Six Month's Eve

Seven months ago, on April the 12th, I was introduced to a man who changed my life forever. My date was a Navy boy who took special leave just to come down and escort me to my prom. He gets a phone call in the middle of the prom and his face changes, becomes unreadable with a fine line of anger as he grabs his hat and his camera, his phone and me and stalks down the hall of the hotel. As we near the piano next to the staircase, three figures are approaching us - a slender man with a red beard and long red hair tied back, dressed as a WWII paratrooper; a rather tall, attractive woman with long blond hair wearing a hat that wasn't quite a cowboy hat but would have been used on the range and a jacket; and a man who was a little taller than the woman with brown hair, spectacles, dressed like a trapper, fringes on his jacket and all. All and all these were three very interesting characters indeed. They stopped in a half circle around us and introductions were made.

The man that was only a little taller than I (at this point I'm not wearing my heels, I'm barefoot) was named Jerry, the woman's named turned out to be Coty, and the man with her was named Kris. As I greeted them in kind, my date still brooding and trying to act pleasant, I couldn't keep my eyes off of Jerry and finally piped up - 'Look, I'm sorry, but I have to hug you.' Why on Earth would I say something like that? Because it was just amazing to me how someone had the balls to dress up like that and arrive at a rather prestigious hotel and act as comfortable in it as he is with his own skin. It just amazed me and hugging him was the only way I could express how fantastic I thought that was. I'm a girl, I can get away with such things. And that, as they say, was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

At later times, it was expressed to me that the look on my date's face was priceless, a mix of fury and of confusion as Jerry grinned at me and I grinned at him, our arms sliding around one another. Something inside me when he had his arms around me melted, something clicked and when we pulled back, we both recognized it. According to Kris and Coty, it was obvious. We were just right for each other. I wouldn't call it love at first sight because honestly, things like that don't exist in my world. But like at first sight, admiration and respect at first sight for the person you see in front of you, that connection - that definitely took place. Instantaneous, unplanned, we more or less fell into each other's lap. He was just what I needed in my life and I was just what he needed in his.

But let's not jump ahead. The Navy boy who came as my date was actually my some-what boyfriend at the time. I say some-what because I realize that he was seeing other women in Maryland while I was still in Tennessee even if he wouldn't admit it. After all, the hole in the Jeep's windshield where he was having sex with some girl in his Jeep and her stilleto heel actually went through the windshield - well, you don't have to be a rocket scienetist to realize that something was going on behind the scenes. Despite these trysts, he still had visions of a wedding and children with me. Fat chance in hell.

Back to the story though. Navy boy wanted me to get to know some of his friends a bit better and one of them just happened to be Eli, an Army guy stationed in Iraq. Eli is Jerry's cousin, so when I talked to him next, I was actually able to get Jerry's myspace and from myspace correspondence to messaging, Jerry and I soon became very attached - even if we were only friends for then. I invited him, Kris, and Coty to help me celebrate my eighteenth birthday with a new piercing - my ears are double pierced -and a movie - The Forbidden Kingdom. Had I watched the movie with any other group, I don't think I would have enjoyed it as much.

Soon after, I went go-karting and mini-golfing with this trio in what will later be termed, by agreement, as our first date. Kris and Coty were, of course, together while I and Jerry were paired off together, which was just fine with me except I kept having the embarrassing notion of 'I wonder what it would be like to kiss him'. The worst of it was that in later discussions, it was devastatingly obvious to the entire party of my rather impromptu infatuation with a man seven years my senior. Oh yes, this man was a man, with his own house fully paid for and a few cars, a good steady job and wonderful family/community relationship. I was not dealing with some boy just out of high school or in his first year of college, no - I was dealing with a man. Though why he decided to deal with me, a slip of a girl just turned eighteen, about to graduate from high school, is beyond me.

And so we went around in circles, around the track and around each other, never far away from each other in any sense. When we went to supper at Waffle House, I rode in the convertible with him while Coty rode in Kris' truck. My cell phone was in my jacket while we ate and I missed a message from my parents so when we got back to the facilities and I called my parents, they were rather angry and I was afraid that I wouldn't be allowed to go out again because of a particularly bad decision of mine the previous summer and I cried. And you know what? He didn't turn away or shy away from the fact that I was upset. No, he held me, tightly, let me cry and explained to Kris and Coty when they arrived after what had happened - he stood beside me and helped me through a small bit of panic.

