Cave Dwelling

They told me I needed something fun, something exciting to look forward to. Plan a party, read a book. Do something, for heaven's sake, because seeing you just sit there is... freaky. It's strange. It's abnormal.

And then they told me that people are happier when they're looking at a bright future or whatever. And yeah, that's probably true, I suppose. But it's easier to have a positive perspective when you're standing on top of a hill than when you're stumbling around in a cave with a faulty flashlight and a very dim memory regarding the way out.

I mean, really. It's Perspective 101.

But I guess people who feel qualified to give that kind of advice are usually the ones who haven't been in a cave recently. Us cave dwellers realize that we aren't usually the best at giving uplifting advice.

And so I offer mine humbly and without pretense.

Stop trying to look forward all the time. Let your hope be abstract and your goals be gentle. Give yourself permission to savor the smallest moments of joy and peace.

Read a book in the sun. Dance to your favorite song when no one’s around. Take yourself on field trips to places you’ve never been before.

Don’t feel bad because you didn’t enjoy that party or this dance. Don’t beat yourself up for not liking “normal” fun. Your fun is okay. Your fun is excellent.

We cave dwellers are not hopeless, nor are we cynical for believing that we needn’t always have a perfect dedication to our futures. We have learned to reside firmly in the moment.

We have learned that it is staying in the moment, breathing the fresh air, is more beautiful than rushing from second to second with a furious ache for something to look forward to.

Tomorrow may be the best day of my life. It may be the worst. It will likely be another average day. But it doesn’t matter. Because today will never happen again, and today I will find my glimmers of sunlight as I ride the roller coaster of my own emotions through the highs and lows of just... being.

Today, right now, you must be. Be in your cave, on your hill, in your valley or forest.

In this moment, you are alive, and that is enough.

Winning.

OH MY GOSH YOU GUYS.

Here. Look at these numbers:

Stats as of 12:25 pm on Feb. 14th-- at time of posting, views for Feb. 14th exceeded 300.

What is going on? I don't even know how to comprehend these numbers. See, every time I post something (and subsequently share it on Facebook), I have this semi-rational fear that people will essentially react like this:

But so far, no one has, and I am grateful for that. People have even told me that they like my blog and that they read my blog. On the outside, I'm usually all like

Play it cool,  play it cool.

but on the inside, I'm like

I win the internet. 

The point here is thanks for not thinking that I suck. It's really sweet. I'll do my best to continue not sucking.

I also wanted to take a little time and talk about why I blog, because I know some of you stay up late pondering that question. Rest ye your weary minds.

I like to write. Before I started blogging (and after, sometimes), I spent a lot of time scribbling in a notebook, writing things that I thought were hilarious/witty/insightful/woefully self-indulgent. I kept them to myself, because I am secretly very shy.

Over time, I accumulated 50-ish of these passages. Some were short (less than one college-ruled page) and some (mainly the woefully self-indulgent ones) were more than 5 pages long. They were poems, song lyrics, stories, anecdotes, rants, rambles, complaints... some were even peppered with stick figures and took a comic format. Sometimes I go back and read them and I'm mildly horrified at what I thought was so amazing three years ago.

Anyway, I had pretty much decided that I liked to write, but that I never planned on writing in any public setting... until I found myself in a Creative Writing class durring my senior year of high school. My senior year was... hard to say the least. I found myself looking forward to CW everyday because I had a chance to just let go for 40 minutes and write whatever I wanted. It was pure therapy. My teacher was amazing, too, and managed to coax me into sharing some of my writing with the class.

I gradually got more comfortable with the idea that I have things to say and people will read them. I shared with the class, then with then-boyfriend, A, then with my dad, a few friends... and finally, I started blogging.

It was terrifying at first. After my first post went "live," I spent the evening constantly refreshing my stats page. Every single pageview was mind-wrackingly intimidating. I think I got 43 pageviews that whole week, which averages about 10 views for each of the four posts that went live that week.

Anyway, time went on, and less than a year later, new posts on The Epitome of Snark average 40-60 pageviews within the first 24 hours of posting. There are undoubtedly those among you that are not impressed by that statistic, but it kind of blows my mind.

For the curious of heart, here is a list of the Top Five TEoS Posts to Date:

1. Because Life Can Suck- September 20th, 2012: This was actually the first post that went up.
2. My Friendship/Dating Application- December 31st, 2012: Apparently, a lot of people wanted to know the qualifications for dating/being friends with me. 
3. Enjoy the Ride- October 22nd, 2012: A post about my dear grandmother who passed away on the day Enjoy the Ride posted.
4. You're Doing It Wrong: Flirting- September 23rd, 2012: Comical observation about the boys I'd met at college up to that point.
5. Facebook Questions!- December 4th, 2013: Your questions, my responses. Boom.

