Jagged

The fact of the matter is, I am presently in a very bad way. It's 1:30 in the morning and I lie awake, tears blurring my vision, flooding my face. The thing I want most right is now is a razor blade. I want to slowly drag the sharp edge of it's blade along my slendor wrist and watch the blood trickle out. And again. And again. I want the wounds to be deep, to scar - a perminant reminder of the freak that I am.

I used to be good at sad. I grew up crying myself to sleep at night. Any amount of verbal or physical abuse, I felt I could endure. But I've grown weak. My life is relatively good lately; so much better than it once was. Yet after all I have survived, one little rejection and am left devastated, panting in horrific, deep, empty sobs.

Its not even that he did anything. It's what I did. I fucked it up. Again. Like I always do. Things were going great, and then I made it awkard. He figured out, like all of them do, that I am weird.
The thought leaves me crying out in agony. No one wants me. No one ever has, no one ever will. Not my parents, not a boy. Like a traitorous spy I am without a home, without a country. I don't belong anywhere. I'm a freak. The pure and simple fact is that I will always be alone in this world.

I have plenty of people that love me. I could call any given number of them right now, let them care for me, reassure me. But I am not there problem. It really is all so trivial. There are, in fact, people in this world with actual hardships to face. Besides, no matter how much I love my friends, and how kind-hearted and honest the sweet comforting sentiments, they can't love me the way I need them too. I've been told from a very early age that the hole inside of me cannot be filled. It will only be so long before I fall for someone else and mess it up again. The enevitable. It makes me hate myself. And my friends (though I love them) can't fix it. So I put the phone down, and with much too much sense for action, lie awake, envisioning the blade of the razor on the second shelf of the righthand side of my bathroom cabinet, imagining the feel of it's cool, sharp metal - turning it's edges over and over in my mind.

Not So TGIF

So I've got a confession. One that could not only damage my street cred, but one that could totally cost me social acceptance as a teen...
...Wait, who am I kidding? I have never had street cred or social acceptance...
Well in that case, I hate Fridays. Despise, dread, detest, abhor. They are the black hole of my existence. I pull into my driveway after a long week and realize that the second I get out of my car, I will have no joy until the next Monday. My 2.3 day break will consist of homework, mild technological social interactions, sleep, and incessant battles with my mother for my life spark. If I'm lucky I will get some sort of delicious high calorie food, and maybe an episode of Vampire Diaries. I will have no privacy, no time to listen to music, and no peace the second I enter my house.
I complain only because it is: a) presently an extremely bitter Friday after a horrible week, and b) because it's gotten bad - bad as in to a place where I don't even want to check Facebook on Fridays because I don't want to see all the fun everyone else is having. (Plus I know if I log on I will just end up alienating someone through all my life-sucks-and-then-you-die, I-hate-the-world *coughcough* I mean, winning optimism *fake smile*.)
Mostly, it's manageable. On Fridays, I avoid the computer, turn off my phone and go to bed at 8. Saturdays and Sundays I do everything in my power to sleep in as late as possible. But some mornings I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, thinking how absolutely pathetic it is that I can't bring myself to get out of bed because I have absolutely nothing I will even remotely enjoy to look forward to.

Not So Fearless

For some reason, when I like a boy, there is no length I will spare to impress him. Maybe if I'm pretty enough, I tell myself, he might just like me. And I always do just this. Whether I will be seeing him for a few hours, or just might happen to pass him in the hall. I contemplate why I feel such a need to be perfect for someone else.

I stand, shaking, in front of my bathroom mirror. I scrupulously examine my face. I pry various tools of beautification from the corresponding cabinet, and on my clean face, begin to go to work. I apply, remove, and re-apply, going over my eyeliner 3 or 4 times. I run a comb and product through my hair. I spend 20 minutes trying on clothes-choosing the perfect pieces, matching them together with accessories, neatly returning the rejects to their proper folded places. I brush my teeth, examining my appearance, contemplating any improvements; do I look thin enough? am I wearing enough make-up? should I pull my hair back? do I look too nice? too casual? I run all possible scenarios of the next few hours over in my head, cross-referencing them with previous conversations, experience, and Seventeen magazine articles. I come up with a few witty things to say at key moments-the first hello, the goodbye. With one last look over, I slip a lip gloss into my bag, and head out.

This stressful disposition is not aided by my natural response to unpleasant circumstance. Growing up, whenever anything went wrong, it was my fault-this pattern seems to have followed me into my attempts at love. I try to control as much of the relationship as I can, knowing that when it's all over, I will blame myself.

Consider a recent example: I have been talking to a guy I am quite smitten with. I really could end up just being friends with him and would be fine with that, but there seemed to be inklings on either sides of our conversations that indicated there was a mutual interest in perusing more. After several weeks of broad-based communication, we agreed to meet up. One afternoon we hung out at Starbucks and then walked around the mall. Much like our previous conversations, we didn't run out of things to talk about. And though in the secondhand, the concept of wandering aimlessly around a shopping center for a few hours might sound somewhat lame, at the time there seemed to be no feelings as such. Any awkward was devoured in laughter, witisicm, and pleasantry. It was cutesy and nerdy and perfect. We parted ways on a positive note and he asked to see me again. We talked again for several weeks and then agreed to meet up again. I left the itinerary up to him, yet come the date and time we were set to meet up, I hear nothing. It is presently Monday, we were suppose to hang out Saturday, I have not heard from him since Friday-not a phone call, text message, or carrier pigeon. And somehow, even though all signs point to the fact that I have done absolutely nothing wrong in this circumstance, I have been, for the last 3 days, thoroughly beating myself up over it. (Did I say or do something?, Was I not pretty enough?, Too awkward?, Maybe he just found someone better, etc, etc)

In recent times (ironically the evening following this little stand up of which she has no idea), my mother has told me that the fact of the matter is, any non-whore of a teenage girl must simply accept the fact that she is going to be alone. ...Although, on the other hand, my mothers idea of a harlot is someone who kisses on the first date... so perhaps I should not take this particular bit of wisdom quite so personally... *coughs*

In any sense, she did propose a trinket of wisdom among her unconventionally Amish-valued little lecture. The fact of the matter is, most 17-year-old's have quite a bit more romantic experience then me. They've lived the "baby-steps"; things like awkward middle school dances and first kisses at camp and so on and so forth. When one meets me, they assume me to be quite a bit more experienced then I am. They see that I'm not a shy dresser, listen to my "that's what she said" jokes, and see my maturity, and assume (well, as one lovely Cherub put it bluntly) that I'm kind of a whore. The fact of the matter is, that unless you count this "hanging out" coffee debachal, or one lovely but unconvential cafeteria lunch at leadership camp, I've never so much as been on a date (*gushes shyly and juvenalistically as means of defense and self-justification* I did hold a hands with a boy one time though). And as my mother rather Hallmarkly pointed out, because of the fact that I've never lived those baby-steps, things like hanging out, dates, the concept of kissing, and things that other teenagers find so rhudementary, mean so much more to me because for me, I'm doing all of it for the first time. (So basically I have to awkwardly point out to any guy I like that I'm like 13 on the inside...yeah mom, cause they were all just lining up when they thought I was normal *eye roll*).

On the one hand this relization makes me feel like a complete freak; but on the otherhand, I like the fact that I'll get to experience all of these things now that I'm old enough to actually enjoy them and have them actually mean something (when your 12, you will most likely not whind up in a relationship with the first boy you kiss; at 17, it's a little more likely). I think I'm mostly just hoping that knowing this about myself it will help me try to control-less and stop frantically stressing in front of my poor mirror, but also that maybe if forementioned boy ever actually gives me another chance, I can use what I know to my advantage with him.

*sigh* I don't know...I'll keep you posted

First Date

In my mind, it's going to be perfect.
I plan every little detail in a realm I can control.
There will be no awkward moments.
I will be confident and fearless.
Everything will be perfect.

In reality, it was better.
There were unexpected twists, things I couldn't control.
The awkward moments were filled with laughter.
I was terrified, but not foolish.
Mostly, it was real.

But in retrospect, the doubt creeps in.
Am I remembering it right?
Was it more awkward then I new,
Myself, not enough?
What if it wasn't perfect?

Elixir (in progress)

The words flow freely
Like eloquent little trains of thought-
My conscious streaming into yours.
Without even thinking, I answer your every question.
Speech flows freely from every random burst of thought.
My mind an open window,
The concept of lying never so much as crosses my mind.
Raw, honest, unsheltered.
One of your many powers over me;
I can't hide anything from you.
You read me like a book.
I don't think I could lie even if I tried.
Your kind eyes like an elixir of truth.

Mother

They're suppose to be the people who love you unconditionally. The ones who are there for you, who support you, who make you feel safe and protected because it is what instinct tells them to do.

I am envious of people who have that.

My mother is a heinous bitch. It is not momentary teen angst, or an outcry from discipline, but the pure and simple truth.

Most mothers have rough times with there teenage daughters, cracking down on them when they misbehave, arguing over moral differences, but ultimately allowing them to grow and flourish and live there separate lives. May I just say that while my views on sex and drugs and other various moral principles may vary from those of my mother, I have never once been out of line, in fact I'm so far from crossing the line that I'm rarely in view of it's existence.

I think around the time I turned 16 my mother realized something, she realized that someday very soon I was going to leave her; she realized that the physical abuse she had caused me as a young child, and the verbal abuse that has maintained my entire life meant that I may never come back. (After 16 years, it hit her that gee, maybe it's not a good idea to hassle your daughter about what a stupid fat ugly bitch she is.) When she finally came around and decided she wanted me to love her, she realized that the day that I was twelve years old and she walked into my room, cold and emotionless and told me "You know, it's not that I hate you, it's just that I don't love you. I never wanted you to begin with and I could never love something like you;you just irritate me too much," was the day she blew her last chance with me.

We can pretend it's okay. That's what she wants to do. She wants to think that by fixing my lunch everyday suddenly the black eye she gave me when I was nine and didn't understand my math homework is canceled out. That by using the excuse of "going through a hard time" it's acceptable to mask her hate for herself as hate for me. But it is not okay. It will never be accepted or forgiven.