When we returned to the course, we played golf and he was never far from me - which is a good thing because at one point when I was trying to retrieve my ball from one of the little pond/waterfall areas, I nearly fell in. Had he not grabbed the back of my pants to keep my balance, I do believe that I would have fallen head first into this shallow water pit. He made me laugh, he made me smile. He rubbed gently with his knuckle along my spine as we watched Kris and Coty take a swing at the brightly colored orbs of interest and was a comforting, warm shadow at my back. He was my silent supporter and seemed determined that I enjoy myself and I did - thoroughly. One of Jerry's friends that stopped by shortly after I met the small group first at the prom stopped by the course and when we went to leave, Jerry and Coty and Kris escorting me to my parent's awaiting vehicle, his friend Dan performed what used to be a tradition, revving up and speeding, tires squealing, out of the parking lot.

Well Dan revved his engine and came up behind us. I heard the noise, turned around in the group that was more or less huddled around me on this fine spring evening, and stumbled backwards, falling as headlights blinded me and Dan's truck rolled to a stop. They helped me up, Dan moved past us, which made me notice my dad had pulled out of the parking lot and was parked right beside where Dan had to pass by. I found out later that dad had his hand on the little revolver he had with him - he has a license, don't worry folks. And nothing happened. Dan left, Jerry and them brushed me off and escorted me to the Jeep and life went on. I heard from Coty and them later that Jerry had chewed Dan out, tore him several new ones, and that man never loses his temper, never loses his cool. I think that was the beginning of the relationship right there. It showed that he was there and that he cared what happened to me, was worried about me...

To Be Continued...

Midnight Scribbles

What makes me a writer?

Is it the letter I labor over before sending them home to my love? Or perhaps the local coffee shop, whose couch I often occupy as I quietly sip my Chai latte. Maybe it's the glasses that I wear, thick black frames to hide my young and vulnerable face behind. My glasses draw the attention away from my probing blue eyes to the flowers made of glitter on the sides.

Perhaps it's the clothes I wear; eclectic band shirts, random-stuff shirts and shirts from the Harley Davidson brand. Maybe it's the army jacket bought one visit at a local Goodwill store or maybe it's something different, something special, something more. Maybe it's that one pair of jeans, faded beyond belief with more areas torn and exposed instead of mended and clean. Maybe it's the wannabe Vans or my pink Converse - or perhaps my rainbow socks and my graphic underwear.

Or maybe it's the determination to get up every day, head out into that world and face it instead of cowering in some desolate corner that makes me a writer. My experiences - the places I've been, the people I've seen, the books I've devoured and the movies I've danced over; the hardships, the joys, the good and the bad, beautiful and ugly experiences that are out there in the world to possess the knowledge of - all of it. The past I've had, the present I'm living in, and the future that I dream of.

Maybe it's all of these things and maybe it's none of them. Maybe some silent muse sits upon my shoulder, wandering off every now and again to leave me sitting, with my pen poised and only ink dripping from it onto the otherwise pristine or filled page, a black oblivion. When it comes back, I am it's willing slave, listening as it jabbers incoherently in my ear in a tone so sweet it makes my heart ache and I write what comes to me, revising as I let my pen merrily trip along the lines of the paper.

So in short, I don't know.

I never have and I doubt I ever will.

But I know have a talent and so I'll use it. Even if not every attempt is beautiful and perfect, I will write until my last days. Hopefully one day I'll get paid for my lines upon lines of words.

Thoughts On A Poem

As often as I make the claim to be a writer, I have never had my work published unless you happen to mean a school newspaper - in which case I've been published several times. I've been on television, I've been quoted in newspapers, but I have never had any of my work published. Once, I got an honorable mention for some writing competition I entered in my sixth or seventh grade but still - you get the point.

Nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

But I love writing. It's what I do. Every day I write something that someone goes 'I never would have phrased it that way but that's brilliant' or 'Very nicely put, you outdid yourself' to which I respond, no I'm a writer. One of the things I want to do before I die is to make that statement a reality. Be published for a short story or a novel, perhaps even a book of poetry. I fill journals and pages upon pages of loose leaf paper, surely some idea in there is just waiting to be taken out of the bag and nourished. Watered with more ideas, warmed by careful dedication until it grows to be a sapling to be pruned with careful slashes of the razor edged tongues of family, friends and editors. If it makes it past all of the pulling, prodding, tying back of limbs and complete severances of branches, then it should be able to grow up into a strong tree. If not, well... start the process all over again.

