You’re a Cameron Diaz.


The big, smelly, fat ogre that lived in a swap. He set off to find the most beautiful princess in all the land. He found Princess Fiona; a red-haired, porcelain-skinned, absolutely stunning princess. But then what happened? Turns out, she’s really an ogre like Shrek. She’s funny, she’s brave, she’s packs a hell of a punch, but she’s not the same stunning princess anymore. She’s bigger now and smellier. No one wants to be with her besides Shrek because he knows who she is deep down, but who wants to flirt with personality, right? In her heart and in his eyes, she is still just a gorgeous as she was when Shrek rescued her. 

Shrek is real. 

I mean, ogres may not be roaming the streets, or bumping into me at Walmart type of real, but the meaning of it is so genuine and inspiring. I want my kids to be Shreks and Fionas. Yeah, it sounds weird, but think about it.

When your daughter comes home crying because she’ll never be as skinny as models in a magazine. Do you want her to look up to those size 0 models that starve themselves? Do you want her shoving her finger down her throat and only eating once a week because she wants to be thin like those glorified sticks? (No offense to sticks, I’m just trying to get my point across.)

I want my daughter to watch Shrek. The first one. I want her to see how Fiona goes from being socially beautiful and envied to being loved and admired. I want her to see that Shrek loves Fiona for who she truly is and I want her to know that she will be loved. If she’s tall and thin, if she’s short and chubby, or if she’s somewhere in between I just want her to know that someone somewhere is going to point their nose up at her, but right around the corner she’ll find someone who loves her. 

I want my son to realize that when he goes on quest for love, even if he returns with nothing but bruises and a broken heart, he can come back to the swamp. He’ll have his family, his friends, maybe even a little side kick with the voice of Chris Rock. 

I guess what I’m trying to say is:

Whether you’re a skinny, blonde super model or a chubby girl with braces, you’re a Cameron Diaz. 

If you’re a tall, ripped CEO or a middle aged guy with a bald spot who still lives with his mom, you’re a Mike Myers. Or you can be a Cameron Diaz. Whatever floats your battleship. That’s not right, is it? Oh well. 

Be a Shrek. Be a Fiona. Be a Donkey too if you want; even he found love.

But don’t lose hope. You’ll find her or him or whatever one day. Just give it time and never give up. 


Love, a Fiona. 



Fat girl.

I’m fat

I’m overweight

I’m obese.

I’m too young to feel this terrible about my body. I’m too confident to be so insecure about my appearance. I’m too strong to cry over a few mean words. Right? 


Out of my group of friends, I’m the confident, not awkward one that always has to ask the teacher if we can write on this or the one they send to the counter to get more ketchup. I’m the one that’s always happy, the one that’s never been depressed, the one that has to cheer them up when they feel insecure. But truth is, I’m not happy

I hate when, at school or when I’m with my friends, I say something about me looking huge in what I’m wearing or when my flat stomached friends say that they’re fat and I disagree with them, pointing out my fatness and they say “No, you’re not fat. You’re just big boned” or when I tell them what I weigh and they say “That’s just because you’re tall.” Well, I am big boned and taller than all of them, both genes of which run in my family, both genes of which I really freaking hate. Big bones make me look larger when covered in layers and layers of my dreaded fat. My tallness, even though I love being tall, stretches my skin which is being weighed down by my fat, leaving me with stretch marks. No, I haven’t been pregnant, I’m a just fat teenager with stretch marks. It’s so embarrassing when my shirt comes up a little and my little cousin asks “Who scratched you up so bad?” “Uhm, the cat.” 

Looking at myself in the mirror, in the reflection of a car door’s window, or in a photograph where I look so happy, I get so upset. 

Why am I so big? 

Why is my metabolism so slow? 

Why am I so lazy? 

Why do I insist on eating when I know I probably shouldn’t? 

Why the hell didn’t I do something about it sooner? 

I constantly blame myself and sometimes I blame my family for my weight. I didn’t grow up in a house full of healthy, fit people. No one in my house is at or even around a standard weight. I’m about 100 pounds over what I should weigh. My brothers are probably 100 or so pounds over. Both of my parents are even farther up than that. But it’s not their fault I’m so big. It’s mine

I’m overweight.

I don’t want to be. 

I’m going to change

I’m going to work out more.

I’m going to eat healthier and hopefully reach my goal of becoming a total vegetarian. 

I’m going to feel better about myself. 


But I need motivation. 

If you’ve gotten this far down in my little rant, please leave me some advice or support in the comments. I would really appreciate it so so much. 

Facts About Me.

10 random, probably useless facts about me. 

1. I hate my hair being my natural shade of brown, so I dye it scarlet red or burgundy every month or two.  

2. I’m 5’7 and 1/2 but I really want to be 5’8-5’10 

3. My favorite colors are turquoise and ginger (like the people)

4. I want to be a photojournalist, or a photographer, or I want to do make-up for horror films. 

5. I really like my eyes, but don’t really know what color they are. They change from blue, to grey, to green, or to a color that kind of looks like those three colors combined.

6. I really want to lose weight, but I’m embarrassed to tell my mother that I want to take some of her diet pills. 

7. I love to draw and I’m told I’m really good at it, but when it comes to eyelashes, eyebrows, feet, and noses, I’m screwed. 