Someday I might love her. Distance makes it easier to deal with her vapid, shallow, spiteful nature. My mother is not an evil woman after all, despite the message my memories and perception may convey; there's simply too much bad blood between us-we survived my dad together and it ruined us, we blame each other for it. The woman is in fact strong and beautiful and beholds one of the strongest moral compasses I have yet to encounter. But she suffocates me. She doesn't understand me and she never will. She doesn't understand the fact that when you are the sole adult in a household as a child, taking care of your mother in recovery from varies surgeries, helping her face her various hardships, while trying to compensate as a parental figure for your brothers while your father is out god knows where doing god knows what/who, you stop being a child. I may still be somewhat naive to the more scandalous ways of the world, but I have not been a child in a very long time and I do not appreciated being treated as one. I can clean my own room, and take care of myself, and should be trusted to not only be mature enough to do so, but to have a bit of freedom now and then.

Even if it is only my spirit in danger, I need to get away from this place because I realize more and more that it is killing me softly.

Procrastination

It's 9:38 on a Monday night and I have yet to even open my backpack to begin the monotonous volumes of homework with which it is bursting at the seams. Instead, I have spent the last 5 hours I have been home on the internet, cutting my nails, wandering around the room, staring at my USC app, pondering life, and basically just wasting time in as many ways as possible.

I don't know why it happens, but it does. Procrastination. It is a part of me. Whether something is urgent or not. It's as if I've lost all ability to be productive. Somedays I'll be interested in getting a jump start on a project, or somedays I'll know I really need to do some studying but the second I sit down to work, boredom ensues and I find myself fighting work with every fiber of my being (except for the tiny strand of logic telling me I should be working).

It's kind of scary because it feels like I can't even control it anymore. The focus, the self control, it's just not there. No matter how much I wish I could be productive. I have no power over myself...unless you count the power to waste time.

Jumble

I've started about five separate entries to no avail. I feel like all I do is repeat myself anymore. Writing about the same stupid emotionally dramatic nothings over and over again, my life constantly spinnning in a cycle, the same problems appear over and over, never resolved; the psycological definition of insanity. I'm tired of being so boring on here, and more, I'm tired of working so hard, methodically scrutinizing every delicate word just to be boring. I miss the days when blog writing came easy-the days I just put down what I felt and it came out as poetry-but I suppose life was easier then too.

I want to write about internet boy. I've tried, but I just can't find the words. I feel like I've over-discussed every aspect of that relationship with everyone from him to my cat to the extent that words have lost all value and the emotion behind them has been vanquished. With him it kind of seems like I'm just waiting for the storm. We're just on two very different pages in life; so much that I;m not even sure we're in the same book anymore. It's too much work and it shouldn't be. I kind of don't even want to be friends anymore, but I'm not quite sure that erasing him will be as easy as it sounds. I have a feeling we'll be in limbo for a while as he jumps from girl to girl with no avail and then back to me for support, so I think I've got time to figure it out. Or maybe just wing it when the moment strikes; I've wasted too much time thinking about him anyway. I'm really just apathetic at this point-like the Novocaine before they drill your teeth, I'm trying to numb myself before we get to the part that hurts.

Part of me wants to write about school and my general apathy towards life-how there's something about my house that just makes me feel as if I am fighting to hang on to my soul. When I'm out it doesn't strike so much, but at home it's just constantly painful. There's too many bad memories. The walls, the people, they make me feel hopeless. I want to feel powerful, excited, enthused, eager, the way I did all summer; but when I gaze into the foggy skies of my plexy-glass bubble, I feel nothing but trapped without even a shimmery ray of hope for escape.
I want to talk about how this bubble, this apathy is eating me alive inside-or rather how I'm eating it, burying ever negative thought or feeling inside me with any food I can get my hands on, struggling to build up a nice tasty layer of false-happiness to keep me from drowning in a sea of black. So many things, things I have repressed my entire life as well as recent issues, a myriad of thought and pain and pattern and subliminal messages that I cannot even begin to understand, let alone describe, that all seem to be cataclysmicly encroaching at the exact moment that I need them to disappear.


I finished Breaking Dawn last week, and I loved the part about Bella describing how when she became a vampire, everything became mentally clearer; like there was so much space in her head that she never knew was there before. I can't remember the last time I felt compotent. Like I felt like I knew what the hell was going on. My brain is just a jumbled slur that can't focus on anything but pleasurous activities for any given length of time. It's terribly frustrating to be so mentally unfocused all the time, it makes me understand how difficult it must be to become senal. I miss the days when life was simple enough that could at least follow along. I know what's causing the problem, what's affecting all of my problems: clinical depression. But I don't want to deal with it. I'm scared that if I try to deal with it, if I allow myself to be raw and exposed and vulnerable, that I will simply be taken advantage of as I always have by anyone I've ever trusted, and worse, that I will never get control of the pain again. It's taken me such a long time to develop control.

Girl

She lives inside of me and she slips out in wavering moments-after a long day, a failed test, a broken heart.

Though sometimes quieter than others, her voice is always there. It whispers hateful nothings in my ears. Telling me I'm ugly, and stupid, and unloved.

She wants freedom. She wants to be let lose as I made the mistake of doing once before. The freedom she offers is tempting-when she is lose I have no ties with anyone, just me, just power. She claws at my insides. Sometimes I'm worried that if I lose control, she'll take over again-that I'll become someone I don't recognize.

She is wrath. Nothing more. She wants to be more, but she can't. She hates everyone, whether they do anything or not; she hates them simply because they exist. She knows it's wrong, she knows it won't make her feel better, but she can't help it. All she sees is red. She wants to make every living creature suffer as much a she does. She wants to watch them squirm in agony.

This girl is dangerous. Not just to the people who dare cross her path, but sometimes to herself. She worries that one day she's going to lose it. The way she muses about slicing her delicate wrists after a devastating day, the way she wishes she could throw up that piece of cake she shouldn't've eaten, the masochistic moments where the logic of right and wrong is the only thing holding her feet firmly to the floor.

She attempts to mask her pain as anger. She's just so hurt she doesn't know how to fix herself. She feels like Pandora's box, wanting to be released; but she's afraid-she isn't so sure there's any hope at the bottom.

I know that I can control her. I know from experience that even when she gets out, even when I hit rock bottom, I can fix it again. But it's scary to think that a part of yourself is that dark. It makes you feel like such a freak. =/

Happy

What's her name?
Is she pretty?
Is she sweet?
Is she what you want?
Is she going to make you happy?
I want you to be happy...I just kind of thought it would be with me =/

Box of Awesome

I have a box of awesome that I keep in my closet.
I keep it on the highest shelf,
in the very back,
where no one can see.

It's mostly just for special occasions--for liberating moments;
But I like to take it down and look through it from time to time.

I don't ever really remember a time without it.
It's something that I inherited along with my blue eyes and milky skin, though I'm not really sure from whom.

I try to fill it up--the goal is to complete it, to become truly awesome--but there always seems to be something missing.

Sometimes I get discouraged.
I worry I will never be as awesome as people like Christina and Peter.
People who's awesome runs deep.
People who don't even have to try.

Sometimes I get so discouraged that I want to get rid of the box, to give it to someone that is worthy; but some how I can never part with it.
I like to take it down and look through it from time to time.

It's one of the only things I possess that reminds me of the beauty the world has to offer outside of my four walls--this box of awesome in my closet.

A Journalistic Bond

With just 7 short days left, I have been thinking a lot about going home. The sad thing is, I feel like I am one of the only kids here who really doesn't want to leave. In California I have a nice house in a nice neighborhood with a nice room. I have two little brothers and two cocker spaniels and a neurotic mother, and four crazy cats, all of whom are nice enough. I have a shinny silver car and a school full of girls that I love to death, but there are many things that home does not have.

Home does not have dorm rooms that I can cover in magazine collages. Home does not have cup stacking champions, baton twirlers, soft-rap bands, or crazy Asian ninjas. At home, I cannot walk to the beach in my free time, eat red mango as I please, or sit on a street-corner with four new friends as we manage to earn eight dollars singing along with the strumming of Ian's acoustic guitar. Home does not have any of the things I have discovered and fallen in love with here at Cherubs. Most importantly, home does not have 82 brilliantly minded young journalist who evoke awe, encouragement, and inspiration in me all at the same time.

When I walked into Jones hall on June 28th, sweaty and out of breath and 20 minutes late, I was not in a fabulous mood. When I glanced around the room at my fellow Cherubs with un-goggled eyes and noticed the sign that said "Welcome to the best summer of your life" I scoffed. "Psha, right." *eye roll* But looking back on it now, I can easily say these have been some of the best five weeks of my life so far. I've grown up, literally with one of the most amazing birthdays of my life, and figuratively with amazing lectures from John and Joe and Jenny and all of the staff.

(And yes, for the record, I have learned from the lectures despite an unfortunate sleeping habit that cannot go without mention that I seem to have developed which has left several people asking me if I am narcoleptic which, for the record I am not. At home I actually have trouble sleeping...but anyway, I'm just gonna hope that the instructors can forgive me and that twenty years from now that embarrassing factor of my Cherub persona will have selectively escaped all of your memories...)

Moving on,

I would love to say that all of us could be friends forever. To put it more exactly and to quote one of my favorite movies of all time, "I wish I could bake a cake out of rainbows and smiles and everyone would eat it and be happy..." but unfortunately, life just doesn't work like that. I mean, I'm going to hope that with the power of the internet we all stay friends and help each other take over the media world someday, but if ten years from now, we don't remember each other, it's ok. Because as much as I adore each of you, this experience isn't about the individuals or even necessarily the individual AP style rules *gasp*, it's about the journey and the lessons as a whole.

I now understand why the speakers we've had light up when they proudly say that they too were Cherubs, or why they still bring up there Cherub friends, or even why they give up a piece of there summer to come hang out with a bunch of high school kids.