Composition books, covers covered in permanent marker or stickers, a dazzling array of carefully clipped pictures pasted on from magazines of the time, line a chest that I have in my room, locked carefully away so that no prying eyes can see. I've burned pages, rewritten old poems and songs and stories, expanded and contracted in the realm of my ability but sometimes I just become burned out. Bummed out. So I took almost a month, maybe it was more, to stop writing. Because I couldn't stand the thought of it being a chore. Because my life was in a metamorphosis that I could watch and enjoy or let completely pass me by. A part of me is glad I became this butterfly and another part of me feels as if my wings didn't develop.

Autumn leaves scattered 'cross the sidewalk
Like broken dreams scattered on the floor.
Dry leaves, sapped of life and color,
Crushed beneath the disapproving looks.

A broken time piece sits upon the mantle
A voice so silenced, it echoes down the hall.
Gears lay in the stillness of forever
No longer does the heart beat anymore.

I'll work on this, get back to you... Please don't steal.

November Drivels

I leave the room full of laughter and silly ideas that bubble from lips, breath sweet from their strawberry smoothies, and enter the solitude of the hallway. The lights seem dimmer than those in the rooms here in this modern dorm room, spaced out more friendly-like on the eyes that they burden. I keep my eyes to the tiled floor that makes up the floor of the entire building except for the lobby and stairs. As I pass doors, I listen, behind every door a new but similiar sound. Some doors hold silence, some doors how laughter like that which I just left but different - not the same at all. Forced laughter, natural laughter, from the belly laughter that makes your eyes tear up... I hear them all as I pass these doors, so similar, only the number changes. True, the door itself may have a poster or left over Halloween decorations but it's still just the gateway into someone else's world.

I hear doors that are filled with silence, not even the rustle of clothing and it's loud. Never has lack of presence been so disturbing as in this bustling bee-hive of a college dorm. Flyers grace every bulletin board available, movies blare from phantom tvs that are understood to be behind the doors but none of them catch your attention like that silence. Sometimes it makes me want to place my hand against the door as if somehow I'll be able to feel a pulse and the silence will lessen instead of deafen. Instead I just keep placing one foot in front of the other, passing another door and then another, music loud and making the door vibrate in it's frame, an instrument strummed lightly and sweetly and then the riotous yells and slams as a game goes on - inside the room or on a screen is hard to tell sometimes. Sometimes I fear the sounds I hear, sometimes I wish I could quietly knock on the door and asked to be let in but all the time I keep walking. I keep moving.

I feel like Alice going down the rabbit hole, strange objects floating beside me as I make it to a stairwell and start to make my dizzying descend. Even the stairwell doors have their own feel in this building. Some ring out and come to a sudden stop as yelling, cat calls and obscenities volley back and forth as a few guys thunder down the stairs past me, making me cringe against the railing for a moment, fearing their wildly swinging arms and legs. Some click quietly as someone slips from one floor to the next, eyes turned upwards and steps measured and controlled. Sometimes its a combination, sometimes you have to slide past the guy caring his bicycle or hold open the door for someone with a basket precariously balanced in her grip. If these stairwells could tell stories, I'm almost afraid to ask what kind of stories they would tell.
My descend is ended as I come to the first floor indoor bike rack, for lack of a better term - it is merely a straight set of bars in the same style as the railing for the stairs, mostly meant to deter students from playing under the stair cases, but it has been utilized as a place to lock bikes to inside of the facility.

I make my way to my room and here I am still, in my chair with what makes my roommate cringe but makes the chaotic side of me very pleased. Empty bottles on the desk, dirty dishes beside the sink, folded and clean clothes in a basket, not hung up yet, yesterday's newspaper and today's laying, unopened, on my desk. Movies, make-up, needed texts for my classes along with print offs, notebooks, and such - not to mention the food. Cookies, the Kroger equivalent to Oreos, a box of Chef Boyardee cups. Even an unopened grape soda can. She cringes when she sees my side of the room, carefully keeps her eyes averted when she's on her side of her room, where everything is neat and has it's place. Dishes never sit, she takes a shower every night, and would never think of wearing the same jeans twice in a row. Something about her discomfort pleases me. Just like handing a bag of pennies to the annoying RAs that come and knock on my door in hopes of collecting the dollar that I owe them for letting me into my room to get my ID that lets me into the cafeteria, my building, and my room pleased me greatly.

