I hate asking for help. I especially hate asking for help when the task is something I’m good at. Or at least should be good at. Last time I was worried about an assignment, the teacher said he was very impressed and I got an A. So now I wonder if my story is good and everyone else is just wrong; or if I am just up a creek.

When I finally do ask for help, it’s like putting myself up for inspection. All the thought and hard work is in the spotlight. I just pray that people can see that I tried so hard.

So when I hear someone say anything other than, “This is the best thing you’ve ever written!” I get upset. And with this assignment, I’m supposed to write out a personal story — an expression of faith and understanding of the world.

My helpers helped, I guess. It’s terrible when someone says the truth in the sweetest way, and all I want to do is scream obscenities and tell them how they’re too dense to get the point.

And when all the people that love me are gone, I just sit there alone and remember that good writing means not leaving your readers with any questions. Darn.

“Is this your first time here?” That’s the question I am asked every Sunday when I go to church. I have to tell them my name every time because they always forget. This is a sad situation considering I’ve been going there for over two years. Granted, I am not there during the summer.

I blame this on my typical anti-social tendancies. During the past two weeks — when I was bombarded with getting to know 12 new people — I have been doing a lot better. I mean, people like me. I know. Kuru, huh! These social skills did not come with me to church this morning, however. Upon hearing the aforementioned question, i sat down by myself. And I liked it. I began to feel like I should find a new church — even though my Bible and Spiritual Formation professor would tell me to stick it out. I was quick to forget my hasty thoughts when John Legend began playing. You can’t leave a church that plays John Legend.

Well, it’s time to straighten my hair and head to the China Star Buffet with all the other WJIers. Peace out g-nahs.

Man, I need a haircut.

Per my assignment:

Emily Atwood, graduate student at the University of California Berkeley, died Thursday night at Summit Medical Center in Oakland, Calif. She was rushed to the hospital after her car was struck by a pickup truck. She was 23.

“The driver was drunk and sped through a red light,” Oakland police officer Eric Ramirez said. The driver had lacerations and a broken arm. He was arrested for driving under the influence of alcohol and vehicular manslaughter. He has not been identified at this time.

Family and friends were shocked by the tragedy. She was newly engaged to Matt West of Castro Valley, Calif. They were going to be married in May, right after receiving her masters in sociology.

“I loved Emily from the moment we met,” West said. “We made so many memories together that I will never forget; they are priceless to me. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. I don’t know where to go from here.”

Her mother, Katie Atwood, found solace in her Christian faith.

“She was a woman of great character – a joy to be around,” she said. “We are thankful for all the prayers for our family; the Lord will be our strength and our comfort.”

Emily always shared a special relationship with her father, Warren Atwood. He described how they used to clench a fist over their hearts and say “cordasone,” which is Portuguese for “in my heart.”

“I’ve lost my Spunky,” Warren said through tears. “Even when she was first born I knew she was Spunky, she was just so full of life and laughter.”

Atwood received her bachelor’s of journalism in 2006 from a small private university near Los Angeles. She hoped to some day be the editor of a California lifestyle and culture magazine.

In addition to her interest in journalism, Emily also loved Ultimate Frisbee. She was the captain of the Bay Area women’s team, The Peaches, and went to the club national tournament the past two years. She also enjoyed photography, blogging and spending time with loved ones.

Emily is survived by her father Warren, mother Katie and brother Michael. Her ashes will be buried at her home in San Leandro on Saturday. A memorial reception will follow.