Cherubs is kind of like a net that binds us all together. We have a common bond that bridges memory and generation. We were all here. We all climbed three flights of two sets of thirteen stairs a ridiculous number of times during the all day story. We all walked "fifteen" minutes in unruly weather to get to the fourth of July parade. And we did all of this constantly faced with the threat of the dreaded Sunday morning spit list.

And to further this analogy and continue on my overly-sappy address, I simply feel like I must note the rope in this net. A fro-yo loving Nebraskan who is kind of magic in my eyes. I mean, think about it, over the history of journalism Cherubs, he has slowly but surly been responsible for bringing each and every one of us here. It is no wonder why the biggest smile on the faces of former Cherubs seems to come at the mention of the name Roger Boye. I mean who could forget "N-H-S-I News ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch".

So to wrap this up, I think we all came here feeling like big fish...and then slowly had that beat out of us. But as we all of back to our prospective ponds, I hope we all realize that we have grown here, and that in life, when we feel like small fish we can remember looking around a Cherub-filled room 217 Fisk Hall and know that even though said binding net is no longer present in a physical sense, we are not alone.

Thank you.

Scientific Method

Forgive me if I've lead you on, but the thing is, it was all just a test. I wanted to know what it would be like if I didn't guard myself, if I gave into you. I meant know harm. We're both happy here, right? So I really don't see a reason to rock the boat. The thing is, I care about you. Not sure on what level or to what extent, but I certainly do. I got tired of thinking and re-thinking and over thinking; so I just let go. I just said, "Aww, baby, I miss you too." ...That's ok, right? I mean I felt it. The only problem is, I can tell your falling in love with me. I'm trying to warn you. Call me Edward freaking Cullen, but the best thing for you is for you to stay away from me no matter how hard it may be. I'm not sure where this is going. Brand new procedure; just sitting back watching the mixture bubble, watching you fall for me, saying what I feel and not caring what I think. I apologize in advance if this explodes. I really am not meaning to singe your internal organs with noxious gas; just applying a new solution to an old problem. Just trying to let go like you told me to. It's all just an experiment.

Internet Boy

Well none of my friends are picking up their phones, so I thought I'd blog, because writing always helps me think better when my head is jumbled. And though I could just write this and save it on some random file in my computer, blogging makes it feel like someone's actually listen (though the fear of who might be listening means I probably won't post this). So here goes, no specifics, just thoughts.

I didn't expect to like him. He isn't my type. It doesn't make sense. My friends would shutter. I think I worry too much what they think.

I like him. Well, I think I like him. How do any of us ever really know if we like anyone? I've always been confused by that. But I think I do. I like talking to him. I get excited from his text messages. I miss him when he's gone. I think about him all the time. I literally plied out of bed this morning...literally, plied...as in ballet...it was ridiculous. I can't stop smiling all week thinking about him and my head is just constantly spinning...That means I like him, right?

But I feel skeptical of it all. I don't feel something that I've felt with others. Desire dare I say? It isn't as he makes me drool or anything (gross image, sorry bout that). But then again, does that matter? Does what someone looks like really matter? "Yes!" every fiber of my being screams in a shallow undertone; but I really don't know.

When he's gone, doubt creeps in. I laugh at myself. What am I thinking? This is crazy! One should not want to rush home to talk to a screen. I'm beginning to feel like that girl from the retreat. At the time, her story seemed trivial. Seriously, who would get so worked up over some internet boy? But now, I have a feeling karma has come to bite me in the ass. I was meant to hear that story. Perhaps it was a warning. Perhaps I should've listen more instead of just absent-mindedly stuffing my face full of goldfish.

And then there's the whole visit thing. I'm finding myself a tad petrified. I don't know if I can handle this, I mean, it's seriously freaking me out. Most people would say that if something feels wrong, you shouldn't do it, but that's just the thing, everything feels wrong to me. My gut is naturally evasive to love due to my lack of exposure to it, and this evasiveness only further limits my exposure; cruel cycle eh? Anyway, focus Katherine, so next week, I is afraid. I'm worried I won't be what you expect, or you won't be what I expect, or I'll fuck things up again like I did with Kiefer. I'm hoping having Christina there will help; she knows how to keep me sane. But then again, what if I attach myself to her as I often do at school? That would be awkward.

I know, I over-think everything. It sucks. I hate it. I wish I could just turn it off and just feel. Just want something and go for it with no hesitations. I think that's what I really like most about you, you're so comfortable with yourself. You don't care what anyone things, you just are. It's so amazingly...dare I say sexy? I feel incredibly awkward using that word on the internet where someone might see.

I think that's part of my problem. I'm afraid of relationships, a lot of it cause I'm scared of messing them up and of getting hurt. Which, let's face it, at 16, there is inevitably going to be heartbreak. Not to mention something about them feels wrong. The way my mom talks about girls with boyfriends makes me feel like a bad person for wanting one. Though I rationally understand that her logic is warped, on some level, I've absorbed it, and it makes having feelings for anyone more complicated because somewhere deep inside, I am morally conflicted on a very primal level.

Thinking...

I just had a thought (shocking, I know, haha). So I frequently seem to find myself in these rather fucked up long distance relationships. My best friends usually live far away and I always seem to fall hardest for boys who are geographically unavailable. I don't know so much about the friends, but as for the guys, I wonder it if it has anything to do with my dad.

It's apparent that it has held to true to some extent, the cycle predicted to me since an early age that I would end up with a man like my father in attempts to repeat and correct the cycle that I could not as a child that is. I tend to fall for stoners; ngl, it just seems to happen despite my best attempts and childhood promises to myself that I never would I always seem to find them appealing somehow (whether I know at the time that they smoke or not). But then there's this whole geography thing. I mean, I only lived with my dad for what, 6 or 7 years before we moved and he only visited on weekends? Is that what this is about? Is that what I expect of a male relationship? Because in basic logic, that sounds incredibly stupid, I mean, come on now, I like distant stoners?! What a lovely description that is; I wonder if e-harmony has that category, eh? haha

There is one other very logical part to this: shear comfortability. To those of you who don't know me outside of school, I am terribly boy shy. I tend to babble, or be quiet, or just generally make an idiot out of myself; when it comes to guys I have zero confidence. I'm usually just preparing myself for their ridicule because somehow, that's just what I expect; anything else just confuses me. So to be in a relationship with someone far away is perfect for this. Technological barriers limit a sense of emotional connection and help me guard my heart. Not to mention the obvious convience of technology providing an excuse for not actually spending time with the person where I would a) be presented with expectations I would not know how to fill and b) probably blow it as result.

I don't know. The whole thing confuses me. It was just a thought.

jun10r year

I'm sitting in the library all alone because everyone else is gone for summer, so I thought, what a good time to reflect on the year that is now no more.

Here's some memories:

• Polo. Finding rides as the pool of non-driving juniors quickly evaporated. Finally getting to play for a change. Beating Catalina. Making new friends and chilling with old ones. The work outs are killer, but I love the way that in polo season, I have unity with girls that normally ignore me; and afterwords we all get along a little better.
• Football games. My first three. So much fun despite my very spazoid state of excitment. Can't wait til next year. (Hopefully I'll finally make it to a Homecoming, lol)
• Paying for the Back to School dance in quarters. That guy hated me so much. XD
• Boys. Lots of boys. Pratically a new one every week to the extent that I swear that Maria and Christina almost killed me. lol (Sorry ladies, but I love you for listening =)
• Giant Cookies! Discovering the bakery with Christina. Racing to make it in time Choral with our cookie remnants in hand one morning.
• Bus rides. Morning's with Gabby were so amazing; I so missed her when she left. I have a love/hate relationship with the bus. It's annoying to take and deal with immature freshman and the occassional child molester, but at the same time I love the sense of unity it has, the ability to people watch. I think I'm just fine to be done with it though, lol.
• English class. God that was amazing. Aside from pure visual enjoyment *winkwink*, in what other class can you get an A just for mentioning God a few times, or listen to Hayley Tamangi ask Mr. Micheletti to winter ball? We had a great group and some amazing afternoons. I'm goona miss that class so much. (BURDTTTT!!! hahaha, ily Kyra)
• Winter break. Having my mom set me up with Chaz at Christmas dinner and then stalking Calvin and making Twilight and Australia themed pizza's with Christina on New Years; simply epic.
• Twilight. Worst and funniest movie of my life. Can't go without mention.
• Early release days. Getting ice cream. Wandering to parks. Chagning shirts in bushes on sidewalks. Not caring where we were going because the only thing that mattered is that we were with our friends and we were free. I wish I could capture that feeling in a charm and wear it all the days of my life.
• FOB! Best concert of my life. Trying to co-ordinate everything was a nightmare, but it was so worth it (despite reeking of cheap beer for the next few days). I can't wait for the next one and for going to New Zealand with Christina to look for Jack, hehe.
• Canabera, Australia! hahaha, and all my other randomly amazing conversations with Joseph (and now Zoe too which makes me so happy =).
• Afternoons on the corner. Sometimes the only thing that helped me not kill myself all day (exageration for effect) was the thought of those 15 minutes aterschool with my friends, wondering who would be there today.
• Popular kid parties. Sounds trivial and so very Gossip Girl but I love it. It's taken me a long time to get where I am with the diverse group of friends that I do; and I so loving be friends with everyone and having that be okay. =)
• Staying up late. Last year it was all "bed by ten" and this year I stay up to three almost every other night. Exhausting but awesome to have the freedom to do so.

Overall, fabulous year. Thank you all for being in my life this year and helping me make it what it was (Christina, Maria, and Tierna especially). I love you all; especially those of you I got to know better this year-I'm so grateful to have had that opportunity. I hope you have great summers and I can't wait til next year =)

"Yesterday is a history, tomorrow a mystery."

Peril

No.
Stop.
Wait.
Don't.
Don't you dare.
Don't fall in love with me.
Please, I'm begging you.
Don't do it.
It isn't safe.
It isn't ok.
I'm broken.
I'm a jinx.
I'm going to mess it up.
I always mess it up.
Turn back now;
Before it's too late.
It's for your own good.
I'm going to hurt you.
Something will go wrong.
It's going to break my heart.
I'm going to get hurt.

