Faith and Doubt and the In-Between


I’ve never reblogged Matt before. But this…I just needed this today. Amazing writer. Amazing blogger bud. And just one down right amazing person. You do have a purpose, Matt. Every breath you take is more important than the last. Thank you for writing this today. And Happy Easter to you too.

Originally posted on Must Be This Tall To Ride:


I was sitting in my college newspaper’s newsroom waxing philosophy with the managing editor the first time I realized not everyone believed in God.

He would have lowercased it.

That’s how ignorant and naïve I was. It took me 20 years and a relatively large, public university to expose me to other ways of thinking.

When you grow up like me—a little Catholic school kid in small-town Ohio—you think EVERYONE believes in God and loves Jesus, and that everyone who doesn’t is either bad or stupid.

My friend I was talking to is neither bad nor stupid.

He simply came to the conclusion based on his life experiences—and what else do we have?—that there’s no almighty, all-powerful, omnipotent creator.

I was shocked.

This is the time in my life when I was discovering myself. I had grown up in a staunchly conservative household—both politically and religiously.


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Breaking the Habit Part One

My relationship with cigarettes began when I was 12 years old.

I took a drag of one at age 8, but I don’t count that. I was so young that it probably wasn’t even a drag.

But 12 years old.

I used to baby-sit for this woman who became addicted to morphine after having surgery on something or another. She had 3 children, a set of 6 year old twins and an 8 year old.

And there I was. Cooking. Cleaning. Bathing. Getting them off the bus. Helping with homework.

I was more of a mother to these children than their own. At 12 years old.

I even had to cut one of the twins’ hair off one day because her mother hadn’t bathed her since the last time I was there, and her hair was so knotted the only way to fix it was to cut it off. Poor girls. Poor, poor girls.

But that’s a story for another day.

The mother used to smoke Newport’s and kept them in her bedroom dresser. Sometimes she would be home while I babysat because she was so drugged up, her kids needed someone else there to take care of them.

One day, the oldest found her mother’s cigarettes and cried hysterically. The mother insisted they were not her cigarettes, but mine. The oldest daughter turned to me.

Oh yeah? Prove it.

I remember it clear as day. I was sitting on the edge of the mother’s bed, looking at myself in the mirror that was attached to the closet door directly across the room. I lit up the cigarette and smoked (well, as much as 12 year old knows how to) it. Staring at myself. I honestly thought I was the coolest kid on two feet. I sat there for the rest of the day, puffing on cigarettes in front of the mirror.

And then I was hooked.

The mother would leave me packs. In her drawer. Every day.

One day I was smoking in the bathroom while the mother was home, and I heard the cops bust through the door.

Scared to death, I threw Barbie toothpaste in my mouth and ran out to the police dragging the mother out the door. The husband had apparently filed a restraining order against her.

She fell asleep a few nights before. Smoking a cigarette. Almost burned the house down.

A danger to her family. And an unfaithful one at that. Her husband had caught her cheating on him with his stepfather.

That’s some Springer shit right there.

I’m guessing the restraining order was revenge on the mother. The father died a few years later of a heart attack.

To this day, I still wonder what happened to those little girls. I hope they made it through life okay. They’d be 20 and 22 right now.

But I’ll always remember, that’s where my addiction began.

And I’ve been spending the last 4 months weaning myself off of a pack a day. I’m down to 3.

And for my birthday gift to myself, I’ll be down to zero.

Happy Birthday, Lara! You’re saving your teeth! Your skin! Your lungs! Your life!

But let me tell you, it hasn’t been easy.

That’s why this is only part one.

End of Winter Limbo

March 21st.

That’s the last time I’ve blogged. I sometimes wonder what has gotten over me.

Last year I was writing DAILY. The creative juices were flowing like freshly squeezed OJ.

Lack of material? I don’t know. I suppose. Last year I was a serial dater and an avid dancer/city girl extraordinaire. With school, working like crazy, and cold weather, I’m much more of a homebody.

But there’s SO many things I want to write about.

Lack of time? Probably so. School has consumed me these past 5 weeks. I only have 3 more left until I take the summer off, so it is my duty to myself to blog more. To write more. There’s so much going on inside this brain of mine. It’s not like I have lost my thoughts. Or have I?