That's all I've got for today. I hope you all survived Valentine's Day with only minor cuts and scrapes to your body/ego/world-view. Keep on keepin' on, my lovelies.

x,

   g

The Year of Grace

For the first time in an exceptionally long time, I'm in control of my life. Kids, I cannot put into words how good that feels.

I've taken to calling this the Year of Grace because, goshdarnit, this is going to be my year. Come hell or high-water, I am going to enjoy 2013 because I say so. I'm finally beginning the process of transforming from victim to survivor. I'm ready to stop letting my past define my present and future. I'm ready to be me.

What will the Year of Grace entail, you ask?

I can tell you that there will be a lot of resisting the temptation to get my hair cut short again. Yes, this will be the year I finally grow my hair back out. I may even consider going back to my natural color, but let's be real-- changing up my hair color is one of the most fun things I do.

There will be a lot of studying and learning. I'd really like to settle on a major this year so I know what I'm doing with my life. I feel like I should probably get serious about this growing up business.

There will also be some money-earning. Besides babysitting and helping my dad with his software company, I have never been gainfully employed. That's really embarrassing to admit, but my health hasn't always allowed me the option of working. In light of finally having resources to get that stuff under control, I'm confident a job is in my cards this year.

As well as getting my driver's license. That's even more embarrassing, but it was delayed for the same reason a job was. I'm ready to check driving off my list of to-do's.

There will be healthy food and more exercise. College sent me into a downward spiral when it comes to nutrition, but I really really really need to get that under control. And I will. This year. I hope. Probably.

My last goal is probably the most embarrassing, so bare with me. I want to learn how to dance. I'm not talking ballet or hip-hop (though that would be nice.) I'm talking about basic social dancing. I am probably the whitest person you will ever encounter, and as such, I have little to no ability to move gracefully. My idea of dancing is jumping up and down and moving my arms. You're probably thinking that there's no way I suck as badly as I think I do, but believe me, there is.

So yeah, that's what up. Happy New Year!

x,
   g

Enjoy the Ride

This morning, my dear grandmother passed away. She battled cancer for 8 years, fighting the disease with more grace, bravery, and elegance than I ever thought possible. Everyone who knew her was blessed by her love.

Last week, she expressed her desire to live until Thanksgiving, but her rate of decline made it clear that she had days, not months, to live. So we gathered together to celebrate our own Thanksgiving. The meal was not traditional Thanksgiving fare-- We feasted on ham, toss salad, squash, scalloped potatoes, and two types of Jell-o salad. Everyone agreed that it was the best Thanksgiving meal they'd ever had.

After dinner, we gathered in Grandma's room. She had been bedridden for about a month, and unable to stay awake longer than a few minutes. We talked to her, and though she couldn't respond, I know she heard us. Her bedroom felt sacred. I felt the presence of angels in the room. She woke up to take a few bites, then fell back asleep.

Throughout the night, we all took turns sitting with her and holding her hand, having our private moments with Grandma. My dad, who was in Pennsylvania, talked to her on the phone. My cousins and I sang to her. Being there with her and my dear family was the most sacred experience I've ever had.

This morning, Grandma passed away. She was with my grandfather, her eternal companion. I got the call from my aunt at 9:28. Our family gathered once again to comfort each other and make some final arrangements. The love and support of family is a tender mercy of the Lord. Though this is a time of deep sadness, I can't help but thank God for all the many blessings He's given me and my family. It is beautiful and right that my dear grandmother's death should bring us all together.


Life is challenging and heart-breaking, but it is also sweet. In the turmoil of living, it's easy to forget that each person has the ability to create beauty in their own unique way. Our family, drawn closer by greif-- beauty, created from impossible circumstances.

I know I've said that the last two years have been tough, but they've also been filled with the most tender and radient experiences. The feeling you get when you find joy-- even briefly - in the midst of pain is the purest and most sacred feeling. Living, really living, isn't meant to be easy and smooth. It's meant to take you to the lowest of lows, so you can fully appreciate the soaring joys you're destined to experience.