Let Go

And in that moment, she sat alone in her dark room, hugging her knees, and missed you. You who she'd never met. You who are by all means a stranger. And yet somehow, with your kind heart and the innocent wisdom within your maturity you'd broken down all the barriers and infiltrated her heart in a week the way it had taken so many years to do. She felt, if only for a moment, certain of her feelings for you, and yet at the same time, utterly mixed up about what those feeling meant. Though hundreds of miles away, you were right next to her for a moment. She tried so hard not to let you in, she really fought it; but now it seemed it was too late, she'd passed the point of no return; neither party would escape this completely unscathed. This terrified her. What had she done? What if the daylight brought with it hesitation and a change of heart? What if she hurt you? Her kind heart could not contain the thought. Or worse, what if it didn't? What if she felt the same, if you felt the same, even though we both know that there is no forward from here? With a mournful sigh and a wary-eyed glance around the darkened room she was angry with the world. Why did this always happened to her? Why did she always fall for ones who were so far away? She hated what she knew was the aftertaste of this midnight happiness-the lonely, a feeling of lonely that can only be found when you know there is someone out there but you cannot reach them. For once she just wanted to know the warm touch of romance without it being overshadowed by distance. Oh what a whirlwind of a five minutes! She loved and hated it at the same time. Mostly she knew that she was falling too hard too fast; her mind told her to stop it, warning her of the impending rocks below, but her heart, her hurt, they pushed her forward. She tried to get back to the happy moment just before the "goodnight", hoping to relinquish these hesitations from her mind and dwell in the euphoria for as long as possible; the morning could be a time of worry, for the night she just wanted to dream a little. She paused, and took a deep breath, trying to silence the voices; she couldn't help but think of the beach. She flipped her hair, and laughed thinking of what you would say if you could only see her now.

Plexyglass Ceiling

I hate societal double-standards. I hate that boys can date younger but girls can't. I hate that if a man is promiscuous it's a source of pride, yet if a girl is, it's shameful. I hate that no matter what happens in the world, their will always be elitist men.

I hate many of the expectations of woman. Whether we realize it or not, they exist. I hate that we are supposed to be feminine and mysterious and sexy and all the other things we have to be. What about just being ourselves? Even if I'm not sure who that is yet, it is what I want to be.

And within all these standards, I hate the socially acceptable forms of communication. The way no one believes a male-female friendship can be strictly platonic. The way if I say the wrong thing, some one will interpret to mean that I do or do not "like" them. I hate that guys can say provocative stuff without it evolving a conversation, yet if the girl chimes in the conversation is suddenly lead in a direction or she is shunned. Sometimes I just want to say what's on my mind and not have anyone read into it. Guys can go up to a girl and say "Dayum girl you look fly", and though personally I laugh at them, it's acceptable; but a girl can't say such things. Not that I would indulge it, but if I want to complement some guys ass, I should have the right to do that without some societal judgement.

I'm just so frustrated beyond belief with social barriers that will never be broken and with my efforts at sorting myself out as a I sort out my dealings with others.

Tangent time (and not the geometric kind): It's just like I am me. I am not what girls are supposed to be, and I like that; who wants to be a clone of all the other Barbie's, ya know? I am also rather conservative when it comes to values. Yet at the same time, I'm a teenager to here. It's not like I live on Pluto. I have the desire to party, to have fun, to just let go sometimes; though the need for drugs and alcohol I don't quite understand, the liberalism and freedom of it all looks like fun sometimes. I just wish my peers understood that instead of assuming I'm a narc just because I'm not hittin' the giggle weed every other weekend.

Breakaway

I really have nothing of real interest to report. No profound philosophy or intricate concentrations on human emotion or the functions of life. Just sitting here, in the chaotic juxtaposition of girls that make up my digital media class, bored out of my mind because it is that last day and we therefore have nothing going on, listen to the No Doubt being blasted from behind me. I really should be working on other things. Chemistry and English and Math and all the other things that beckon; but I don't want to. Far to much in my life is like that, all the things I should be doing but don't. It's like my life is divided in half: the things that others expect of me and that which I expect of myself. Mostly my mom; she expects me to be meek, and sutdious, and her personal assistant. But I am not those things. I am loud, and could care less about school or sacrificing in the service of others.

Very cliche, but Breakaway by Kelly Clarkson is now playing and I think that's all I want in life. I am so tired of living for others, living for some pipe dream at my mom's acceptance. I'm sick of constantly hold myself back, of giving up on things that I want that my mom wouldn't approve, of wasting my youth away trying to be someone that I'm not. Today I become a senior in high school, and yet with the restriction of my life I may as well be a kindergardener. Watching all these seniors graduate and go off to their lives makes me so jealous. I can't wait to be free. To paint my nails black, and right on my arms, and dress myself, and dye my hair whatever color I want, and I all the other things I can't do here.

It's kind of like my car ride to school this morning. I overslept (yeah, going to bed a 4 a.m. was not the best idea apparently, haha) and missed the bus and my mom had to drive me. It was 30 minutes of lecturing me on my incompetance, and what a burden I am on my family, and how sick of me my mom is, ansd how horrible I looked, and how I'm never going to be aloud to get a license if I can't even wake up on time; but eventually, we got to school, I got out of the car, and my mom left, and I was okay and happy and free to go on me.

So I suppose this is just an 18 year long car ride; eventually we will reach our destiny, I will get out of the car, and I will be free. But for now, I'm sick of these spinning wheels feeling like they never progress. I am ready to stand on my own to feet.

The Deadliest of Sin

You know what the hugest factor in the presence of each of the seven deadly sins is? Lack of temperance. I was thinking about this on the bus the other day- how lack of self control is the binding factor in all of the most deadly vices. And I must say, if I am on to something, if this really is the case, then my internal self must be none other than a metaphorical portal to hell.

By textbook definition and scholarly opinion, my biggest vice in life would be that I have no self control; it leads to sloth, anger, lust, gluttony, greed, and even pride. Just think about it. (An inability to control ones thoughts, restrain their distractions creates sloth; lack of control over emotion leads to outbursts of anger, inhibition of desire paves a path of lust, gluttony is found in the absence of temperance in all forms, incompetent management of material desire creates greed, and a relinquishment of egotistical control is often the cause of pride.)

If you think about in this sense, then those anarchistic religious extremists may actually have a point. If we live in a society where not only each of the individual sins are encouraged, but where a materialistic nature and need to fulfill ourselves with that which we do not have are thrust toward our feeble minds from all directions and by all outlets of media, are we not simply creating a nation of disrepair- a land in which our portrayal of daily life in hopes of furthering merchandising creates a breeding ground for the deadliest of sin?

Play

I'm so spinning and frazzled. It's the exhaustion and the stress, and the demon of things I have to do breathing down my neck. The only peace I find, it seems, are in my feeble attempts at intelligent writing, and the spastic happy moments of outer ignorance to it all (usually with my darling Marc <3).

This whole boy-girl thing. It really sucks. It's all just one big giant game. It's about luck, and strategy, and whether or not the cards are drawn in your favor. If you're winning, then it's great, the best game ever; but if you aren't then you hate it, it's so stupid and juvenile and you are determined to win, cheat, or just go cry in the corner.

Nothing can ever just be straight forward. It's all this flirting, and smooth moves, and timing, and it's just such crap. Why must there be all this restraint and lingo. Why is it that so-and-so is "talking" to you but "hooking up" with this person over here and "hanging out" with this other person over here? Why is it all so goddamn complicated? What happened to boy and girl meet, they like each other, boy returns girl's glass slipper, they ride off into a carriage in the sunset? Ok, well that's milking it a bit; but is just simplifying things really so much to ask of society? Why can't we just tell people that we like them and whether they like us back or not, we deal with it and move on.

It'd be so much easier than all this damn drama. I know our society is afraid of "awkward" and "embarassment" (both things which might ensue in the reality of confessing ones affections) but seriously people, get over it! In case you hadn't noticed, life is messy. It is full of awkward moments and elephants in rooms and nerdfighters such as myself, but if you don't suck it up and deal with it, it just perpetuates these infectious headgames (and I seriously doubt that those are good for anyone).

Now if it were just the whole "circuling around eachother" thing, then maybe I can deal; but it's more than that. There's this whole other sect, that's all about toying with people-playing there emotions like a paddle ball. If we didn't have all these societal norms and expectations to follow, then we would millions of hearts might be spared some detriment. I could say to this person that I really like them, and yet confess to another my desire for plutonia (yes, I did just invent the context of that word).

It all just like a big game and it seems to me like no one ever has a winning streak for long and yet, they just keep playing (reminds me of Vegas, haha). All this falsery and mixed signals and double motives and so very much left up to inferences which are often misguided; clearly communication is a huge lacking factor. And though I very much believe in staying chill and taking it easy, I don't know...sometimes I just wish people would think before they act and that they would take life just a little bit more seriously.

Island of Hope

So a friend of mine and I were talking the other day in a group and we were being all girly with the 20 questions and whatnot, and it came up that I'd never been kissed (I know, my life is a bad Drew Barrymore movie; pathetic, eh?) and she said to me "That's really good" and I sort of sat there like, "WTF? Are you kidding me, how is that good exactly?" She then went on to say something along the lines of, it's good because my heart has been safe and I haven't had to deal with the pain of boys because they're all stupid. Cliche as I am, I then proceeded to whip out the timeless classic "It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all" at which point she responded with "Yes, but once you've loved, it's harder to do so again because your so scared of getting hurt."