A lesser anonymity? I let The Drummer read my blog a while ago. I don’t know if he keeps up with it currently, but every now and then I’ll tell him a story and he will reply with the fact that he read it already. Hah. For that reason, I’ve sort of stopped writing about post break-up things though I long to do so. I’d feel awful if he read some of it and took it personally. Like, I shouldn’t still be grieving over my last heartbreak whilst in a new and blossoming relationship. Or should I? Can I? Can I still be hurt at times though I’m fully present in my current relationship? I don’t know the answers to these things, I’m inexperienced in this whole realm of life. I don’t think he’d mind but I’m cautious to ask. Well, I suppose if he reads this then cat’s out of the bag.

The only other person I trust with the URL to my blog is Taco. He’s the only person in my life that knows my thoughts from the very deep depths of my psyche. Some days I have so much to let out. Some days I’m just numb because I’m busy. But on the days where I do want to get things out on here, I hesitate because of who will read my blog. It’s not that I’m trying to keep anything from my relationship with The Drummer. It’s just, I feel like it isn’t fair that he gets to see this side of me – this side that I don’t get to see from him. Knowing someone face to face is so much different than knowing someone’s words. Someone’s writing. It’s more intimate. There’s no holding back. At least when you are face to face, you [should] think before you speak. Here, in my little blog space, I don’t really do much thinking before I write. Of course I think about my topic-that sort of thinking. But, I don’t hold back. Most of the time I feel like I’m just talking to myself. I forget that I have an audience. And then all of a sudden I look at my stats and I’m all like WOAH! I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW THAT COUNTRY EXISTED AND SOMEONE FROM THERE READ MY BLOG!

These are issues I need to weed out soon. Because nothing feels better than to write the words that are stuck inside my head all day. I’m surrounded by people that love me daily, but sometimes I feel misunderstood. Or just down right weird for that matter. That’s why I love my blog. Where my weirdness can go into archives.

So I shall write more. When my creativity comes back and I stop being a wuss about what my boyfriend will think of me if he reads my weird shit. And when the weather gets warmer. I know it’s technically spring, but can New England get a little warmer please? Thanks.

Sorry for the word babble. I missed this. And all of you. I still read. Just not as frequent as I should be.

Love your life and most importantly yourself. x

Friday Jams

They say that life is always easier,
after you let yourself come undone.
They say they’ll give you all that you want,
and I’ll be waiting in the shadow of the sun.
Seizing time no one has been before,
close the curtains what are you waiting for?
And I’ll be keeping secrets till I’m in the ground.

Changing colors makes you waste away,
just paint your eyes with a vivid mind.
Now you see what’s behind the lights,
And I’ll be waiting in the shadow of the sun.

Finding treasures that has been on demise,
building mountains in disguise,
and I’ll be keeping secrets till I’m in the ground.

I’m in the shadow of the shadow of the sun,
where I belong there’s something coming on.
I’m in the shadow of the shadow of the sun,
oh and I need you.

I’m in the shadow of the shadow of the sun,
where I belong, there’s something coming on.
No more waiting, times are changing,
and there’s something coming on.

I Can See Clearly Now

I got new glasses yesterday. I happen to be pretty much blind as a bat – near and far sighted in each eye, a different prescription for each. It’s insane that I’ve gone this long without specks. Got my reading ones last week and the all the time ones yesterday.

So I pick Taco up after work for our Wednesday workouts. I’m raving on and on about how I can’t stop looking at street signs and far away font because I can actually read the words.

“Oh my God, Taco. I can see so much better now, I—-aaaaaaaaand there’s [ex].”

Yup. Whilst raving about my new clear vision, I get a clear view of my ex driving by me.

It was weird.

I haven’t seen him since last May, when he almost ruined my birthday.

He showed up to the bar 10 minutes before closing.


And took me outside and called me pretty.

And then said how sad this was.

We stared at each other for the last 10 minutes. Hugged.

And then turned around and walked away in totally opposite directions.

I shit you not. That’s what happened.

Thanks bro. Happy Birthday to me.

Yesterday stung. Just a little. Just a tiny little pea pod of a little sting.

Not sure if that ever goes away.

It was just a reminder of what feeling something was like.

Every now and then I catch myself numb about love.

I like my boyfriend. Don’t get me wrong. He makes me smile. A lot.

And I am so happy with our little relationship.

But I still have this wall. This shield over me.

And it protects me so much that I know if anything were to happen to us, I would be bummed, but not broken.

I know I can only hold a wall up for so long.

And I don’t want it to fall on me.

I want it to be taken down gracefully.

