20 Facts About Me

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Who am I and why is my blog called Nonfat Latte? Well, I’m an introverted socially awkward 22-year-old who’s just graduated college with a degree in cinema production and after 3 years of living on my own, has moved back in with my parents. Ensue chaos. I write werewolf novels on Inkitt. Yes, werewolves… though in my book they’re called Wolfskins. My dad thinks I should grow up, but where’s the fun in that? Read below to get to know me a little better than a short blurb 🙂 You can also check out my About Me section.

1. Age: 22

2. Born: Couer d’Alene, Idaho

3. Live: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

4. Pets: 2 Golden Retrievers: KC-Quinn & Zoë

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5. Favorite Series: ACOTAR | Harry Potter | Vampire Academy | Mortal Instruments

6. Favorite Authors: Sarah J. Maas | Rick Riordan | Cassandra Clare

7. Favorite Genres: Dystopian | Fantasy | Sci-Fi

8. Favorite Movies: Interstellar | Avatar | Harry Potter | Zootopia

9Favorite TV Shows: Super Girl | Avatar: The Last Airbender | The 100 | Charmed (Original) | Vampire Diaries

10. Favorite Broadway Shows:  All. Of. Them.

11. Tattoos: I have one on my back right shoulder. It means Never Grow Up from Peter Pan but my family wants to know why there’s a star missing (Pittsburgh Steelers)

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12. Places I’ve Traveled: Monaco | Naples |Italy:  Rome, Florence, Vatican City, Sicily, Sorrento, Pompeii| France: Paris & Versailles | Canada: Quebec | Costa Rica | Haiti | Jamaica | Spain: Barcelona |Bahamas | US: NY, PA, ID, AZ, NC, SC, WV, VA, FL, MD, DE, CA Los Angeles, OH, ME, DC, WA, NV, NJ, LA, Puerto Rico

… there are more that I can’t think of.

13. Bucket List: Australia | Hawaii | London | New Zealand | Tokyo | Mexico

14. Sports?: Ummm… I know I’m from Pittsburgh, but I’m not really into sports. Go Pirates?… sorry Dad

I played Volleyball for 6 years, soccer for 3, and softball for 3.

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15. Camera: Canon SL1

16.  Games: Sims4 | City Skylines | Planet Coaster | Foundation | Universim

17. High School Senior Quote: May your Coffee be Strong, and Your Monday be Short

18Personality Type: INFP-T | Turbulent Mediator

Wanna know your personality type? Take this test! It’s 100% free and so insightful. I love it! Not sponsored in any way. I just love this website. I take this test once a year. https://www.16personalities.com/profiles/ba241f764d78c

19. Mac or PC?: Macbook Pro. I do a lot of photography and video work and it requires that I have access to Mac products. Final Cut Pro can only run on Apple products, and I just like the interface better.
I used to own a Dell PC until 12th grade actually, but it just kept getting viruses. I haven’t had an issue since I switched.

20. Most Ordered Beverage: Medium Iced Latte, Skim Milk, 1 Splenda (Dunkin Donuts)

Hence the name of this blog

Die Fleas

(I may have had a teeny tiny flea infestation in my home last fall…)

 You awful fleas, how dare you bother me.
I hate the scornful way you jump and bite,
You invade my home and won’t let me be.
Leave at once or you’ll be facing the light. 
 Understand, I hate you so much you flea.
If you don’t leave I’ll kill you with glee.
How much do I hate you? Well you see,
You’ve overstayed your welcome so I plea.
 I hate your attitude, body and legs.
Thinking of the pain fills most of my days.
Nowhere is safe. I can’t sleep without plagues.
But I’ll tell you the truth, you’re out of plays.
 Now I must tell you with a heavy heart,
You’re about to be gone. Dead.

Self Conscious Young Lady


(based on a painting by Joan Semmel)

A young woman,
Maybe eighteen or nineteen,
With long brown hair,
And her grandmother’s blue opal ring on her finger.

She’s self conscious
But not too self conscious,
As she lets the robe fall from her body,
It’s silk floating delicately to the carpet floor.

She picks up the camera on her nightstand,
Heavy and black,
With an old fashioned flash
And a long leather cord.

With careful steps,
she heads up to her mirror,
And covers her face,
As she positions the camera.

The flash goes off once,
twice,
A third time.
Until she’s content.

She’s self conscious
But not too self conscious
Under her love for her body,
She is plagued by self doubt.

Too big,
Too small,
Too tall,
Too short.

Judgement after judgement
Day after day
What matters most to her is her love,
For herself and her body.

She’s a self conscious young lady
But not too self conscious.

Cesar

I found you

In the city where luck fakes abundance

where drinks are spilled,

And love prevails.

.

In a bin you sat amid others,

Of blues and yellows and greens.

Half my size with a purple horn and glittery feet,

I pulled you free of your plastic prison.

.

I begged and cried

And asked and whined.

Dad said I didn’t need another toy,

But mom only smiled.