My last few days have basically been musing on this concept. As Mr. M would say, it has been part of my recent "education". It has led me to somewhat of an epiphany. I complain about it far too much, but a year and a half ago, I got my heartbroken. It was not even a big deal, and yet I fell for him, hardcore, and clearly I didn't mean anything in return once the dust settled. Anyway, this was just the most recent and detrimental in a lifetime of rejection by men. I realize now that the reason that loosing him has hurt me so much, the reason it took me far more time to get over than I should've, is that in loosing him, it felt like that was it, like that was my one chance at love, at feeling that great sense of euphoria and hope, and it was over. Things hurt so bad because I lost hope, which slowly caused me to lose confidence, and even my sense of self in the downward spiral of the last 6 months or so. (A stupid stoner ruined my recent life, pathetic eh? Especially since it is due to another stupid stoner that my entire life has been fucked up to this point. I seem to have a Kryptonite in them. lol)

What I realize now as I find myself moving on and searching for a new relationship, even having found a guy whom I really like, is that it may be the case that I self-sabotage. I've learned that in time all the boys I like loose interest; things get screwed up. Whether it is my fault or not, my sense of paternal abandonment issues lead me to constantly blame myself. While I am on the one hand filled with elation at the prospect of this new person, I at the same time restrain myself, knowing that I will eventually just mess it up before getting to the good part, so what's the point of getting my hopes up, you know? And unfortunately I know, thanks to years of my mothers attempts to therapize my man issues out of my system, that this will ultimately result in me settling for someone I don't really love or someone who is not good enough me (in all statistical odds, someone like my father), simply because I crave their acceptance and affections. (*sigh* My life really is a crappy Drew Barrymore movie, haha).

So what I now I'm prepared to rebuttal with to this friends argument, is that just because one has not loved, does not mean they are not afraid to love. In my opinion, it is far better to have had the true experiences of a relationship and then suffer the pain of loss at it's close, then to never have even got to enjoy it and ultimately face the same rejection.

I don't know; I seem to be pathetically girly lately. I'm just ready for someone to believe in me, even if it is just a compensation for a lack of belief in myself. I just wish that in this sea of sadness I could find an island of hope-someone who will say yes.

The Inconstance of Mortality

My life is a combination of fate and coincidence.
The blessings of Serendipity in conjunction with my own efforts.
All my life’s journey, leading me to where I am.
My actions and reactions as they define my future.
All those that I love and those who have loved me in return.
My life, in this moment, and as in an eternal self;
But nothing lasts forever.

Domestic Violence

She wipes her blood up of the floor,
Wringing out her mop,
Sopping up her dignity.
Her tears flow into the stream of cleaning solution,
Her fists clenched,
She shakes in anger.

She didn’t even do anything wrong.
He came home in a foul mood,
Longing for someone to beat down,
And he used her as his punching bag…again.

He told her not to fight back, not to scream.
“Just take it like a woman,” he says.
She hates herself for following his orders.

The blood coagulates, and the bruises form.
“It really wasn’t that bad,” she tells herself.

She walks into the next room to kiss her sleeping children.
“I love you my darlings,” she coos into innocent dreamful ears.
She vows to protect them,
Tells herself that by staying she gives them a better life;
But it’s a lie.

Staying is the dagger with which she slits their wrists.
She thinks she is keeping them safe,
But doesn’t realize the true danger they are in.

They will cry themselves to sleep, and blame themselves for the fights,
And,
Sooner or later,
They will beat or be beaten.
The will perpetuate the pattern of abuse.
The cycle continues.

Clarity

Sitting on the roadside as I often do,
The breeze creates a forced flit of my hair
As the raindrops fall.

Time passes and I remain solitary in the fog,
Waywardly waiting by the roadside,
Impatient to catch my bus to nowhere.

A gaggle of giggling girls passes;
Their beautiful leader guiding them along.
They hang on her every perfect word.

Many days later I walk past the roadside with my friends;
I see the goddess sitting beside the road, looking damp,
Waiting for her bus to nowhere.

As my friends depart and I sit next to this girl,
There is a moment of clarity within the rainy fog:
In life and in suffering, I am never alone.

Romance

Romance is a blue-eyed baby; naïve to the ways of the world. The daughter of Hope and Serendipity she is akin with Lust, Friendship, and Delight. She is foreign to Hatred and to True Love. She witnesses the world through new-born eyes, with which, everything is vividly vibrant. The ways of the world are magic in her mind and even the bitterest fruits taste sweet to her. Her smile lights up the sky, and she is almost always smiling. She is considered the most beautiful baby to all but Heartache and Resentment. Romance is idolized by many and loved by all because of her beauty and because she always follows her heart.

Memorium

Funerals are an odd thing. I'd never been to one before today; and, though this technically was not one, I will consider this my first, for the atmosphere was close enough.

That girl, the one you see there, looking so strong and beautiful. Yeah, her, on the left; she just lost her mother. But could you ever tell? No, you wouldn't know. You really wouldn't.

The room, was masked in a thick fog. A shadowy cloud of darkness was all the bound the various individuals of the room together.

The people seemed scattered in thoughts, motives, and intentions. Some where there to "make an appearance". Some were there out of obligation. Some were there to ease their conscience. A handful were there to support the grieving family. And believe it or not, a few even there, out of love and reverence to the departed.

The speeches were given. Interruptions of foolish schoolgirls, noisy airplanes, and a few inconsiderate cell phones prevailed. Many looked around the room and fiddled in boredom. Others cried and hugged. I sat and maintain reverent composure among this foreign display of the human condition, manners, and instinctive coping mechanisms.

The strangest part of the whole affair was sitting in this very solid and corporeal building, with such a very abstract problem being presented like a rising hurricane, and watching the guiding procession use religion as their shelter of choice.

I've never understood priests. Or organized religion for that matter. But that is beside the point.

The point was the Catholicism. The talking about God and his glory, about Jesus and his suffering, and even providing the Eucharist at the commencement of someone's life. Doesn't that seem a bit morbid?

A memorial is not a time for ramblings of the glory of some God, or the commentary of some mumbling priest on what he thinks we need to hear. Oh no. A memorial is a time to celebrate a life, and to commemorate and experience the sadness of that lost life in a communal setting. A one-time group therapy session for those within the sphere of influence of the dearly departed.

God has enough about him. He needs to be a little less selfish. Let things be about someone else for a change. After all, he took this persons life, the least he can do is give those she leave behind a little one-on-one time with her precious memory without butting in via some crackpot old clergyman.

Pity

I call you up, and hear your voice so sad; but I don't pity you. I feel myself drudging the grunts out of your tired body. I sense your pain. I'm sorry you're hurting, but I do not pity you.

I know you've had a hard day, and that you have it rough; but you did this. You are responsible for your life, not me. I tried to warn you. I tried to do my part and guide you to the right path. I told you this would do you no good in the end; but you didn't listen. It is not my job to hold your hand, you have to learn to take care of yourself, because someday no one will be there to do it for you.

Now you're devastated and you don't understand how you got here, so you blame and hate on everyone else.

I don't pity you.

You tell me that you suffer, that I know nothing of your pain; but I do, and don't pity you, nor do I seek anyone's pity. I have been used and abused. I have watch the degenerative nature of drugs as they crushed my dreams for what I wanted my dad to be. I have fought off my fears and my nightmares, escaped the clutches of an eating disorder, and fought against potential death at the hands of my own father, and later, at the hands of myself. In 16 short years, I have dealt with so much more than you, and while I do not believe that makes me any better, it makes me wiser. I have survived, and you will survive too.

I do not pity you.

"...You can only blame your problems on the world for so long before it all becomes the same old song..." In time you will learn that the world does not revolve around you. You will learn that only you are responsible for your happiness. You will learn that others cannot love you until you love yourself. In time, you will learn, and I wish for you that the times come quickly, and the lessons are easy; but I cannot watch the cycle of ignorance and self-desecration any longer. I refuse to be sucked down in your vicious whirlpool. I'm sorry you suffer. Play the victim card all you want, but I do not pity you.

Disillusioned

Today I've noticed that I can't stop smiling. Nothing really happened to make me particularly happy, I've just noticed that I've stopped caring.

Sure, I have my moments of insecurity-times of doubt, longings to be different, to be more-but for the most part, I am content.

To be quite honest, I really don't give a fuck what you think of me.

Granted, I am sad at the thought of people hating me. I long to be liked-to be the girl everyone genuinely wants to be friends with; but at the same time, I can't people please my way through life. I really enjoy the warmth and welcoming of ND as opposed to the hateful glances I felt at York, yet I refuse to continue to be civil to people who are genuinely mean and disrespectful to myself and the ones I care about. Not everyone is going to like you, and you are not going to like everybody. I hate that, I wish we all just got along, but we don't; it's a harsh reality of adulthood.

The fact of the matter is, I am who I am. I am a self-serving manipulative bitch. I am selfish and conceited and over-zealous. I tend to control situations and be frustrated by that which I cannot control. I am often insecure and mask it with bouts of bragging. Those are my faults (well...those and gluttony of course). I am aware of my faults and I embrace them. I know I am not cool, I do not think I am "the shit," and that is okay with me.

But at the same time, that is not all of me. I am considerate and polite and sweet. I really, truly care about my friends; I would take a bullet for most of them. I am very innocent and naive in an adorable way. I'm awkward at relationships which I find endearing. Though not the smartest, I have a brain, and I use it. I fight for what I love if the situation calls for it. I do my best to be there for others, even just helping a stranger. At the core of it all, I am a good person, I have a good heart.

Good and bad, I know who I am, and I embrace that and I try to be open to suggestions from those who don't. I know certain people think I'm a bitch right now, and I can feel a vortex coming-shit is about to be spread. I am going to stand up for my friends and what I think is right, and that might cost me in the end. But before that happens, here is this. It is not an attack on anyone, or a gossip rag. This is my perspective, this is me. You can take it or leave it, but I certainly hope you'll at least put some thought in too it first.

Acknowledgement

I am Invisible Girl, heroine of the inconspicuous and unspoken. I walk through the world alone and unknown, like a shadow in the dark. Unseen, unheard, but not unscathed; I am burned by Possibility and her army of words unspoken. From the darkest corners, I watch others, flourishing in the light, while I remain under the cover of night.

But lately, it seems my cloak of darkness has been ripped away. Some mistress of Fate has decided it is my turn to flourish, leaving my spandex in tatters. I now feel the glances of others, percolating the force field I have carefully constructed, and I falter at the thought of their eyes on me.

I am not worthy. I am a nerd. What if they notice? What if my very person is shunned?