But we’re not there yet. And that’s okay.

Yesterday stung for a second, but I laughed for 5 minutes after.

I think that’s a good ratio. Word. Up.

Mr. Old Creepy Man

I’m alive! For reals, yo. Have a quick time for a post. Because I’m Lara, and my life is full of craziness, why not add a super creepy stalker to the mix as well?

Back in 2012, when I first moved back in with my family, I had left my bedroom to go hang with my mom. I had JUST finished smoking a bowl so I was all relaxed and zenned out. A few minutes later, I went back up into my bedroom to find several missed calls, voicemails, and text messages from some odd number that I didn’t recognize. The text messages kept asking me if I wanted to sext, so that creeped me out at first. Then, I listened to the voicemails:

Voicemail Number 1:

Old Creepy Man:

(breathes heavily for a few moments) Laaaaahhhhhhraaaaa. Call me back. I’m horny.

Voicemail Number 2:

Old Creepy Man:

(breathes heavily for a few moments and then whispers) I’m touching my dick.

Um. Okay.

Um. Okay.

Voicemail Number 3:

Old Creepy Man:

(breathes heavily for a few moments and then whispers) Caaaaalll me backkkkk.


After trying to stop myself from throwing up because I was not only scared but HIGH and panicking, I went through my phone and called all my friends desperately asking them if they pranked me. Nothing. So, I ignored all of the messages and went on with my life. I think Taco actually called him at some point but nothing came of it.

Fast Forward To: Last Saturday.

I’m working out and all of a sudden, my phone starts buzzing.


I recognized the number because it had an odd area code and the digits were super easy to memorize. Not to mention, I listened to those creepy messages a bunch of times trying to figure out who it was.

So this time, I answer.

Me: Hello?

Creepy Old Man: HI!

Me: Who the hell is this?



I called the phone number back and it rang until it reached voicemail. As I’m leaving him a voicemail that closely resembled the famous phone conversation from the movie, Taken, I receive a text message from Old Creepy Man.


Are you open minded? Be honest.

And then another.


After I hung up with his voicemail, I texted him back, calling him a loser and told him I was reporting the phone number.

Fast Forward To Saturday Night:

11 PM

I’m at the bar with my friends, drinking Patron on the rocks because I was saving calories and sugar without adding a mixer (Yes, I am THAT nutritionally crazy). I was obviously a little tipsy because I had been there for a few hours already AND MR OLD CREEPER MAN CALLS AGAIN.

So I answer.

Me: What the HELL do you want?

Creepy Old Man In His Old Fucking Creepy Voice: Why you gotta go and start problems with me?

Me: Are you fucking serious? You’ve been sexually harassing me for years!

Creepy Old Man In His Old Fucking Creepy Voice: You’ll never figure out who I am. I’m going to be a mystery forever.

Me: Don’t you worry, darling. I will know who you are soon enough.

Creepy Old Man In His Old Fucking Creepy Voice: Babble, Babble, Creepy Old Man Babble…I was drunk, guys. This is where I started getting paranoid and things got hazy. I ended up hanging up on him.

Needless to say, everyone around me at the bar thought I was psychotically yelling at my boyfriend or something. Which is fine. Can’t please everyone.

I went home later on, laid in my bed, drunk as all hell and freaked out most of the night. I got up twice to check all the locks in the house and just imagined what Creepy Old Man looked like.


I ended up googling his phone number and finding 4 other reports from girls around my area getting the same harassing phone calls for the last few years. They’ve reported it to the police and the police have done NOTHING about it. You know, because they’re gonna wait until I’m fucking kidnapped with duct tape across my mouth to do anything about it.

I blocked the phone number and filed a police report. The cop didn’t sound like he cared, really. But I MADE him care.

I was like, Are you gonna do anything about this? Because I want to press charges. And you can’t say this isn’t important because that’s how EVERY HORROR MOVIE AND EPISODE OF CRIMINAL MINDS STARTS.


Little does Mr. Old Creepy Man know, my best friend does skip traces, which means she has a national database where she can look up a number and give me a name and address.

I told the cop that and I let him know I would be calling him with the information because I was sure I would be figuring out who this guy was before they did. Yeah. I legit said that.

So, hopefully, I can figure out who this guy is. I just hope he’s not a predator or wanna-be-murder freshly graduated from Sociopath University. That WOULD be my luck though.

Have a good weekend, guys. I miss you <3