.

“Name him Cesar,”

She said as she paid the clerk.

The building around us glittered in gold,

With a Gondola ride in the center.

.

Though Cesar’s palace we rode,

Gliding through the water below us.

I held you tight to my chest,

And imagined our future together.

.

Wandering through the next decade

We’d go through many escapades

Of magical castles

And evil wizards.

.

I’d take you everywhere,

To Canada, and Europe.

To Costa Rica,

And we’d ride through the deserts of Arizona.

.

One day our innocence and imagination,

Would get us into an unfortunate problem.

From years of playing,

You’d be pushed too far.

.

As you’d start to fray,

I’d scream and cry.

I’d do what I could,

And stitch you up.

.

With a new scar on your side,

It would be a constant reminder.

You are mine.

I am yours.

.

You’re my Cesar,

Forever in my heart.

Pap-pap

I’m only three, But I know who you are. 
You’re old smile’s contagious, Curved and beautiful.
I smiled and run toward to you, My tiny arms outstretched.
You hold me to your chest, And kiss my curly blonde head.
War has not treated you well, The Flying Tigers has made you frail, 
You’re body is melted, Old and tired with knobby rickety knees.
I climb up onto your lap, on the frog covered bed, 
You gently curve the corners of your mouth,
Not like you used to, but close enough.
You like the green color of my shirt And say how beautiful I am. 
You grab my hand And point to my mom
“Smile!” She says. A flash appears, and then it’s gone. 
The last time I saw you, captured.

Adopted

Sitting in the blue armchair,
on my dad's denim covered knee
his eyes crinkle in the corners
As he tells me I'm adopted.
Adoption is a frustrating word, 
that comes with mystery and confusion,
It makes me question myself,
As I ask who I am.
I know I’m from Coeur d’ Alene, 
A city full of potatoes.
But I live in Pittsburgh,
A city full of pride.
Another question always lingers: 
Should I meet my birth parents?
I grow tired of that question,
Because there is no good answer.
I don’t want to be disappointed, 
besides, I’m happy where I am.
I like my parents,
My family and my friends.
And I like that I'm different,
A word I've adopted.

On Anxiety

You’re suffocating,

unable to breathe.

Sweat beads down Your face,

Your heart thumping in Your chest.

You’re on the ground,

curled into a ball.

Drowning,

Dying.

You want to hit something,

anything,

Just to make the noise go away.

But You can’t.

The wave keeps coming,

crashing over You,

Drowning You,

until You’re nothing more than a scarecrow.

A fake grin,

a fake smile,

and forever frozen in time.

This is anxiety,

and it has a funny way of controlling You,

of keeping You from being you.

Ice-Cream Holiday

A day at the beach like no other. Cassidy and Charlie spent their time building towering sandcastles as the scorching sun blanketed them it’s hot rays. What better a way to cool off than to get ice-cream at Khor Brothers? Cassidy, the older of the two sisters, is in the lead chomping down on her vanilla and orange swirl soft-serve in a yellow cone. She smiles in her knowing victory, pausing long enough for the sticky ice-cream to drip onto her fourth of July themed dolphin swim suit.

Meanwhile with the help of Grandma, Charlie a blonde little two year old, struggles to eat her orange and vanilla soft serve. As the orange sticky liquid drips over her pink plaid shorts, Grandma takes evasive action, grabbing a handful of napkins in order to avoid a larger sticky mess. She gasps in surprise as the mess continues with no end in sight. “Oh Charlie honey,” She exclaims with a laugh.

As others walked by with their sunbleached hair, and oversized sunglasses, they glance at the young children and smile. Their dogs on their anchor themed leashes tug to get to the ice-cream on the cement. It’s busy in Bethany. Tonight there will be fireworks. Everyone’s happy. What a fun Ice-cream Holiday.

A Child’s Mind

When you’re a child, everyone’s your friend. There are no politics, no terrorists. You smile at strangers, and sometimes run up and give random people high-fives. You don’t judge others by their looks, or their religious beliefs. Everyone’s your best friend. As a child, I loved playing with dolls: Barbie dolls, bratz dolls and polly pockets.

One specific doll was my favorite. Beautiful and unique it looked just like myself with long blonde hair, blue eyes, and a fair skin tone. The stomach area was soft cloth, and the arms, legs, and head hard plastic. When I was five or six, my mom decided to give that doll, her name was Crystal, a bath. Unfortunately there was an accident. She somehow made it to the dryer. Crystal came out looking like a Halloween ornament; Her stomach was shriveled, and most of the hair had burnt off. To my peers she was creepy, ugly and belonged in the trash. To me, she was the same doll I’d once loved.

Looking back on it, Crystal definitely belonged in a Halloween shop after her accident, even after my mom tried to clean her up. But as a child, I stilled played with her. She was deformed, but still beautiful. She was bald, but still stunning.