Ah well. Therapy is doing wonders for my writing at least.

A Childhood Nightmare

Picture, if you can, a child of three or four during a time when Clinton was president and the Lewinsky scandal hadn’t happened yet. Videos of Disney classics such as Beauty and the Beast and Cinderella were giving me unrealistic views on men and Pocahontas had just been released. A Nintendo Entertainment System seemed permanently hooked up to the TV in the living room with such games as The Legend of Zelda, Duck Hunt, and Super Mario 3 were near at hand. Life, as they say, was good. So what went wrong? What was the catalyst that had me sit up in bed crying out in fear? Believe it or not, I think it all started when I was shown a classic 1940 Disney film about a puppet boy brought to life who spends roughly eighty-eight minutes trying to become a real boy. Yes, that’s right, I’m talking about Pinocchio.

There’s a scene in the movie where you, as the viewer, zoom-in to where Jiminy Cricket is singing as he stands upon the windowsill, gazing at the stars. Although I’m not sure of the exact song he’s singing, in my recollection he’s singing ‘When You Wish Upon a Star’. I mean, how non-threatening can a cricket get? For some unknown reason, though, this scene and how the viewer seemed to zoom-in to the singing cricket, would make for one sleepless night for my parents and one wild ride for a kid of three or four.

It was a clear night when this event occurred. I had finally settled down enough for my mother to tuck me in and read me a story. When she finished, she reached down and turned on the Crayola nightlight that I had beside my bed before wishing me a final goodnight and shutting the door behind her. Fact: As a child I was afraid of the dark. Even now I find myself quickening my pace to reach the light because of the unfriendly shadows sending a river of dread and fear straight through my heart. For this reason, and for safety reasons as it was later explained, the entire house had little nightlights everywhere. Nightlights in some cultures are considered to help keep the night, the darkness, and the evil that lurks there at bay – but on the night of which I speak, my Crayola nightlight did none of these.

I lay upon my side, my back to the nightlight as I looked towards a different light – moonlight, soft and white, bathed the room in varying shades of black and blue as it filtered through the blinds of my window. Toys and shelves became distorted in the light, taking on slightly menacing forms but it did little more than make my heart race before I laughed quietly to myself and reminded myself what was over there. It was a sort of game I played before I became too tired to think. What things did I have that I loved in the light that could make such shadows that loomed over my head at night? That night, the game lost its comforting feel as my vision seemed to zoom in on the windowsill to a shadow that I could not assign one of my toys to but I was afraid I knew what it was.

It was as if the shadow had read my thought and had decided to rub in the fact that it was indeed a cricket because it moved forward into the moonlight and stayed there, poised on the edge of the windowsill. It seemed to have its own magical quality about it because even in the moonlight, its black body seemed to gleam in a way that made me sickeningly aware of the antennas protruding from its small head, the way its legs seemed poised for a jump. The fact that it was there was enough to make me anxious and have my stomach doing acrobatic tricks but it was what it did next that made me sit upright in bed and start shrieking and crying. It opened its mouth and sang.

My parents, of course, came running in through the adjoining door, my father leading the way as my mother reached for the light switch. They both looked around before sitting on the bed to console me, all the while trying to figure out what happened to put me in the state I was in. Once I was able to explain past the tears and the hiccups, my dad looked around the room for a while, even under my bed, but he couldn’t produce the cricket culprit. After a few hollow statements on how they believed me and that it’s alright now, my parents tucked me back into bed and retreated wearily to their room. Unfortunately, as I lay upon my side, my vision zoomed in again and the cricket made his reappearance and resumed his performance.

Again, my parents came running and when I kept pointing to the window, unable to make it clear through the tears that the cricket was back, my father put two and two together in his sleep befuddled mind and made another round of my room, looking for the fictional cricket. Not wanting the cricket to make a third showing, my father picked me up and put me in his bed, saying that he and my mother would sleep in my room and wait for the cricket to come back. Drained from making such a fuss so late into the night, I curled up sleepily under their covers as they wished me good night, turned out the lights and went into my room to sleep.