Gordon B. Hinkley, former president of the LDS church, included the following quote in a devotiona he gave at BYU:

Anyone who imagines that bliss is normal is going to waste a lot of time running around shouting that he's been robbed. The fact is that most putts don't drop. Most beef is tough...Most jobs are more often dull than otherwise...
Life is like an old-time rail journey—delays, sidetracks, smoke, dust, cinders, and jolts, interspersed only occasionally by beautiful vistas and thrilling bursts of speed. The trick is to thank the Lord for letting you have the ride.

And I do. Grandma, it was a blessing and a privilege to be your granddaughter. Thank you for your love of beauty, faith in God, and your always-inspiring example of what it means to be a strong, dedicated wife, mother, and grandmother. I miss you terribly, but I know you're no longer suffering, and that your parents and old friends are so excited to have you with them again. I'll see you in about 80 yeas. I love you.

Grandma, Dad, and Me

Here's to enjoying the ride, cinders, ashes, and all.

x,
   m

Glum-Be-Gone List- Part One

In the spirit of posting a glum blog, I thought I'd take some time to put together a list of things that make me feel optimistic, giggly, and like putting on real pants. I'm going to do this in parts because, frankly, I am constantly coming across new things that are awesome.

Micaela's Glum-Be-Gone List- Part One
Ten things to do when you just need to smile.

1. Listen to Here I Am Alive by Yellowcard. I just discovered this band a few days ago and I am totally in love with this song. It's catchy, the lyrics rock, and makes me wanna jam out. Seriously, great message: Here I am, alive.

2. Try to be Ron Swanson. If you haven't seen the show Parks & Recreation, I implore you to get on Netflix, Hulu, or whatever and watch the crap out of this show. It is the best show on TV (tied with Community, of course) and it is 100% worth your while. Parks & Rec follows tireless government worker, Leslie Knope (played by Amy Polher), and her eccentric crew of colleagues as they take care of business in the Parks Department of Pawnee, Indiana. It borrows the "mockumentary" style of The Office and is comedic genius.

Ron Swanson, the manager of the Parks department, is, to put it lightly, thebomb.com (yes, I'm bringing that back.). Ron has a strict policy of hating the system, loving bacon, and being manly as heck. Check out this clip of him explaining the Ron Swanson Pyramid of Greatness to a bunch of ten-year-olds.

3. Eat / stab Jell-O. You guys, I love Jell-O. It's fun to say, fun to eat, and it comes in every fun color you can imagine. It's also fun to attack with a fork if you're super duper pissed off. Avoid the sugarless crap at all costs.

4. Jam out to The Key of Awesome's One Direction parody. I'm pretty sure I watch this at least once a week because it's flipping hilarious. I almost have it memorized-- True story.

Highlight: Let's all point and run! Pointing at stuff is such fun.

5. Walk around Target. My dad and I discovered the magical healing properties of Target in December and we've been going back ever since. I don't know what it is-- the lighting, the sedatives that they [allegedly do not] pump into the air, the sweet smell of consumerism-- but going to Target always makes me feel better about life. I usually don't even buy anything, I just wander around for an hour and think about my life, look at the Barbies, smell the popcorn, and read the first chapter of a few books. And then I feel 67% better than I did before.

Pro tip: Don't go durring the busy hours. My dad and I always go at 10 pm or later. There are almost no people, and the people that are there are not at all like WalMart 10 o'clock-ers (involuntary shudder). They're worn out college students, single older people, and people doing last minute birthday shopping. These are pleasant people to be around when you're feeling icky because they feel kind of icky, too. They aren't judging you. And even if they are, no one you know will be there, so you're safe. Also, Target has a large supply of...

6. Peanut M&M's (Specifically eat them). They are my favorite edible thing in the whole entire world. You guys, colorful chocolate candies with peanuts in the middle. And the peanuts almost make it okay to eat them a lot because it's protein or something.

7. Write strongly-worded and extremely eloquent letters to people that really piss you off, but not sending them. Pretty much explains itself. I always adhere to the following rules:

- No swearing. That defeats the point.
-Use big words just because you can. Suggestions: irrefutably, exemplary, shenanigans, disconcerting, negligence, unscrupulous, etc.
-Always hand-write. No anger letter is valid unless you get to really slam those words down on a real life piece of paper with an honest-to-goodness pen.
- Never ever send it. I'll be honest, I do have one letter I'm saving that I plan to send on my 50th birthday, but I would never send one in the heat of anger. And I'll probably lose that letter by next week.