Today I still have that doll, in a box in the back of my closet. She was my favorite doll and is a part of my childhood. Easily enough, I could’ve refused the doll. I could’ve cried and screamed- thrown a fit. I could’ve tossed it and moved on with my life. But instead I kept her, played with her and cherished her. Today, she serves as reminder that we’re all a little different and who are we to judge? There’s something to learn from children.

Healing Wounds

It’s a cool early morning in Murrysville Pennsylvania. The grass is wet, though there wasno rain last night. The orange street lights cast an eerie glow over the busy parking lot. There’s a solemn presence in the air. Hesitancy and heaviness cause the silence of the students as they exit their cars and wander quietly into the warm glow of the red and white brick building.

Pulling my navy blue backpack out of the backseat of my parents red Cadillac SUV, I give my mom a light kiss on the cheek and slip out of the car, my feet hitting the black pavement with a light thump.

“It’ll be okay,” She says as I go to slam the car door. “Keep your head up.” I only give her a small smile to giver some comfort, and step back to watch her drive off to work, down the steep hill to route 22. As I join the hoard of students, I note the number of police cars parked out front.

Seven.

With a shake of my head I make my way up the red steps. It’s been three weeks since I’ve stepped inside. Three weeks, since the attack on my school. I take a deep breath and enter my high school for the first time since April eighth.

My eyes immediately land on a Golden Retriever, white in the face with sunken eyes. She sits in the middle of a semi circle of girls. Her name I will later find out, is Bailey, and she’s twelve years old. There are dogs everywhere. A Rottweiler wears a pink tutu.

Another dog sits onit’s owner’s lap. He’s tiny and has a beard. All of these animals are here to help heal, but they actually serve as a distraction. For weeks they will walk the halls, interrupt classes, and try their best to make students smile.

This is my first day back in almost a month, after a student decided to walk through the science wing of my high school and stab twenty one of my fellow classmates. It’s taken weeks to clean up all of the blood. Some of it was left stuck in a large crack in the floor, between the band room and the hallway. Franklin decided to place a blue slab over the crack. While it hides the blood, it will forever be a reminder as I walk through that hall.

My locker’s on the second floor, above the science wing. Every few seconds I glance over my shoulder as I’d done all semester, to watch for some kind of threat. I’d had this growing suspition that something would happen. Throughout the country, students were going into class- rooms and gunning down students. Why I had a feeling it would happen at Franklin I have no clue. Murrysville’s quiet. Nothing happens here. But there’d been a gut feeling since the first day, that compelled me to look over my shoulder.

Guns make noise, but knives are silent. It isn’t until you’ve already been hit that you realize you’ve been hurt.

In the lunchroom the blue and gold “FR Strong” banner I’d signed a week ago at a sup- port rally hangs on back wall. At lunch with my best friend, I can’t help but stare at the large do- nated reminder. Rita’s Ice is given out as a gift from the Italian Ice company as we pile out of the cafeteria. As we file out of the double doors into the hallway where tragedy struck, I pick out my favorite flavor of ice.

I choose mango.

My last class for the day is Chemistry. I stare at the bleached tables. The room had to be sanitized as hurt students were dragged inside to wait for paramedics. I occasionally glance at my friend’s empty seat beside my own. He’s in the hospital fighting for his life. He ends up losing a kidney and part of his liver. But he lives.Thank God no one died.


Part of me regrets skipping school that day. Pretending to be sick, I convinced my mom to keep me home from school. I had the day planned. TV. However a call from my neighbor on the Westmorland Transit bus heading downtown changed that plan.“Thank God you’re home Jenna.” I heard. It was followed by, “Ambulances,” “Police cars,” “barricades,” and my favorite, “turn on the news.”For hours I could do nothing but stare at the television as news reporters gave premature injury counts. Stuck glued in my chair at the kitchen island, I’d listen as they struggled to get new information. Frantically I called everyone I could. In the distance, I could see the Life-Flight helicopters coming and going, as well at WTAE’s own news chopper as they circled my school. In the coming weeks, I’d grow used to the sound of helicopters in my once quiet neighborhood.It’s the worst feeling in the world, knowing your home’s been attacked, and you can do nothing to stop it.


Franklin Regional’s my second home. While I hate waking up at the crack of dawn, the large building is familiar to me and safe.

It used to be safe.

Clear backpacks are handed out after the incident. We aren’t allowed to carry solid bags anymore. Neighboring businesses send us free stuff. It’s meant to show sympathy, but it’s just another uncomfortable reminder. For fire drills, our principal doesn’t allow the fire department to set off the alarm. He gives us three warnings then asks us to head outside to avoid triggering stu- dents who’ve developed PTSD.

Alex Hribal’s face is plastered over my Facebook newsfeed for years. He tries to plead insanity. He gets tried as an adult. It isn’t until 2018 that it will end. He’ll be sentenced to sixty years in prison for twenty one counts of attempted homicide. Over time wounds will heal, emo- tional and physical, but pain from that day will never be completely gone.