Turning my back to the door, I lay facing the windows in their room, the moonlight a little lighter than before as the moon made its way across the heavens. Everything seemed bigger and stranger in their room, a little bit scarier too, but I didn’t care. As long as the cricket didn’t make an appearance on the windowsill in their room, which I watched in wary and weary anticipation, all would be well. I suppose if I hadn’t been expecting it that the round black body of a spider dropping down onto the windowsill from a nearly invisible thread before stepping forward into the moonlight with her many legs would have seemed frightening. As it was, the spider that sat on the corner of their windowsill comforted me and told me a story that to this day, I’m unable to recall the details of. All I remember thinking as I drifted off to sleep was ‘At least it isn’t that scary cricket.’

Silent Distance

When I picture the distance in my head, all I see is navy blue, stretching as far as I can see, and I can see quite a bit. It's almost as if spotlight it just all around me, not from a certain point but everywhere and although I know I'm standing, I know it isn't ground beneath me. The light around me is a neon blue and just as bright and shining.

You know the legend of a red string tied from your finger to the finger of the one you're meant to be with? Your true love? Well here in my head, it's that seem neon blue and it isn't a string, or even a ribbon - it's an entire road leading back to him. The road isn't easy, with twists and turns and tricks but it can be conquered. I just don't have a way to conquer it and the path leads out of sight. At times it's hard to picture him.

But Friday he came to visit, finally, after not having been with him for a month. I was finally able to touch what had become little more than fantasy, a fantastic dream. It was like a ghost turned into flesh and bone, all those phantom touches felt again and memory replaced by reality. It was so good to have him in my arms again, so very good and my arms have felt empty ever since. Everything has felt empty and hollow ever since. He is the one that completes me, my other half, my soulmate. He and I gave each other our hearts freely and I would never do anything to jeopardize my happiness with him.

So while he was here, why did I cry so much? Why did I lay there with my eyes open, trembling, tears falling from my eyes? I was wasting precious time with him but that's all it was - precious time. Stolen moments because he had to return to work and I had to return to college. He was going to leave the next day and I was only going to have these few short hours with him. Needless to say, I didn't sleep well that night, even for all of my silent tears. Tears that should have waited until he left.

I cried even then, in the sunlight as we stood in my room and his cousin, that drove up with him who is on leave from the Army, stood outside respectfully, giving us time. I had my arms around his waist and I begged him to take me with him as he wiped away my tears, held me tightly in his arms, kissed me over and over again as he said no. As he reminded me of what my parents would think. Of what would happen if I quit college now, in the fifth week of college. And he stood there with tears in his eyes even though he didn't cry, because he hated that he was the one to upset me.

I can stand the 'good-bye for now' but I could never stand a final 'good-bye' from him. I can let him go although it hurts and for a few days after I've been depressed a little because in the end I know one day we won't have to say good-bye unless it's for us to go to work, when we're married, and then it won't be sad. It'll just be an 'until later'. So yes, I can stand this little pain because in the end, I'll have the greater happiness that awaits us.

Perhaps I'm being foolish, but I can't even imagine what will happen when I go home for fall break in a few weeks.

Destructive Games

I hate when he does this.

When he shuts all of the doors I've taken so much time to open, when I begin to think the bridges we've built are finally able to withstand the weather that is put to it time and time again, I am mistaken and he leaves me alone, cold and weary in the cold once again. I hate this 'if you won't share we me, I'll shut down' when at times, I'm unable to give a clear answer.

And this time? It was me just quoting myself, I wasn't trying to be a pain in the ass, I swear with everything that I am. I said mayhaps to a question in which he quoted me, "That's not an answer." I responded with the rest of the quote, "No, it's an evasion." To which he said fuck it, logged off, and turned off his phone.

Now, I'm not saying that this is unreasonable because we've been having a rough time of it lately, on my end. Why? Because college is nothing but high school drama on steroids with problems in class, with professors, on exams and homework... Everything is turmoil, one that I'd rather not get used to. So I don't blame him for being irritated when I have such problems and try to hash them out myself but still... That would be like me hanging up the phone on him and turning it off. What good does it accomplish?

Hollow

Since I've been here, whenever anyone thumps me on the back or baps me anywhere along the ribcage, it's sounded hollow. Most of the time, when you thump someone along their back or ribcage, you get at least a thunk noise, a solid noise of flesh hitting flesh but I have none of that. No, I just sound hollow. As if someone has stolen my lungs and I can't breathe here. As if someone has stolen my heart and I'm not living, just drifting like a ghost from day to day. It's like some pieces parts are missing and I'm incomplete up here, unfinished, missing the things that make me real, that make me human, that make me me.

