Hi, I’m Jessie. I’m 18 years old, and I’m just now starting to enjoy the melted Texas summers. But I mean, summer means watermelon and fireworks. And for me it’s the time for that I’m-a-year-older-but-I-keep-forgetting-I’ve-had-a-birthday feeling. I really like to read; I actually have homemade blueprints for rooms wherein my books can reside (in my future house).
I’ve always liked to draw, ever since I was about three. It’s like an escape for me, but it’s more like a resort that I’m almost always locked out of. Inspiration only comes occasionally, after all.
I lost my iPod recently, and it was one of the most tiring weeks of my life. Music can get inside your soul and quiet the colors inside to a dull roar. It’s like insanity had calmed down enough to give you a hug.
I like Skittles. I went for a walk in the pasture with a cat and a bag of that candy, and I informed the cattle that they needed to ‘taste the freaking rainbow.’ Sugar makes me act weird.
Something really tragic happened to me recently, and I think I figured out what it was. I grew up, kind of. It came suddenly. One day I was sitting on the floor drooling over a cherry popsicle and announcing, “DOLL,” to everyone who would listen. And then suddenly I was filling out work applications. But the sad thing is that you don’t know it’s happening. You can tell a 10 year old something along the lines of, “Enjoy being your age,” and they won’t get it. And then you wake up and you’re 17 and all you have left of being 10 are memories. That’s good enough for me though.
I have an obsession with rainy days and candles.
I feel betrayed by my own body. I could write paragraphs explaining that, but I don’t even know where to begin. I put that on here because this is a page where I can be unbelievably narcissistic, and that feeling of betrayal is so deep (albeit uncalled for) that leaving it out would be as odd as leaving out my first name.
I talk with my hands. Like, to the point of violence. I’ve actually hit someone in the face once.
I really love Celtic music. And classical, contemporary Christian, and George Strait.
I like to bake. A LOT. I hardly ever have the chance to do it, and that makes me sad. I’m plotting to make apple butter later in the autumn. That’s not technically baking, but hey. It tastes nice.
I have a deep love for fireworks. When I was little, my parents would park me on the edge of the tailgate with a slice of watermelon and a good view of the firework show. I’d sit there and munch through slices of melon, and probably a mosquito or two, staring at the sky and wondering where the music was.
I live for my Savior, my family, caramel frappuccinos, burgundy scarves, and those “this-is-going-to-be-a-weird-story” moments.
I’ve had a concussion once, according to a neuropsychologist. Funny thing is, I don’t remember that happening.
I name my cars. Our old Toyota was called Penelope, and my red Ford is Jackson. I’m just like that.
I LOVE small towns. Small as in, Dairy Queen is the main restaurant and everyone knows everyone. Where people wave at you when they pass you on the highway, even if they don’t know you. Small enough so that it’s extremely awkward when you get pulled over, because you’re related to the officer.
My life is a bunch of "It seemed like a good idea at the time" strung together.
My name is Jessie, and I’m 18.
The people who don’t know me think I’m shy and quiet, and the people who do know me wish I was.
