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Today was my last day of class and I am so incredibly proud of myself. This is the second health sciences program I’ve completed and the second degree I’ve earned. And despite all the nonsense I had to deal with while going through it, I finished it.

In all honesty, I didn’t feel as accomplished when I became a radiographer. I feel as though I just wasn’t happy at that point in my life. I didn’t feel like I was the best x-ray tech I could be, and I was in a horrible relationship that brought me further down every day.

But this time, everything feels so much more complete. I feel as though I’ve accomplished so much more and I’m actually happy. I’m happy with the way I work, I’m happy with the skills I’ve learned, and I’m happy with my amazing relationship.

I know I have confidence issues—I always have. The things people say about me or think about me really make an impact on the way I feel about myself and that’s something that I’ve been working on. But finishing this program has made me realize that all those people that doubted me—their opinions were worthless because I’ve already accomplished far more than they have. I really need to start giving myself more credit. And from now on, I will.

I take my board examination on the 8th :)

Tagged: #personal 

The White Goat

I don’t have too many memories of my childhood home on Foxtrot Lane. Considering my family moved quite often, I’d say it was one of the least memorable homes I had stayed in. Whenever I’d try to think of details from the old house, I’d only ever imagine washed out colors, a yard of dead grass covered in brown leaves, and old kitchen appliances. My mother, on the other hand, loved the house on Foxtrot Lane. She spoke of it frequently, recalling all the wonderful stories of when I was little. She would then finish up with the line, “Ohhh, you were too young to remember. ” And she was somewhat right—I could only ever recall bits and pieces. But even though my memories were somewhat fragmented, they were still always there. I remember the times we made whirlpools in the above ground pool, or when I’d practice ballet up and down the hallway near the front door, and those tiny yellow plastic chairs I’d sit on while eating macaroni and cheese in the living room. The memories were all still there—just a bit faded. Which is why I was surprised when my mother, going on one of her many story telling tangents, mentioned a portrait of a white goat that hung up in that old house. 
Apparently, I was obsessed with this portrait, “from the moment I laid eyes on it,” she said. She told me how I would spend most of my time sitting in front of that painting, either drawing or writing. Some days I would just stand there for hours on end staring at it, examining the minute details. “There were times you’d even ask if your father and I could get you a pet goat,” she chuckled. “All those little girls your age wanted ponies and horses and all you wanted was that white goat in the painting.”
I couldn’t understand why I had no recollection of this painting whatsoever—a painting in which I supposedly spent a great deal of my time with. There was even a point where I wondered if she was making the whole story up to test my memory. But that thought was quickly extinguished when she pulled out an old family photo album.
"How can you honestly not remember?" she asked while flailing an old polaroid in the air. I grabbed the photo from her hand, examining the face of the little girl, wondering if it was actually me. And without a doubt, it was. I was wearing a small, pink jacket with the hood on, and blankly staring at the camera. And oddly enough, I was standing in front of a painting of a scene of a white goat standing alone in a dark forest. The trees in the distance were slightly arched over, as to form a tunnel leading into the darkened woods. And the goat, well the image of it sent chills down my spine. Its eyes—there were no pupils, just two completely white circles staring directly at the viewer. I looked through the rest of the photo album, and the others were no different from the first.
"W-what happened to it?" I stammered.
"Oh, it’s probably still hanging in that house on Foxtrot Lane," she replied nonchalantly, as though the portrait was no different than a painting of a sunny meadow. "Anyway, it’s late and you should be getting to bed," she said as she grabbed the album out of my hands.
That night, I had terrible dreams, dreams that paralyzed my entire body. I envisioned standing in a dark house, staring up at that damned portrait. My eyes could not shift away, and I felt as though it were now burned into my mind, planting strange and horrible thoughts. I dreamt that I began to follow the white goat into that darkened pathway, so deep into the forest that I could no longer see its ivory coat and could only navigate by the sounds of its hooves rustling the dried leaves. I wanted to turn around so badly, but I was no longer in control of my body when finally, the sensation of cold droplets on my skin woke me up.
I was standing at the edge of the forest, my feet covered in dirt. “Lucy!” I could hear my mother calling from the front porch. “What are you doing?” I had to gather my thoughts before I realized that I had sleepwalked all the way out of the house. I turned around and began running toward the front door as the rain began to pour. “What on earth are you doing?” My mother asked again as I reached the porch, but before I could give her an explanation she continued, “Why did you stop?” I looked at her confused, and without saying another word, she lifted her arm and pointed to the forest. And that’s when I saw it. Two completely white eyes staring at me from deep within the woods.
"Why did you stop walking?" she asked.

Hers were not the same eyes I had known. There was poison behind them, lingering within the lens—a rottenness settling beneath the bones.



Wildfires are almost an annual tradition in a good smattering of locations throughout the world, a magical time of the year where the dry weather and the hapless folly of an unattended campfire or a forgotten cigarette butt toss a stretch of as many as several miles into a frenzy of evacuated…

Terror Tortellini

A compilation of short horror stories from the writers of TT!

Went out for some awkward times last night.

Tagged: #me #personal 

So this has been bothering me since, well, I don’t know how long ago exactly. I met this guy through mutual friends years ago. He seemed pretty cool and we never really hung out, but he just happened to be around whenever I went to a friend’s house. After that I never really saw him anymore.

Well he makes his way back into my life and he still seems like a pretty interesting guy. He wants to hang out one day and suddenly, a friend of mine blows up my phone. She tells me a million reasons why I shouldn’t hang out with him, the main reason being that he would get me fucked up and take advantage of me.

I ended up taking my friend’s advice and kinda cut ties with the guy. I feel bad about it, I guess which is partly why I’m writing this.

Later down the line, I find out that she’s been sleeping with him from time to time—this guy who happens to be such a shitty human being.

Now, I don’t really know what to think of this whole situation, but the main part of it that bothers me is that he will most likely never know why we stopped talking. The friend who warned me about him also stopped talking to me. And honestly, I’m not looking to reconnect with those people because of the weird drama that would surely follow, but I feel like he deserved some sort of explanation.

Either way, I feel like I was still somehow taken advantage of—but by my friend. I feel like she twisted things to work out in her favor and god knows what the guy believes to be the truth.

I just wanted to get that off my chest.

Tagged: #personal 

In Cali with the boyfriend ^-^

Tagged: #personal 
Tagged: #me 

chopped my hair

Tagged: #me #personal 
Tagged: #me 

Why are people horrible? There are already people in my class ready to treat future students like shit once they become certified radiation therapists and find a job. Why—just why? Because YOU were treated like crap when you were a student? That just doesn’t make the least bit of sense to me.

I know how terrible it feels to be a student and be hated and paired with people unwilling to teach you. I nearly quit x-ray because of it. It is honestly one of the worst feelings needing something from someone as important as your education, and having them keep it to themselves just because they don’t like you.

I hear about therapists that automatically say, “I don’t like students” without even giving them a chance and it honestly sickens me. Of course I’m not going to do well if I was never properly taught.

I could write a fucking novel on this subject. I just know that if I ever get the opportunity to have a student learn from me, I will treat them like fucking gold and make them the best therapist/radiographer/whatever to my ability. It is so fucked up to rob people of their learning experiences.

Tagged: #personal 

This girl in my class must be the inspiration for the sad blob from those Zoloft commercials. Just with malicious intentions. I hope she finds peace of mind at some point or another. But until then she can suck my cock.