A.C.

 Cancerous cells cultivate into the mitosis of the person they have infected. The splitting and creating new cells manifests into the overall change in a person post-cancer. This reigns true when looking at my father.  Our relationship can be split into two periods: B.C. (before cancer) and A.C. (after cancer). Before, he was the standard northern dad: blunt, tough, borderline cruel. We argued from sun up 'till sun down, occasionally halting during major holidays. After the diagnosis, however, he managed to find a little glimmer of light in his heart and be somewhat normal in our interactions. Maybe this is fully due to the whole "near death experience making you deem life worth living" or possibly just my teenage hormones mellowing out and me finally acting like a standard human as opposed to a sadistic, hellish monster. Even so, looking back on our relationship during his chemotherapy felt very on the nose. Who would've guessed when a loved one gets sick you become more inclined to change your perception of them. 

In my creative writing class, I forgot to do an assignment until ten minutes before class. I sat on the creaky bench in the English building's third floor hallway and pulled upon my notes app on my cell phone. I stared at the blinking cursor a bit too long, making me feel fundamentally stupid. I opened TikTok (sue me) and started to look for inspiration, I presume. At the same time, I got a notification from Life360 stating my dad had left on his voyage to the hospital thirty minutes away for a round of chemotherapy. I decided to throw together a poem about hindsight. Here's a bit of it:

 Hindsight is a sorrowful act put on by the grieving. I didn’t understand my Dad and never will. Looking back, I knew just as much information about my Dad that one knows of a baseball player from their trading card. Hometown, age, fun fact. I’d like to think hindsight makes these memories with my Dad more valuable than they realistically were; the mundanity mixed with grief turns out to be the key to profoundness.

Presently, I am trying to not make our relationship mushy gushy nonsense because of the diagnosis. Seems somewhat selfish, but a nuanced relationship is filled with far more love than a picture-perfect idea of a relationship, I think. So that, in turn, should make this a noble act than selfish. So. 

-A.K.

A crazy person's social media

My parents do not believe in medicinal usage for aiding mental illness, thus, I am crazy. I am absolutely crazy. My craziness does begin to cultivate crazy conceptual ideas and arguments that stir there for a while. This is quite possibly the sole reason why I began to believe in some sort of difference between me and my classmate's intellectual ideas, further supporting my decision to major in English at the collegiate level. These random thought are sometimes substantial, leading to research or even an article. Majority of the time, they are useless and damaging.

 Almost out of spite of my parent's beliefs, I am also fully susceptible to social media — perhaps even more than an alternate reality, medicine-full Adyson. And the mix of stirring thoughts and social media, I am constantly stirring with crazy. Sometimes this finds its way into jokes, which seem to have a good crowd reaction. Sometimes it sits with me and makes me depressed. Example: Being too young to be a protege. This came to me on the way to the dining hall. I am 19 with no discerning talents. Watched a video of a toddler violinist and became violently upset. 

My social media is just an extension of these issues. I have had my fair share of "doomscrolling" sessions, and they always leave me in a melancholic state. On the rare occasion that my friends and I are on TikTok at the same time, I have noticed a difference in videos. Theirs consist of comedic, light hearted videos, edits of celebrities, and viral posts. Mine, on the contrary, is a bleak narrative: sad news posts, meaningless discourse, or god forbid dystopian Day In My Life's. 

I am trying to remain cognizant of this. Slightly out of spite for the 12-hour-ban on TikTok, my screen time on that app has decreased significantly. I fear that it did cultivate a lot of my issues. Normally my emotions outpour into random discourse online, but now I force myself to write opinion pieces or force my friends into debates. Way less damaging when they bring me back to Earth rather than the build up of Twitter threads launching me into the nothingness of doom.

Oh, and I do my school work now.

-A.K., life coach 

nasty nineteen. noble nineteen. nefarious nineteen.

 18 was hell. I think my life works out went I am a prime number. 13. 17. hopefully 19.  I know it is talked about all the time- maybe even too much- but growing up is odd. Scary. Weird. 

I never formally thought about 19, however. I always imagined turning 18 and then flashing to like 29. Without unlocking something new like being able to drive or drink, there are literally only cons when getting older. Which, whatever we can sit here and talk about how hating aging is misogynistic and deeply rooted in society and how aging is beautiful. But the truth of the matter is that I am a very scared eighteen year old who thought her whole world was going to collapse (burn more likely I was a really big global warming worrier at 12) when I faced responsibility. Sadly (or happily idk yet), that did not happen. World kept spinning. I am here. 