8. Watch this: 

9. Talk to people who love you. Everyone knows at least one person that can always make them smile, no matter the scenario. Go to that person. Tell them why you feel like crap. Let them work their magic. When you're feeling cruddy, it's not always good to be alone because you'll start wallowing. 

My favorite person to talk to is my dad. Some people love talking to their mom, sibling(s), a close friend, extended family member, or dog. I'm serious about the dog. Dogs understand, don't ask questions, and don't care if your mascara is running.

Here's a picture of me and my dad because we are adorable:

10. Research pygmy elephants or munchkin cats. Because they exists and they are adorable. 

Hope y'all are having a great weekend. Thanks for all the support, you guys. It means a lot. <3

x,

   m

I Kissed the Backstreet Boys (And Why I Miss Being Five)

I can remember being five surprisingly clearly. I woke up at 7am, just because I wanted to. I went to bed at 8 just because Mom said that was bedtime. I was told what to wear, given food on demand, and never had to worry what I looked like in a bathing suit. School consisted of doing elaborate finger-paintings and learning the difference between the letter "r" and the letter "f" (I still struggle with that) and, in my case, being all five of the Backstreet Boys' girlfriend (more on that later).

Aside from my unusual boyfriend situation, life was simple. But, like most kids, I spent a good amount of time trying to act like a grown-up. I remember thinking that the best day of my life would be when I got my first pair of high heels to wear to church, but now that I have heels, I hate wearing them. Like most things we dream about doing as kids, they hurt more than expected. People see you and think, "Huh, she looks taller than usual," but never really notice why, because high heels are something everyone wears. You don't get a medal for not falling down, you don't get a certificate of maturity, you just get new shoes to hobble around in. They're awkward and uncomfortable and make you feel stupid for a while. Eventually, wearing heels is standard, and you never think anything about it.

I also spent a good deal of my time planning my wedding. When I was five, I was pretty convinced that I was going to marry one of the five boys who made up our schools "Backstreet Boys." I once asked if I, too, could be a Backstreet Boy, but I was turned down on account of being a girl. They instead offered me the position of "girlfriend." I realize now that I was more of a skanky groupie than anyone's girlfriend, but I enjoyed the position immensely. I'm pretty sure that I at least hugged all five of them, and I know for a fact that I kissed at least two of them.* I was so excited to grow up and have real boyfriends and get married.

Well, in Mormon tradition, you're supposed to wait until you're 16 before you start dating. While I may or may not have breached that rule, I was 16 when I got my first real boyfriend (let's call him A). The first month we were dating, I found a way to work "boyfriend" into almost every conversation. I'm pretty sure my friends were all ready to kill me.

It was everything I hoped it would be-- going to the movies, making cookies, getting ice cream- and we were together for two years. It was a fairytale, until it came time for us to decide on colleges. Our plan was to go to school together, continue dating, and maybe eventually get married. But fate had other plans. I woke up one morning with the distinct impression that I needed to go to Brigham Young University. We broke up that day. Much like the afore mentioned high heels, I had underestimated the amount of pain that a "grown-up" relationship could cause. It sucked. He was my best friend, and I was suddenly alone.

But what I failed to realize at the time (and what no one thinks about when they're five) is that life goes on. When you're five, it seems like everything's a straight shot. Growing up is complicated, painful, and dangerous. But it is also exciting, beautiful, and natural. It's a good thing. It is right. I made one of my best friends after breaking up with A. I moved across the country. I met new people. I changed more in the course of three months than I ever have in my life.

So yeah, sometimes I miss the simplicity of being five, but when it comes right down to it, I'm so blessed to have these chances to grow and learn about myself.

Also, my roommate and I regularly build pillow forts and give ourselves fake tattoos. So really, you can act like a kid at any age. Keep that in mind.

x,
   m


*In fact, I remember my "first" kiss in almost disgusting detail. I won't go into specifics, but I vividly remember thinking, "This is so gross. I'm never kissing anyone again." But then I kissed another boy the next week. I sure was a skank.

Hurricanes

I remember a church dance I attended shortly after turning 14. It was the kind of dance where boys asked girls to dance, and the girls were always supposed to say yes the first time a boy asked them.

I was having a great time dancing with my friends to Livin' on a Prayer, but as the song ended a familiar tune began to fade in. The piano into to You and Me by Life House started to play, the cue for all the girls to scatter so they could look lonely enough to get asked to dance. I did just that. Much to my delight, an older boy wandered over to me and offered his arm. He was at least a full foot taller than me, so once we began to dance, my neck was craned up to him at an uncomfortable angle. We started to chat bout who knows what, blowing through the easy topics quickly. We ran out of things to talk about before the second chorus. As we swayed in uncomfortable silence, I wracked my brain for things to say.