But do they see my dorkdom? Do they notice? Or do I appear different to them? Has my clever disguise got them fooled, the doubt merely a self-sabotage lead by Insecurity?

Under the bright sun of the known world, I feel their gazes, their judgments; like hot water on icy skin, I prepare for the stinging, the pain, the rejection.

I am not notable. I am not cool. I am not sexy. I do not matter.

My young wings are unprepared for this flight without my cape of Cimmerian shade.

Life was much easier alone in the dark when I was invisible.

The Big Blue Elephant in the Room

He didn't mean to.
"I love you so much...Just not like that."
"Never?" I ask in disbelief.
"Never," he replies softly,
"You know I don't want to hurt you,
I would never want to hurt you babe."
I smiled at his kind heart.
"This won't come between us," he reassured, "I won't let it."
"I know, I'm fine," I laugh to hold back the tears.
Nothing would ever be the same after this.
"I'm sorry," he said;
But he was too late,
He'd already broken my heart.

Cyber

He presses his lips to my chest,
Or so he types.
His previous words still spinning in my head:
"You are so pretty...Why don't you have a boyfriend?"
I laugh at the thought.
Foolish boy, I am invisible girl.
What is he thinking?
But then again, he will say anything to get me to cooperate.
I am only desirable to nameless, faceless internet boys-
Basement dwelling perverts and nerds.
They are my rebellion,
Fuel for the fire inside me which longs to be desired,
My bittersweet escape.

Retraction

So you know that boy, the one I just wrote about, my best friend in the whole world, the one I've liked for almost three years, loved for the past 10 months, the one I thought loved me? Well he doesn't. We're just friends. Didn't I know?

No, I didn't know.

It's Complicated...

I remember meeting you so clearly. You were wearing the stupidest hat I'd ever seen, but, like the scent of spring, something about you drew me in. It was as if I already knew you.

In all honesty, I never thought we'd be friends. I thought, he's cute and that's about it. I walked away that last January afternoon, your number safely tucked away in my phone and expected nothing more. But then we started talking. Everyday we talked, about music and movies and philosophy and life; until my phone bill had gone well past my texting limit. And somewhere along the way, you became my best friend and I became yours.

Two years have passed and with them, we have grown so much; but even so, through the time and distance and my mom and everything else coming between us, we got through it together. Without even knowing it, you helped me through my first heartbreak and my parents divorce. You were there for all the big moments, and almost a year ago now, you told me that you loved me; and, though I may not have acknowledged it at the time, I heard you loud and clear, every sweet sylable.

Sometimes I wonder about us. Between you and me, things are not always explicit. We don't say everything we mean, a lot is implied, and I rather like it that way; but sometimes it means I worry that this is all in my head. I feel really twisted sitting here, listening to you talk about your girlfriend, helping you plan the perfect date, when really, it tears me up inside. (Let's just say helping you fall in love with another girl is not exactly the best Saturday night I could ask for.) Yet, at the same time, I love you and I love how hard you work for these girls and I do want you to be happy, no matter what that means for me. But I can't say it isn't confusing to hear you say how much you like one girl one minute, and how much you love me the next. (...Cue Taylor Swift background music, anyone?)

I know that you care about me as much as I do you; but at the same time, I'm scared. Even though I know that nothing I could ever do would effect us, I worry. I worry that taking things to the next level might make it harder to be so far from you. I worry that being with you, means the end of possibility in my life, since, I know that being with you I'll never want to be with anyone else (because let's be honest here, your sister even thinks we are going to get married some day haha) And most of all, I worry that I might screw things up and loose my best friend and the best thing that has ever happened to me, you.

The hardest part of it all, is that there is no real word for you. Sometimes I call you my boyfriend, but that I know is a lie; and yet, best friend doesn't quite fit either. It's complicated and I hate it. I miss you. I miss your voice and your eyes and even your stupid hat. I miss your curly hair and your awesome facial expressions. I hate that my friends chatter about their stupid trivial romantic affairs and mock me for always being single, when I have you, but just too far for them to see.

Every night at 11:11 I wish for you, for us. I want to see your name in my relationship status, hang out with you and your sister in all your twin-tastic craziness. You are exactly my brand of heroin and I am heavily addicted. I cannot wait to see you again and, even if things don't ever work out for us, I look forward to having you in my top 8 when we're old and can't read computer screens anymore. You are my best friend and I love you forever, no matter what babe. <3

Friendly

I live for the affections of others. Not, the attention so much, but the praise. The smiles of friends are like my oxygen; to hear the words "You are so awesome, I love you," my saving grace. I will work for hours on birthday presents, so excited for my friends and looking for nothing in return but their laughter; or write them notes just to watch their eyes light up with delight. There is no time to much, no cost to great, no favor to inconvienient for the ones I love.

Broken

Sometimes I feel like I'm broken. I feel like there is a piece of me missing.

Perhaps as I was cooling from the heat of being fired in the kiln, I was dropped, shattered, pieces flying everywhere, hurting others, some thrown away, some never to be found again.

Or maybe it was before that. Maybe I was never whole to begin with. Maybe in configuring me, the artist made a drastic error. Perhaps I was too tainted for his pure hands. My clay, being recycled, didn't mold out to his design. So he tried to fix it. Ripping pieces apart, molding for hours, and I still didn't come out right.

Maybe, he didn't like me. Maybe when he saw what he had created he threw it in anger. Leaving the pieces on the floor to disintegrate, listening to their daily crunch beneath his heavy work shoes.

Regardless of how I ended up this way, the fact is that I am not like all the other vases on the shelf.

I can paint myself blue or pink to match the gorgeous colors of the others, but the paint bubbles, quickly peeling away to reveal my putrid exterior. I can add designs and patterns, colors and embellishments, but none of them last; they always fall away, revealing the crimson stain of my true colors.

Sitting on the shelf, I am overwhelmed with emotion. I wounder why I am broken, and why I cannot be fix. I wonder why I am not like the others, no matter how hard I try.
I watch people come into the shop, envying the pretty vases and purchasing for them for their kitchen tables. I see the joy of the artist as he makes a sale, sharing his little beauties with the world.

But come closing, I am still where I was yesterday and will be tomorrow. The artist turns off the light, he too giving up on me and leaving me alone in the darkness.

Solitary in the night I begin to wobble. Carefully throwing my weight against itself, struggling to tip over. I am so tired of standing upright.

Finally, I feel it, liberation. I am hurtling off the top shelf. The ground rapidly approaching. Faster and faster I fall, until finally, with a crash, I smash into the cold hard floor, pieces scattering all around. I exhale the stress and tension with the liberation from my structure.

Broken into a million pieces, the putrid color finally, permanently, erased from existence, I lay there in the silent shop. Despite the ruined labor of the hardworking artist, I am at peace. The world is unchanged by my removal and I finally got the one thing I always wanted: to be taken of the shelf.

Disappointment

Hi Blog-o-sphere! Welcome to my new blogspot: www.hello-there-sunshine.blogspot.com!

So, I realized something just now. I was texting one of my good friends, when I noticed a rising sense of paranoia. I found myself questioning what he said, what his motives were, and if he was lying. I have been doing this with him for quite a while now and I'm really wondering why. This friend is one of my best, who I have known for almost three years, and he is the sweetest nicest guy and would never possibly try to hurt me...so why the suspicion?
It isn't just him though, this happens with all my friends or the people in my life for that matter. After a certain period of knowing them, I just kind of freak out. I question everything they do or say and begin to wonder if I can trust them. Then, after a while, I become convinced that they, like everyone else, are out to get me.
Now that I'm typing this I realize I sound like a total and complete nutjob, but it's true. For some reason, I eventually just stop trusting people and shut them out. The best I can figure, is that I'm trying to hurt them and escape the relationship before they hurt me.
I think the source, which I go back to time and again in blogs, and it really is the source of all evil (or at least my evil anyway), is my childhood. I learned early on that (in the words of one P.Sawyer) "People always leave." I had other kids use me, my parents abandon me all but physically (my dad physically abandoning me last year), and never had a geniune friend at an early age.
Stepping out of infixable the past and into present, the reprecussions are obvious. I am so easy to meet people; eager to befriend them and let them in. (It all goes back to that need to be loved and accepted that I so prevelently have.) But the problem is, that in doing so, I either alienate them, by moving too quickly, or worse, let them in only to have them shatter me a short while later.
So it seems, at times like the present, when I am most lost and vulnerable and in need of these people, in some sort of self-preservation I shut them out; knowing that I am too weak to handle their disapointment.

Swim

The heat of the day leaving a soft layer of sweat on my skin,
My feet feel along the stony ground,
My toes dangle over the edge as I prepare to leap.
For a second I am free,
Glorious, weightless, above the water.
And then I hit.
The rush of cool water contrasting with the warmth of the air on my skin.
I feel the rush,
The water growing colder as I plunge into the depth.
Finally, my feet feel the familiar floor,
And I pause momentarily,
Enjoying a separate existence in an underwater world,
Hesitant, I wish to remain here a bit longer,
But the world above calls to me.
I push off the bottom.
Floating upwards,
Faster and faster,
Until I feel the air on my scalp.
I break the void between the water and the air,
And gasp in my first breath,
Refreshed and renewed by the water.

Eight

The screen flashes,
“1 new message” it reads.
Glimpsing at the letters of your name fills my heart with pure delight.

We talk for hours,
Until there is nothing more to talk about;
So we create more,
Just so we can keep talking.

Your words are like music to my ears,
I may not see or hear them as often as I would like,
But they are always with me.

But the best part of our conversations,
The purest visual ecstasy that you bring me,
Are the last eight letters that you always type,
“I love you,” it reads, and I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

Sensational

An explosion of sweet, salty air,
The aroma of blooming flowers is carried,
So delicately,
On the light breezes of soft warm winds.

Musky birds chirp.
Tangy children frolic about.
The almondy trees bend and sway,
Even they are infused with life.

Winds of a thousand colors,
Melt the technicolor world together like honey.
Jittering with life, and infused with a lemony tinge,
The Earth reveals the first day of spring.

Hayden (beginning of a new novel...?)