I can't think of any famous nineteen-year-olds. Okay. Just searched famous birthdays. Alabama Barker. Will I manifest into an Alabama Barker prototype when the clock strikes 12 on February 26th? Maybe. Maybe not.  

It feels somewhat pointless to write about how I'm scared of the unknown and growing up. I guess it's pointless to write anything anymore. I feel most things I have experienced have happened in some regard to someone else at some point in time. I could google right now "19 year old scared of future" and I am sure I will find someone else like me. Maybe I can find comfort in the idea that everyone is in the same boat. Majority of the time it just makes me daydream about what would happen if I went back in time with the knowledge I know now and become a Nobel laurate. 

Nineteen-year-old Nobel laurate. Has a nice ring to it. 

-A.K.

Rom Coms have ruined my (love) life

Maybe a bit dramatic. Hopefully a bit dramatic...

I do believe it do be true, however. If I could go back in time and make myself watch The Terrifier over some romantic comedy, I would, and I would do it a hundred times again. 

I was a casual rom com viewer- maybe a handful a month. However, I truly believe it warped and fried something in my brain. I have yet to discover what part of my brain melted during the technicolor love fest, but I am certain it was imperative to have that during my college years.

What a BORING story. Loser high school girl (A. Theater kid B. Choir kid C. English freak) who never had a boyfriend goes to college and blossoms into a beautiful, charismatic flirt! As I came to University of Alabama, I was fully under the impression that I would find my soon-to-be husband, or even several flings. But as the days pass by, I am growing more and more pissed. WTF! Not a soul has glided down bleachers singing a tune, or even had the DECENCY to have a witty back and forth banter with me. And trust me, I've tried.

         The sun sets as I glide a Maybelline smoky brown eyeliner in my waterline. The frat party of the week, broadcasting all over the school-wide Snapchat story. My hair falls into a mediocre mess of curls. I quickly tug at my new lacy black top. I looked odd. Not my usual style, but I thought it was fine for the theme. I roll my eyes as my roommate and I venture into the Uber.

    Making it into the muddy lawn of the frat house, I make eye contact with a boy. Decent looking, beer in hand. 

Him: Hey.

Me: Hey. 

Him: What's your major?

Me: Guess

Him: Hm. Nursing?

Me: Nope. English.

Him: Oh. Law school?

Me: Nope.

Him: English teacher, got it. 

I laughed instinctively. I normally laugh at comments like this. 

Wooooshhhh out of the Wattpad fanfic. SO not romantic, right. Every. Single. Time. My major is my kryptonite. Or at least that's what I've been saying every time I leave one of these events. But I am fully starting to believe it is my brain. And with each Valentines day passing by with a lack of plans so to speak, I continue to envy the lovers. Very common I know. But what is a girl to do. 

Okay. Tangent over. Happy February. 

-A.K. (cupid)

fashion

"Oh, faithful fashion god!!! What will we ever do without your insightful fashion takes??"

Fear not, I am here.

 I began working on a piece for the crimson white over the break. My working title was "Battle of the Brands." Idk. It felt like my entire feed was hauls of obscure "fashionable" influencer's merch/clothing brands. I was going absolutely crazy. I won't double up and write an unedited piece about those brands here. Fret not, I'll leave that for the newspaper. But here, however, I feel inspired to talk about fashion. 

First and foremost, I am cognizant of the fact that I am fully an ignorant teenage girl who knows nothing & spends too much time online. Take this all with a grain of salt! Who knows, maybe I'll eat my words in a month.

I guess I have to briefly talk about my fashion journey. I shopped at boutiques in my hometown for my adolescence because I thought it was cool. I would wear whatever. Blah Blah Blah.. In 2018 I was obsessed with youtubers and would beg my mom to roll our rusty 2007 Toyota up to the pearly gates of Urban Outfitters. I thought I was in heaven. Overpriced, poorly made tops were MY STAPLE by the end of eighth grade. It still wasn't a curated style. Just a walking billboard for Urban. Or maybe the opposite. The outfits were so heinous I probably was a giant, flashing red light warning people to not shop there.