"I like your tie," I said. I'm pretty sure my voice cracked. He graciously avoided laughing.

"Thanks... So... if you were weather... what would you be?"

We looked at each other. What a stupid question, we thought in unison.

"I'd be... a spring day?" That seemed safe. Everyone loves spring.

"Cool, me too."

Then, mercifully, the song ended. I never talked to him again, but I wish I could. I need to change my answer.

You may have heard of heard me talk about John Green before. He is my favorite author, hands down. His novel Looking for Alaska, literally changed my life (I'll tell that story someday). There's a quote in the book that replays in my brain at least once a day:

If people were rain, I was drizzle and she was a hurricane.

I've learned a lot since I was 14. I've learned how to cook, clean a bathroom in less than 20 minutes, break-up with someone, fill awkward silences, and properly apply eyeliner. I've learned that I actually enjoy action movies, and that Mean Girls may be the best movie of all time.

But more than that, I've learned that normal is boring. When I was 14, I thought that being "normal" or "average" was somehow the key to being happy. I tourtured myself over that for years, changing my clothes, my hair, the way I talked, my sense of humor, all to meet some imaginary standard of what a "normal person" would do.

Drizzle is average and boring. No one writes news stories about drizzle. There is nothing at all spectacular about drizzle. It almost seems apologetic as it falls.

But hurricanes... Hurricanes demand attention. They are big and powerful and do whatever they want. Never has a hurricane apologized for itself, never has a hurricane held itself back simply to appease other people. Much like the proverbial honey badger, hurricanes don't care. You know when a hurricane has been somewhere because it changes things, rips things to shreds, turns things upside down.

Now, I know that hurricanes are serious business and I'm not trying to make light of the damage and casualties they can cause. I'm just saying... if people were rain, I'd rather be a hurricane than drizzle any day.

Especially now, when someone I love dearly is fighting for her life against cancer, I can't help but think of the mark I'm leaving on the world. My dear grandma is the greatest hurricane I know. When she enters a room, you know. You can see her path through the world because it's marked with the beauty that she imparts on everything she touches. Grandma turns things upside down because they are better that way-- it's just that no one else would have had the good sense to change it.

I want to honor my grandmother by being a hurricane myself. Maybe I'll get there someday. Today I feel like a heavy, no-nonsense downpour, and that's good enough. But because of Grandma's example, I won't be going back to being a drizzle.

Please keep my family in your prayers in this difficult time.

x,
   m

Mutual Weirdness

The fantastic thing about starting college is that no one knows who you are. I know, that's totally a cliche, but it's true. No one knows about the time you fell down a hill on the first day of high school gym, or the time you threw up in front of your locker before the morning bell even rang, or the time you had a major braces/glasses/bowl haircut going on for about 5 years. (Not that any of that ever happened to me... ever.)

My first moth of college was exceptionally suck-tastic. I gained about 5 pounds that month from laying in my bed eating peanut M&M's and hard-core moping. It seems that moping is not, as I had originally anticipated, an aerobic exercise. The few times I did get out of bed (usually because I needed to pee so badly I thought I was going to die), I would avoid the mirror at all costs. Every time I'd catch a glimpse of myself in any reflective surface, I felt like I was looking into the past. The new environment and lack of friends seemed to have thrust me back in time to Middle School Me. All the insecurities of early puberty came rushing back to me faster than I rushed to the vending machine after the peanut M&M's had been restocked. Suddenly, I was 12 again. Everyone else was older, more "developed," more mature, more blonde,  more... cool... and I was... well... me. I had never felt more out of place in my life.

I tried to make friends, I really did, but every time I would meet someone that was potential friend material, I would clam up with the horrifying realization that there was nothing interesting about me. By the end of the first month, I was completely convinced I had alienated every single person I'd met by cracking corny jokes about... well... anything... that I got to a place where I was sure I had nothing to lose.

That's when it happened. I woke up one day and for once in my life, I didn't give a crap. There was going to be a dance that night, one that I had avoided thinking about for the last two weeks. As is wont to happen in the weeks preceding a dance, the conversations of all my female acquaintances had dissolved from mild coherence to crazy, "who's taking me to the dance?" rants. I knew with 100% certainty that no one was going to ask me, so I made plans to go to my aunt's house that day. A few hours before she was supposed to pick me up, she was in a car accident (I'm not even kidding), leaving me stuck on campus for the dreaded event. I decided not to go, after all, I didn't give a crap about anything. Then someone knocked on my door. It was the girl from down the hall and she was determined that I spend the night dancing. I resisted, but she was impressively persistant.