Sad thing is I know who has taken my breath away and stolen my heart - he's just in Nashville where I can't get to him.

A Day Early

And it was as if fate had decided that if I talked about storms that it would send one my way. My roommate has been dating this guy for two years. They went to high school together, they went to prom, they've spent copious amounts of time at each other's houses and so on and so forth and blah blah blah.

Apparently, he asked her if they could take a two week break before they wanted to make it permanent. This was spawned by arguments they'd allegedly had earlier on in the week. My roommate only goes home every other week (two weeks) and her parents come up on the weekends when she isn't coming home. I can't even image the amount of money these people are spending on gas.... But anyways, he basically didn't want to get back together with her until she got back.

Well, girl that she is, she (and rightfully so) said no and now things are over between them. Now, this may mean that my quiet weekends alone (I'm beginning to like the pattern of only have to deal with her and her buzzing phone every other weekend, not of course including the weekdays when I deliberately try to be out to avoid her and her phone...) are history. This may also mean that her phone will buzz less. This does mean that she's out on the market and I may have to deal with her bringing guys over. Now, I'm okay with some of these changes but the others? We'll have to wait and see I suppose...

Short, rushed, kinda informative, mostly just blowing off steam, regular posts to resume tomorrow.

Significant Oceans

Everyone's life can be described as an ocean and a ship. It has it's smooth days, where the wind is in your sails and the sky is bright or perhaps a little cloudy if you like that sort of thing. It has it's stormy days, where it feels like you have to hold onto life with every ounce of strength that you have, when the masts have broken and your vessel's going under. You have your in between days, where it feels like you aren't going anywhere, the winds have died; when it feels like you're about to boil, the sun's so hot upon your decks that it feels like hell; when the storms are lighter but just as devastating in the long run, like perhaps a break-up or divorce. To some, that could be the large storm, but in retrospect of some events, they're lessened. So it could just feel like coming to harbor in a safe port.

I've come to view life at college as my big storm. I know in years to come, when the storms become larger and memories of them replace these memories, I'll laugh at how bad I thought things were now, but things are still pretty bad. Not in the sense that I'm hurt, minus some minor cuts and bruises, not in the sense that I'm being threatened, and not in the sense that I'm unable to cope with things day to day. No, this is my storm because my grandmother has cancer for the third time, having to give up the home that was built for her and her ex-husband back when my mom and aunt were kids and live with my parents in their house. This is my storm because my other grandmother is ill and the doctors have yet to pinpoint what exactly is making her so sick, what exactly is making her lose so much weight. This is my storm because I feel like I'm losing a sense of self in this place. Not because there are so many people here, but there are. No, because I've changed from this summer. Yes, it was bound to happen and no, I shouldn't be so surprised, but when I talk to my boyfriend and I don't tell him about nearly falling down the stairs, or guys who think my guy friends are dating me or even something day to day - that's not good.

Being away is enough of a strain, so I sought to distance myself from him instead of provoking more pain on either end. So when I'm told about things that happened at work, things that happened at church or with the family, or even just trips he's had to take, I don't go 'Oh, I wish i had been there. I should have been there,' although sometimes I do like in the case of this past weekend. I simply take it, remember it, but don't attach any emotion to it. I've started bottling things up instead of getting them out in the open. If I discuss something about family problems, I don't always immediately tell him about it and I realize this is hurting us both in the long run if I continue on this path. I'm just not sure how else to cope with this. I mean, it isn't as if I'm across seas, I'm just here in Tennessee, five and a half or so hours away from him, that's all. I should be a bit more mature, a bit more independent than what I'm displaying but it just seems... wrong. So very wrong to be away from my family but especially him.

In my Introduction to Sociology class today, there was something that was on the powerpoint that made me hastily scribble it down in my lack-of-sleep stupor. "Significant others is used to refer to those individuals who are most important in the development of the self." ~George Herbert Mead

I shouldn't allow distance and the frustration and grief of not being able to be beside him cloud my judgement and make me a stranger to someone who has better me and my life and with any luck, will continue to help me improve for the rest of our lives. I only hope that I've helped him in the 'development of the self' also.

What Will You Do, Love?

"What will you do, love, when I am going,
With white sail flowing,
The seas beyond?-
What will you do, love, when waves divide us
And friends may chide us
For being fond? "

"Though waves divide us, and friends be chiding,
In faith abiding,
I'll be true!
And I'll pray for thee on the stormy ocean,
In deep devotion-
That's what I'll do! "

"What would you do, love, if distant tidings
Thy fond confidings
Should undermine?
And I, abiding 'neath sultry skies,
Should think other eyes
Were as bright as thine?"

