Freckled Freedom

When you arrive home from an epic journey everyone immediately wants to know one thing: How are you doing? It's the number one inquiry on everybody's list. I've been analyzing the usage of this question throughout my arrivals back to New York and I've noticed major similarities in the inquiry. When most people ask, their tones tend to resemble the way people apologize for a death. I'm so sorry It must suck to be home How are you holding up?  You must be miserable People expect distress, depression, and debbie-downers. They look for the drawn face, vacant eyes, and melancholy Facebook statuses. The adventuring has ceased and home is Purgatory... or so they seem to think.  Well, without further ado, I grant you my well being, my thoughts, my feelings, and my response to the age-old question...  How are you doing? Since I've gotten home, I must admit, I've been a bit lazier than I expected to be, especially after being a CocoBaby. I pictured myself coming b...

When I first kissed the ''Silent Man,'' I thought I had found the ideal situation: a beautiful man that I enjoyed being with that could barely speak English. I assumed goodbye would be simple, no tears would be shed and my thoughts would steer clear of 'if onlys' and 'what ifs.' How hard could it be to leave behind a fling you could barely communicate with, right? I could not have been so wrong. Never would I have thought that the Silent Man would be the first person I'd say the words 'I love you' to. I remember the moment I first saw him; there we sat, the four surf students, cramming in pizzas and fresh juice before grabbing the board that would inevitably leave my teeth swimming in the sea. I sat in the corner, flipping through magazine photos when out of the corner of my eye, a burst of color flash by. My eyes followed and my heart skipped two beats. There he was, a Portuguese man filled with tattoos, piercings, and sense of style comple...