Long story short, I went to the dance and acted like a total dork. I had fun. I made friends. I ate disgusting, room-temperature cheesecake without gagging. It wasn't until I was walking home after the dance that I realized that I had successfully functioned as a human being for like, 4 whole hours. And when I went back to my room that night, I had a new friend with me. She liked Gossip Girl. We watched that together.

When I looked in the mirror the next day, I realized that I had, in fact, gone through puberty. Some girls from down the hall wanted to sit next to me at church. I talked to a boy without making a polygamy joke. I blew my hair dry.

I realized that trying to be friends with people is pointless. Real friends can't be forced, they just happen. They see you in all your dorky-wonderfulness and think "Goshdarn, she's weird but dangit if I don't love being around her." They think that you're at least kind of cool, even when you use words like "copious"or "enthralling." Real friends are the people that you meet and fall into a sort of mutual weirdness with.

I'm so grateful that I'm blessed with such wonderful friends, both old and new. I'm also grateful for puberty.

x,
   m

Because Life Can Suck

This won't be terribly cheerful for a first blog post, but it's what's been on my mind this week. In wake of what has been one of the hardest years of my life, I've found myself reflecting a lot on how people react to me when I tell them my story. No part of this is meant to be offensive or bitter; I just know what it's like to be hurting and have people not know quite what to do with you. 

Sometimes life straight-up sucks. There are probably a million more elegant ways to say that, but it all means the same thing: Stuff gets hard. When you're older, it seems like it's to be expected. People nod when you tell them what you're going through, they share stories of that one time that their kid/dog/lawyer/car did exactly the same thing you're describing (even if it's nowhere near close). It's like after the age of forty, personal tragedy isn't quite as tragic. I'm 18, so I can't really speak to the truth of any of that, but from what I've observed, people are less likely to treat you like a charity case.

It's different when you're younger. If you so much as whisper the word "abuse," you become a delicate little flower. People cry for you. They compliment you on random stuff that doesn't really matter. They admire you for being so strong and courageous, like you have some kind of choice. You go from being a normal kid to being a glass doll in no time flat. People you've known all your life suddenly treat you like some kind of hero. Acquaintances that you've hardly even discussed the weather with try to get you to "talk about your feelings," like you've been best friends for years. It feels like you have to put on a show and give people what they want, or they'll be disappointed with you. People seem to expect you to cry, pour your heart out, or at least ask them for a tissue.

Or they go the other direction, acting lik the sun is shining out of their butts, avoiding asking personal questions, making you feel like whatever happened to you was a shame to be swept under the rug. I still don't know how to handle those people.

I guess my point here is this: If you know someone is hurting, don't be afraid to treat them just as you did before. They are still the same person. They need reassurance that their tragedy does not define them. Most victims of abuse will spend their whole lives trying to sperate their personal identity from what happened to them-- when you treat them like a ticking time bomb, it solidifies their idea that they are the abuse. These things generally go on for a long time; it isn't more or less real to them now that you happen to know about it. They are quite literally the same person they were before you knew.

If they want to talk, let them talk. If they want to sit and be quiet, let them do that. If they want to act like nothing's wrong, give them the courtesy of acting like nothing is. And for goodness' sake, if you weren't close friends before the incident, don't act like you are. You may mean well, but it comes across as fake and empty. A smile will do, so will a simple, "I like your shirt."If all else fails, "I'm praying for you," is always appropriate.

After a particularly rough month, my best friends were the people that would just sit next to me when I did homework, laugh at my jokes, and treat me like the human I was before. They never asked me if I was "okay" because they knew I wasn't. They asked me how I was doing. I remember one particular incident waiting for class to start. One of my best friends asked me how I was doing. "Fine," I said. She looked at me, straight in the eyes, and said, "I know you're not." "Yeah," I said. Then we both started to laugh. That was one of the brightest spots I remember from the last year.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful by any means-- there are so many people that have helped me and my family more than I could ever express. Countless times, I've been offered a shoulder to cry on, a hug, or a kind word precisely when I needed it the most. Being loving and supportive is good. Being sensitive to others is wonderful. Just make sure you're doing in a way that makes the other person feel comfortable.

x,

   m