I kind of just sat down with the need to write something new (normally I just work on pre-existing pieces) and this kind of came out of nowhere. For some odd reason I feel like sharing. So, hope you enjoy. Who knows, maybe it will be in one of my novels some day, haha.:

She sat in silence, staring straight ahead at a white wall. She wasn’t sure what had just hit her, or what her next move should be. She never been the kind of person who could easily think things through, but rather she would spend hours organizing the pieces together. Finding each lose end, every possible “what if” and weaving it in the intricate pattern of her response. Another wave of anxiousness overcame her.
“I, I,” she swallowed and exhaled softly, “I do believe you make an excellent point, Madame, but Benjamin is by no means looking for a hand-out, he is simply and honest man eager to utilize his connections to establish a reasonable position in this day and age.”
She inhaled, glancing out at the crowd. The showed no sign that her slip had phased them, and as such, she nodded at the right times and followed “Benjamin” off stage.
“Are you alright Hayden?” James, aka Benjamin, said to her as the door to the green room shut behind them. “It’s not like you to forget lines.”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she nodded, not sure as to who she was trying to convince. “It’s just been a busy week, I’m tired is all.”
He didn’t look convinced. “If you say so, but listen, if you ever need anything…”
“James, really, we’re no longer on stage, you can quit acting like my husband.” With that Roselyn bounded over.
“Hiddy-Hoe Ranger Joe,” she said with a luminous smile.
“Hey Roselyn, “ James smiled, shyly shifting his eyes to the floor.
She placed her hand under his chin and delicately began lifting his head with her small finger “Hey Jimmy-Jam, just a thought, my eyes are up here. You know, if you ever want to try looking into them sometime. I pay all this money for color contacts and it seems a shame for no one to notice. “
With that James blushed redder than before. “Sorry Roselyn.”
“For what? ...Boy, you got nothing to be sorry for. All though, I do believe you're to be on stage soon, and your line is my cue for entry. I was really looking forward to acting tonight so I certainly hope this isn’t an advanced apology for blowing it.”
He shook his head, clearly lost in her eyes, into which, he was now starring.
She swiftly grabbed his shoulders and steered him towards the door. “Well then go on and get out there before you've got to start apologizing all over again.”
Once the door had shut behind him Roselyn turned to Hayden. “Well now that the blushing beauty is gone, what’s up girl? You seem tense. “
“And here I thought I’d been hiding it so well,” I cringed.
“Oh no, smooth Jimmy didn’t try to put a move on you there did he.?” she asked with feigned shock.
“The boy may be gawky, but he isn’t stupid,” I smirked.
“Yeah, your right. Tommy would’ve killed him.”
This got us both laughing, Roselyn’s bouncy black locks softly fighting the dense hair spray and Hayden's sleek auburn bangs slowly obstructing her view.
“How is Tommy anyway?” She asked as we tried to catch our breath.
“I don’t know really.” Roselyn face became more serious. “He dropped me off at home about two weeks ago mumbling something in a drunken stupor about joining the Marines and I haven’t heard from him since.”
“’You’re kidding?!” she said, giggles slowly enveloping her being.
“Nope.” I said and we both began laughing.
Just then, Mr. Johnson, the director ducked his head back stage “Girls, I know there is nothing like the thrill of the theater, but will you please keep it down.”
At that we busted up, falling into a fit of muffled belly-aching laughter on the floor.
Finally, she glanced at me, “So you really haven’t heard from him?”
“No, why, have you?”
“No, I haven’t. Man, I just don’t get him. I mean, I understand why he doesn’t talk to Lori. Him and his mom are on opposite side of a rocky river, and let’s face it, neither of them are really cut out for an architectural lifestyle, and I mean he and I are really related by much more and a pint of blood, but going a-wall on you, that just doesn’t make sense. “
Hayden shrugged. Her boyfriend’s lone wolf habits were no surprise to her anymore. Maybe she’d settled or maybe she had some psychological disorder, but after two and a half years with Tommy she didn’t really see a point in ending it. He always came home eventually, and she was always here waiting for him. No point in messing with the nice pattern they had all worked out.
Roselyn shifted her eyes to Hayden with a more serious tone. “You know you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him, right? I mean, he’s my cousin and I love him for that, but no one would blame you if you didn’t want to put up with it any. You, my friend are a prize, and any boy at our school would be glad to have to you. I mean, take Jimbo, he may have been making eyes at me, but that’ just because you are so far off the market. If he knew you were available, well shoot, that sweet boy would jump through a ring of fire just to catch your eye. And there’s a hundred more where that came from.”
“Mrs. Baker, “ Mr. Johnson said, ducking his head back into the green room, “it’s almost your scene, where are you my darling?”
With that Roselyn slipped on her heels and began to stand. “Think about it” she said, looking down at Hayden as she stepped over her.
“I will,” Hayden complied; and as she laid on the cold concrete floor of the desolate green room she thought about it, she really did.

Bittersweet Prelude

The bittersweet silence
Invades my ears,
Like a crusading army
Dragging old differences back into the light.

Yet at the same time the noiselessness welcomes me.
I beckon it forth,
As it wraps me in blankets of comfort,
Receiving my contemplations with the warmth of an old friend.

The absence of sound is delicate,
Temporary yet infinite;
While this silent moment may be shattered with the slightest tremor,
The silence was and will be here long before and after us.

But in this silent moment,
Accepting the invasion of thoughts,
And the warmth of memories,
We are on the precipice,
Preparing to enter the symphony life.

On the Precipice

On the verge,
On the edge,
Always on the sidelines.
Watching the others,
I long to play the game,
But I don't belong.

Watching,
Wishing,
Hoping for a new tomorrow,
But tomorrow never comes,
The darkness of eternal night abounds.

I feel it all speeding up,
Slipping away,
Falling through my fingers,
Everyone moving forward,
While I remain stagnant on the horizon,
A shadow of humanity.

I float on the waves,
Searching for the perfect storm,
The perfect crest to ride into shore,
But they break beyond my reach,
Leaving me to paddle on.

Always the bridesmaid, never the bride,
I smile in the sunlight,
Silently waiting in shadows to feel I belong,
For love,
For friends,
For meaning,
But I do not belong.

I come close,
But I miss,
Always swinging too early or too late.
I watch the wind up,
Prepare for the pitch,
Only to make the same mistake twice.

I am on the precipice,
Of society,
Of happiness,
Of love,
Of life.
Waiting in shadows,
Longing for sunlight,
Hoping to ride the waves,
Hit a home run,
To find a place I belong,
And not screw things up yet again.

Just Listen

I had kind of a shocker day where I realized how little you sometimes know about your even your closest friends. More so, I realized the ignorance of teachers and even other students, who got about their daily little lives not realizing how many people are going through horrible shit, and how insensitive this seems. I was thinking about how trivial my life is now (and how grateful I now am for that), and how ignorant we all are, and inspired this.

Just Listen

Words swarming all around,
The buzz and the sound,
But no one really listens.
People die and people cry,
Some hurt and some lie,
But no one really hears.

Teachers and students,
Passing the day,
Many in pain,
But no one really listens.
Girls are crying,
Their families are dying,
But no one really cares.

Hearts are broken,
And words are unspoken,
But no one really listens.
There's children in pain,
A face and a name,
But no on really cares.

Some are homeless
And others are broken,
But no one really listens.
There's rape and abuse,
Girls with nothing to lose,
But no one really cares.

They sit in the classroom,
The adults drone on,
But no one really listens.
They lecture about homework,
They talk of the future,
To girls with no present,
But no one really cares.

Dreams

I used to dream of you.
Silly, simple, girlish things.
Lying in the summer grass,
A field of flowers surrounding us;
Studying your perfect face,
Hours passing all around.
You invaded my subconscious,
Every sense tantalized;
An echo of your daylight power.

But then the dreams came less and less,
My daily memories more and more.
The dreams I once dreamed of
Were not what I was dreaming for.

In the field,
I turn to see your face,
Your eyes are dull and gray.
The person I once thought you were
Just rots and falls away.
I lay alone in the cold dark grass,
Watching you sink,
Further and further,
Into the darkness,
Vanishing without a trace.
As in the daylight,
I am unsure of your existence,
Wondering if it was all just a dream.

But now the dreams come less and less,
My daily memories more and more.
The dreams I once dreamed of
Are not what I am dreaming for.

Darkness fills the grassy field,
The summer has grown cold,
Your eyes are dull and gray from here
But my memories play on.
My mind tells me you were real once,
But I need to accept you are gone.

But now the dreams come less and less,
My memories fade away too.
The dreams that I once dreamed of,
Are no longer what I am dreaming for;
And now I'm unsure if you're real at all,
Or even if you are who I'm looking for.

Fortress of Solitude

In religion class last year, Mr. S tried to teach us that no one can go "it alone", that we need others in order to survive. But he's wrong, we really don't need others.

It's true what they say about the fact that the only person you can depend on is yourself, that everyone else will only let you down.

Well, it isn't even always that they necessarily let you down. Sometimes they do. Sometimes you realize that your parents are not superheroes, but just people, and not even the good kind. Sometimes it is there fault, but sometimes it isn't; mostly I blame myself.

I have always been one to hope. Hope is one of the only things that keeps me alive. The infinite possibility of tomorrow. So, naturally, when it comes to people, I hope. I hope that they really are a good person, seeing only the good in them because the thought of yet another disappointment is almost unbearable. I hope that people are truly being genuine, that I'm not just manipulating their actions in my mind to shield myself esteem. And, when it comes to boys, more often then not, I hope that maybe, just maybe, this is the one that might actually like me; that maybe, just maybe, someone might love me someday.

Now I'm not a crazy person. I am not one of those girls who meets a guy and immediately starts naming our kids, because, quite frankly, I find that extremely desperate and creepy. And yet somehow, I feel so hypocritical. I degrade those girls so frequently (one in particular more often than others), mocking them for the selfish ignorance, so clearly compensating for insecurity; yet do I not do the same to some extent? Wishing, and hoping, and making more of a situation that is actually there in order to make me feel better about myself. (And more on this later, but how sad is it that we live in a society that, as women, we are taught that we can not truly be happy unless we are desirable to men and in a relationship?)

