for a job.  I would love to say that I have started my career, but I have not.  I currently hold a job that does nothing to advance my career other than allowing me time to write on this blog.  So… I guess I am able to further myself through my current job.  Damn these twists and turns thrown at me.

That is really all that there is to my life.  I have an amazing family, reliable best friends (despite my post from yesterday), and a growing faith.

Ah, yes. My faith.  I am Christian.  I believe that God created everything your eyes capture, and I believe that Jesus, the Son of God, was sent to Earth and died on the cross to save me from eternal damnation.  I am not sorry if that offends you or irritates you.  However, I am sorry that you are unable to accept another’s world view.  I will not shove my faith down anyone’s throat through this blog.  Yes, from time to time I will post about my faith; and I hope that you can accept that.  I embrace everyone, and I hope that you are able to do the same.

– Stella Thorn