In 2020 I got obsessed with 70s fashion. I poorly tried to curate looks with the remnants of Urban Outfitters pieces and pieces from my new love: the thrift store. I repressed all of those bad outfits. All I remember is an emerald green pair of ill-fitting bootleg pants. 

By my senior year most of my closet was from the thrift store. I couldn't even say I had a style at that point. I would just buy random things I thought looked nice. Some of it was trendy and a little on the nose (I would wear ribbons in my hair. At 8 am. Would walk into lit class with ribbons in my hair. At 18 years old. I digress.)

Then came college move in. I knew going to a giant SEC school would change my fashion. And to aid this progression, I decided to give away my entire closet. You can ask my friends- they were gifted with seven trash bags worth of clothes. I was wearing strictly lululemon for a solid three months. That was probably the most miserable I've been in a long time. Sure, there was probably a myriad of reasons for this state of depression I was in, but I do feel it necessary to note my major fashion glow down. I never even did my hair! Call the police because SOMEONE is pretending to be me if I don't do my hair! 

Now. 2025. I am slowly rebuilding my closet. Yet again, I am searching and scanning various thrift stores and vintage shops. Still irritable on the fact that I had a cute closet this time last year. But I digress. Wear what you want! Have fun!

-A.K (the all knowing fashion forecaster [kidding])

The inevitable doom of doomscrolling

     Catchy title, right? My entire for-you page on TikTok has been infiltrated with Supreme Court rulings over whether the app will be banned or not. I have reminisced with friends over the countless edits I have of semi-attractive men that will somehow vanish into the void of the unknown on January 19th. As psychotic as it might seem, I get outwardly upset about the amount of time I have spent as an avid user of the app. Since sixth grade, @adys0nkdancer_26 has been pushing out lipsync video after lipsync video on Musical.ly. Even in middle school, I slowly rekindled my love with the newly-named app, watching countless funny videos. Now, I spend upwards of six hours a day scrolling... I don't even recollect half- or even three-fourths- of the videos I consume. But this app- at least for me- holds my "eras" so to speak. T.V. shows, movies, characters, books, makeup, celebrities: all bookmarked in my TikTok Favorite folder. Along with this sappy feelings towards the app, there is a part of me that hopes this fixes the obvious issues attached. My brain is hardwired into opening that app day in and day out; the moment I hit my alarm, TikTok is already the background noise of my day. While I'm watching a boring lecture mid-day, I scroll on TikTok in hopes of soothing my boredom somehow. As the app's lifespan slowly dwindles, I can only hope to fix my attention issues. But with that comes the constant worrying that this will all either A. blow over like 2020's potential ban did or B. content swiftly moves over to Instagram or god forbid another app. 

As I've seen in text conversations with friends or posts by people my age, it seems like the consensus is somewhat similar: We want our lives back, but we also want the same level of entertainment. With this comes the idea that TikTok has fully disrupted a generation of growing young adult's and teen's minds and attention spans for the worst. Even if the app goes away, the problems will remain. Sure, doomscrolling can end on TikTok, but why couldn't it just as easily move to Instagram or Youtube? And as I continue to type this, the more and more I decide I do not care. I am f**ked either way. 

And as of right now, I am sitting in my college dorm on the 12th, about to scroll on TikTok for the umpteenth hour. Just to reminisce, obviously. 

A.K.

fresh & new

     

    With the closing of another semester of school, I have already fallen back into trying to crack the code on how to fix everything wrong in my life by New Years. New year, new clothes, makeup, diet, exercise, friends,  me. Something that will always reign true in my life is the constant anxiety surrounding school. Unbeknownst to me, high school actually wasn't the end of that. Now, as a freshman in college, I understand that THIS is what matters- not how many clubs I was involved in at my tiny public school. 

    The end of December always carries the burden of being the most mentally taxing, since not only do finals begin the month's festivities, New Year's resolutions about getting productive internships squash any holiday glee in my heart. 

    To counteract my infamous end-of-the-year existential dread, I decided to finally start a blog. The only other time I have written for an audience is my school's newspaper. The formulaic pieces are nice, but I want to start something fresh!! and new!! Hence the title of the blog, fresh fruits. Hopefully, it will be filled with fruitful (get it) insights and perspectives from a college girl much like myself.