"Oh, name it not - though guilt and shame
Were on my name,
I'd still be true;
But that heart of thine - should another shar it -
I could not bear it!
What would I do?"

"What would you do, love, when home returning,
With hopes high-burning,
With wealth for you,
If my bark, which bounded o'er the foreign foam,
Should be lost near home -
Ah! what would you do?"

"So thou wert spared - I'd bless the morrow
In want and sorrow,
That left me you;
And I'd welcome thee from the wasting billow,
This heart thy pillow -
That's what I'd do!"


~Samuel Lover

Passing Thoughts

Okay, so I lied, I didn't get a chance to post last night. So to make up for that, I'll do two posts right now. One, a writing from Tuesday, and three, a post for today.

I'm surrounded by freedom and the air is sweet. It rained earlier today and I am greatly enjoying the sun through the clouds. It's rays are muted and yet they still lend light to this bustling campus. Voices are overheard, snippets of conversation that leaves the unintentional eavesdropper with an urgent sense of curiosity to learn more. People laugh and joke among themselves as cars weave around groups on their way to class, to eat, to study, or to sleep.

The breeze is cool and damp against my bare shoulders but it recedes, so I don't reach for my jacked. Instead, I continue to listen and to watch. The train, a few hundred feet away from where I'm sitting, creates a steady hum as it moves over the tracks, pierced every now and then by the train's whistle. It's barely four o'clock back home and already the crickets are out in full chorus. Yesterday my roommate captured a cricket that was in our room and set it free outside.

I hear car doors shut, doors to dorms slam, the grinding crunch of skateboard wheels and the hollow sound of the piece of wood that they're attached to echo across the steady din. I feel the thrum of a car engines as they passes underneath where I sit and I hear the cars as their tires crunch over gravel two stories below.

Everything is a rich and vibrant shade of green here, everywhere you look it's green. In some of the trees, you can already begin to see the beginnings of fall. Gorgeous greens take on a sickly yellow-green hue and in some cases, some have already started turning orange and red. I can't wait for the fall here. I have a feeling that it will be magnificent. To think, people pay a lot of money to see the changing of the leaves in Gatlinburg and I get a show right here on campus...

Slime Green Nails and Me

Having attended an art school for a few years in middle school and my entire high school career, I suppose it isn't any surprise that I accept, nay, welcome change. You're talking to the girl who had her ears pierced in sixth grade when she was twelve. Normal you say? Sure, and perhaps getting the second hole nowadays is normal when you're eighteen and a senior in high school too. When I was a freshman, I was given a few spray cans of that temporary hair dye? I wanted purple and green and blue, but instead I received pink and blue. Of course, at that time, I took what I could get. So usually during lunch, one of my friends would take the spray cans out of my locker, where I had them, play with my hair (put it in a pony tail, pigtails, braid it... it was still pretty short back then so they couldn't do much...) and then basically spray paint it. I would get pink and blue stripes, blue all over with purple dots, pink and blue dots at random - you name it, they tried it.

For some unknown reason to me, people have always enjoyed playing dress up with me. They'll bring clothes from home, make up, nail polish, ribbons and accessories and just treat me like a doll. Most of the time, if I agreed with the vision, I would hold still and do as I was told, enchanted with the reality that there are so many possibilities to change myself. They would put me in corsets, put bows on my pigtails, draw spider webs and trees on my face with eyeliner, coloring it with eye shadow. They'd bring a short skirt for me to wear, some fishnet and pants that were tight with straps on them (like the Tripp pants they sell at Hot Topic still), and arm warmers with metal on them. I would come home with my nails painted black, my nails in a rainbow, my hair a colorful mess and make up still staining my skin, but those few hours at school, I was a beautiful little doll in class. They even used to put temporary tattoos on my body or free hand it with a permanent marker in places that I could cover up from my parents...

Ah the days of being a doll... In a sense, I miss it because I didn't have to make any choices, I was just told to bring a few things and then to sit still or put this on. It was easy. A simple metamorphosis before class, a touch up during lunch, and then back to my normal self (with the exception of the nail polish, colorful hair, etc) to go to my mom's work or home. My mom hated what I did with myself, often commenting on how I should stop, but she never really put her foot down. That was always my dad. I think she understood the need for experimentation and I'm glad she allowed me that little freedom.