8. I’m self-conscious but I try to act confident in most situations. 

9. I sing very loudly and very off-key pretty much all the time. 

10. I’m double jointed and I like to freak people out with how I can bend my fingers. I find it hilarious. 

The girl that might get ink poisoning.

“Don’t write on yourself. You’re going to get ink poisoning.” 

I’ve been writing on myself since… Kindergarten (maybe?) and guess what. No gosh diddly darn ink poisoning. 

I like to draw, I always have. Something about having an imagine in my mind, then converting it onto my paper, or onto the back of my hand, makes me happy. I draw on myself pretty much every day, and I have pen marks still on my hand that didn’t come off in the shower. But I really want something on my skin that can’t just wash away like some forgotten dream. 

I think I’ve wanted a tattoo since I was about 10. Of course, I probably wanted a butterfly on my hand with purple wings and a pink body, but I think now I’ve settled on what I want and I want to share the reasons I want them. 

On my wrist, I’d like an infinity sign. Not the “YOLO” “I’m getting it because every one wants it” sort of thing, but for myself and my brothers to show that no matter what we’re infinite. (I kind of just had a flashback in my mind of the ending of The Perks of Being a Wallflower. Excuse that.)

On my feet on want (starting from the outside of my left foot, across the top of my foot above my toes) “Before you ask which way to go,” (on the top of my right foot just above my toes, going to the outer side) “remember where you’ve been.” It’s a song lyric from “Stay Awake” by All Time Low (my absolute favorite band). It really means a lot to me because I always seem to be lost. That may sound weird, but I feel lost or out of place or just totally in need of some direction some times. I try my hardest not to, but sometimes I just have to rely on someone to push me in the right direction and hope I don’t trip on a rock (or on a flat surface. I’m extremely clumsy.) 

I also want an anchor with a bow on the top of my right foot, or on my right ankle. I know that’s another thing that a lot of people get, but I like what it stands for (or at least what I want it to stand for). I want it to be a symbol for… home. A symbol for keeping me grounded and level-headed. A reminder of where I come from if I ever get too far from home, or if I get stuck in the clouds, I’ll have the anchor to pull me back down and secure me to the bottom of the ocean of love that I have here with my family. That sounds a little cheesier than intended, but it’s what makes me want that permanent symbol on my skin even more. 

Last, but not least, the tattoo I’d like to have if my future goes as planned, would be a paper airplane that would start flying from a tiny heart, and the loops would spell “FLY” in cursive. If I get to travel, whether it be with work or just to do it, I want this tattoo. This tattoo is kind of another tattoo that represents staying true to myself and to where I come from, but that’s what is important to me. The heart symbolizes my family (“Home is where the heart is”) and even if I (the paper plane) fly away, I’m always going to remember the starting point of my greatest adventure


So, yeah. I might get ink poisoning from marking my flesh with ink pens from now until the time a painted needle touches my body, or maybe I’ll get it after the first permanent piece is driven into my skin. At least then, all the people who told me I’d get it could say “I told you so.” 


I don’t know if it was when I saw myself with bed head and prominent pimples in the mirror this morning, or seeing a photo of my gorgeous best friend, but something got me thinking.

Why are people so interested in other people?

Is it because we’re all different?

I wonder why her hair is blonde but mine is brown. Why are his eyes pale blue and his brother’s are so dark of a brown that they’re mistaken for black? Why is she crying? Why is he so giddy all the time? Why does he keep to himself? Why is she so confident?

That’s what leads me to: Is it curiosity that eats away at us, or is it just jealousy?

Am I curious as to why she’s so pretty, or am I jealous that I’m not?

Do I want to know how he got so successful, or do I envy that he is?

It’s almost a thing of “I don’t know if I want to be you, or be on you.”

Sorry, I had to go there.

But, honestly, I don’t know why I think about these things.

Am I the only one that does?

Maybe it’s my insecurities that trigger my curiosity or my jealously.

Maybe it’s the fear of losing myself in trying to be everything or anything that I simply am not.

Or maybe it’s my brain over-thinking everything like it usually does.



I don’t know what my blog will be about. I guess just whatever I feel like ranting about as my life goes on.

I always write to myself when I have a thought I’m too insecure or unsure about to tell someone else.

I always write to myself. 

I always write in hopes to… comfort myself? Learn about myself? 

I don’t really know why I write when I could easily, or not so easily, just say what I feel. I guess writing, unlike people, can’t really respond back.

Unless of course, you put it on the internet. 

So maybe starting this blog is my way of reaching out of my comfort zone. If only my arms were long enough to go a little farther. 

If you’ve read this far down, I’m sure you’ve realized that I’m totally new to this whole blogging thing. 

If you hadn’t realized, then hi. 

I’m new here. 

I’ll call you a new friend, and you can call me any time. 

That was little cheesy, sorry. 

You can call me Kenzie, or new kid, or whatever; just be nice, please. 

If no one ever reads this, 

Hi, no one. 

Welcome to the slight insanity that is my thoughts, but in word form of course. 

Thanks for stopping by and have a lovely day.