It's just that, after three years, I thought that I meant more to you than just another name on your friends list. But I guess when you said you loved me I let it go to my head. I must be the one with the problem, right? I just foolishly misinterpreted the friendly affections of yet another guy. I thought you were different, but perhaps I was mistaken, or perhaps it is I who am forever unchanged, destined to get my hopes up and watch them shatter into a million pieces over and over again throughout the eons.

I'm beginning to feel like there is something wrong with me. How is it that every single person I let into my heart only ends up hurting me? Is it the whole parent thing? Am I recreating my childhood family situation, being unloved and unwanted, over and over, trying to fix it; is that my destiny, my curse?

Love is out there, it really is. Maybe not for sixteen year olds, but it's out there. So in all the worlds' quantity of love, is their not even a micro gram out there for me?

I don't know whether it's others hurting me, or just me hurting myself, but it's times like this that make want to curl up into a ball in my own little fortress of solitude, never to let others in, never to be hurt again; to build up the walls of my heart, burying it within the sands of time. I don't just want to be a footnote in someone else's happiness, but I suppose that to disperse myself throughout the love of the world, standing as an outsider watching the happiness of others who pass my life by, is better than living in the isolation of this cold Kryptonian shelter, eternally void of love.

Math Class Poetry

Despite Mr. Campbell's best efforts, math class was really just not holding my interest today; so I wrote these instead.

-DARKNESS-
trapped in this room with nowhere to go
nowhere but down
i have fallen
down the rabbit hole
into the deep dark depths below
never to be seen again
i never want to be seen again
i want to dissapear

-DEATH-
death is such a menacing word
it sounds so infinite and severe
but to me it holds the promise if sweet selfishness
of peace, of rest
i am so very tired

-A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT-
babbling of useless things
there mouths are running with mindless chatter
the rumors ebb and flow
but little do they know
the pain that lies within the depths of the cold dark water
but the water flows on

-SILENCE-
in my corner, i am silent and still
not a sound is heard
pins drop with delicate 'pinks'
friends whisper with insincere giggles
but i long to break the silence
to make them hear me

Time

Time is a funny thing. I was going through old pictures and possessions today, just thinking about it. It's kinda like love in a way, it's so real yet so abstract all at the same time.

There's that old saying that "time heals all wounds" but I don't think that's true. I think that with time, you just forget. We humans are such fickle creatures, once there is no visual proof of something, we forget about it.

Time doesn't heal, we just lose are memories; because if we remembered the pain as vividly as when it happened, retained our memories, we'd never feel whole again. But clinging to memories is useless, it just leaves us trapped in pain while those whom we share the memories with simply forget us and go on with their lives.

Life. It is affected by time. One could say that time is defined by lives, however, one could also say that lives are defined by time.

Lately it just feels like time is moving so fast. In the blink of an eye, junior year is almost over. And then comes senior year, and college, and the real world. Before I know it I will be old and gray and some other sixteen year old girl will be sitting at her computer contemplating the same phenomenon.

Time just moves so fast and we can't go back, and we can't slow it down, and we certainly can't stop it (no matter how many times we watch Clockstoppers and wish we could).

I don't really know what to do about it; I have no solution. I'm just pondering into cyberspace.

I suppose we should make the most of it. "Live, love, laugh" and all of that. But I'm not sure how- how to internalize those abstract concepts and apply them to my being. I suppose it just takes practice.

And that's the really cruddy thing about time, once your good at it, once you figure out this whole crazy hot mess we call life, yours time is up.

What About Mary Jane (Watson)?

You know the girl. She walks down the halls, and he sees her in slow motion. At lunch they sit in opposite social spheres, yet from afar, he memorizes the contours of her face. She is his first thought each morning, and last thought each night; he worships her from afar.

The most common knowledge I can think of would have to be Spiderman. Mary Jane Watson is the quintessential girl-next-door. She is popular, gorgeous, sweet, and a damsel in distress. Peter Parker has always loved her and then one day, they end up together.

You see it all from Parker's perspective; you see how much he loves and cares for her.

But what about Mary Jane? Did she grow up caring for Peter just as he did her? Did she know he was in love with her? Was she falling too? What made her fall for him? Was it the way she felt safe around him? His awkwardly adorable attempts at conversation? Or simply the fact that he cared for her so much?

But no one tells you that. No one tells you how to deal with being Mary Jane. Only the "Peter Parker" role is ever portrayed; comic after comic, over and over again.

Stan Lee never wrote Mary Jane's story. What does that say about her? Why was she not important enough for personal account? Just because she had no radioactive spider-induced super powers, does that make her any less of a worthy person? Does it make her dreams, her desires, her accomplishments, her struggles, any less real or important?

You see I always wanted to be that girl: the Mary Jane, the Lois Lane; the one who was so adored by the super hero, that she herself seemed super in his eyes. They are the princesses of the modern age, pretty, perfect, often distressed, and adored by their knight in shinning spandex.

But what if, Mary Jane had no romantic interest in Peter Parker, what then? How could she have spared him? What if Lois Lane had already found her Superman before Clark entered the picture? What if she was already so in love that she never even considered Clark as a possibility, leaving his feelings unrequited? What then?

In the world of Marvel, the lives and thoughts of these women seems to have been lost behind the art-deco skylines and pop art pages.

I really wish I could know what they'd been thinking. I mean, what about Mary Jane? Why was more of her story not told? I really wish that someone, anyone, would write it.

Unrequited (I am, I see, I hear...)

-I am waiting for someone to come along and see what I see, to notice me, to care.
-I see the reflection of a girl who has lived her whole life feeling alone and unwanted.
-I hear the happiness of others, like shards of broken glass in my feet, they brag about their boyfriends and their happy little lives, unconcerned with anyone but themselves.
-I feel I might explode; I need to shout from roof-tops, to make them see me, to make them understand, to make them stop before it's too late.
-I want to go back to the beginning; to erase the memories of boys who didn't, don't, and never will care and skip to the one who does, the one I know could never not care about me, the one who doesn't know how much I love him.
-I need the approval of men, because I never got it from the one who matters; and because of him, I am here. I need to tell them, all of them; everyone in my life, I need to speak my peace so that I can stop living a lie.
-I am a victim of love unrequited in every aspect of life; trapped by it, my soul is in chains. I long to be set free, but I fear for the cost; to what extent will I go for my freedom.

Conformity

I have been rather self conscious as of late, and one way or another I got to thinking about it today. It really bothers me. I have prided myself very much throughout my life on my ability to not care what others thinking of me, but now, it feels like I'm loosing that, loosing myself.

It's all about rejection. I've grown up in a wonderland, but the price I paid for my nice clothes and sanctuary is, in pertinence to this particular note, a whole lot of rejection. I have, since I was about six, been told on a daily basis, how fat and stupid and ugly and unwanted and unlovable and blah-da-blah-da-blah I am. After a while, no matter how much you block it out, how much you try to fight it, try to ignore it, a decade of daily degrading from the one who gave you life begins take a toll on anyone's self esteem. I have always been proud, and been able to tell myself that if I can survive it from my mom, I can survive it from anyone. But with my depression as of late, I find it hard to look in the mirror and not be reminded of those harsh words; not be constantly thinking how out-of place I am in this world. And on top of it all you have boys, stupid, know-nothing, hypocritical boys to remind you, and the world, just how weird and out of place you are.

And I am. I, Katherine Elizabeth, am weird. I am a dork, and a nerd, and absolutely not popular. I do my best to be kind and thoughtful and friendly to everyone, but I learned about 7th grade that being nice does not a popular girl make. The popular girls seem to just be born out of sugar and spice and everything nice, and the rest of us plain old chemical X. No matter how hard I try to be pretty or perfect or wanted, I will never be popular.

And yet, here I am. I find myself conforming nonetheless. Watching what I say to make sure I'm not too weird, conforming to the opinions of the group, following the herd, and worst of all worrying about who might see me hanging out with people whom I consider my friends because they aren't cool.

I am actually worrying what other people think of me? Why? Why do I care what a bunch of pretentious party-girl stoners care about me? Not to be generalizing or degrading of these girls who seem nice enough, but why am I letting them define me. Why am I putting there opinions of me ahead of my own happiness?

I get it now. I understand the concept of peer pressure and girls who get so sad about rejection. In simple terms, when detached it seemed those girls were idiots. I didn't not understand people who cared what anyone thought of them. How could they sacrifice themselves and their scruples, because they were so concerned of others opinions? In unemotional terms it sounds so easy, but when your living it, it's different. I don't care who you are or what you claim, everyone on this Earth wants to be loved. We are a species of companionship; whether it be friends, family, or relationships we thrive on acceptance (which can be perceived as a predecessor to love). So as we become adolescents, and we realize the impermanence of our childhood families and looming dangers of the "real world" into which we are about to be thrust, it becomes apparent that we will need to seek love (and acceptance elsewhere). That's were peer pressure comes in, when the need to be accepted, almost for the sake of survival, becomes important.

They say that one must love themselves before they can love others. But what if you have reached the point at which you doubt whether or not you are worthy of love because you have been deprived of it for so long? Do you simply go on telling yourself you are lovable, or is that lying? Should you rather begin questioning yourself, and seeking acceptance of others as guidance towards love? Or in seeking the acceptance of others over your own opinions are you then sacrificing something of yourself, doing more harm than good?

How do I remain myself, without being lonely? Because, it seems, to have friends at school I have to be someone that I am not, denying my true personality until I have erased myself completely. And yet, if I am true to myself, it leads only to a life alone, decreasing confidence piece by piece until I would much rather be a speck a dirt than myself. I do not want to be just like everyone else, there is no glory in that; but how do I remain myself without sticking out like a turtle in a chicken coop? Where is the middle ground, the place to be yourself without being alone?

Or better yet, where is the place where I get to be the popular girl I always wanted to be and yet still myself; the place where I can be accepted for who I am no matter how weird or dorky? I would walk a thousand miles and click my heels together as many times as you want if someone could just point me there. <3