As I grew accustomed to the environment of high school and started becoming less wild and more subdued (not that I'm anywhere close to being subdued even now), I began to hate being a doll for all the reasons that I loved it. I wanted to choose what I wore. I wanted to be able to go home and not get disapproving looks from my parents and I didn't like having to jump in the shower as soon as I got home, before dinner. I wanted to make my own choices - so I did. I still hung out with the goth/gamer/techie group so my wardrobe consisted mostly of black things, mostly really lose fitting guy clothes that I stole off various people, although some of them were purchased for me. But I did cease the excessive make up and I began asserting myself a little more forcefully.

Even as I adjusted to this new change where no one played doll with me because dolls shouldn't complain and talk back, they should just do as they were told, I evolved further into my current self. I love color, I always have. I've always loved bright happy colors although my favorite color is purple and I'm usually wearing blue. It got to the point where three out of the five days at school, I'd wear mostly black with a little color but then I'd shift to color the other two days with jeans. Then I shifted a little more, to where I was wearing colors most days and black was reserved for a few occasions. Then I stopped caring and basically wore whatever I felt like for that day, including black with bright color, which made a few of my friends tilt their heads at me...

Then I started clothes that actually fit me. One of my boyfriends when I was a freshman pretty much broke up with me because he thought that I wasn't wearing clothes for my body type. Apparently he wanted clothes that were form fitting and at that point in time, I was uncomfortable with my body, pretty much have been since I was a kid, but luckily with a little help (and a lot of love and support from my boyfriend) I've learned to love myself. But now I wear t-shirts that are still guy t-shirts but they're mediums, comfortable, and show off just enough to see that I have a shape but still leave enough to the imagination. I wear jeans mostly and have tried (in vain) to give up my black wardrobe but at least I don't wear black as much. My hair is longer and I no longer color it with anything, permanent, semi-permanent, or washable. If I wear make up it's for a special occasion and usually because I have to (i.e. my sister's wedding, my graduation, etc...). And usually, I reserve the really colorful and off the wall nail polish for my toes. Which brings us to the title, slime green nails and me. I met a girl with purple hair on Monday named Eliza. Short for Elizabeth. Coming from an art school, people in black, people with different colored hair, people that just seem off don't bother me a bit. Actually, they comfort me. Which is why if you took a look at my friends, you'd find it eclectic but mostly made of guys...

You have Joe, who looks like he should be lifting weights, on the football field or something but is actually a very strong, very big lovable teddy bear of a guy. He's in my Honors Composition class. You have Oran, who is in/was (?) in the army and has come back to finish his education who is also rather large, rather muscular, and a lovable teddy bear. He lives about six or so doors down from me in my hall. There's Jordan, who looks rather gay at times but that's because he works at Old Navy... I mean, what can I say... It's Old Navy. But he is also rather large, not that muscular, and a teddy bear. He's in my Honors Composition class too, and my US History since 1877. There's Justice, who isn't much on the large, or muscular, side. He is, however, intelligent, rather funny, and also an English Major so... Met him at orientation and he's in my history class also. There's Dan, who's scrawny and tall, very talented on the violin and rather athletic in the fact that he likes to run. He lives on the third floor and I met him at orientation too. And then there's Michael, his roommate Taylor, his friends Skinner and Jeff. Of the four, Michael and I are the closest, but Jeff likes my massages and the way I scratch his back in circles, Skinner tolerates and gets along with me pretty well because I'm one of the few (perhaps only) girl friend that Michael has... Skinner also called me a lady, which made me blush a little. Taylor, I question his sexuality because I want to say gay but I also know, having gone to an art school, that just because of the stuff you like, the way you wear your hear, and the clothes you wear doesn't make you gay. But anyways, his birthday was yesterday and I made him a card which he's still awwwwing about, he loves it so much.

And Michael? Well, I kinda didn't give him a choice in being my friend or not. We were split up into our mini-groups at orientation, we went around the room and told everyone our name, where we were from, and our intended major. Upon hearing that he was majoring in German and taking into account that he was wearing black shoes, black pants, black hoodie, and had a DS on the desk in front of him, combined with his glasses? I knew we'd kick it off. After the session, I pretty much went up to him and said if I needed any help with German that I was going to bug him. For the rest of the orientation, we ate and sat next to each other, talking about anime, video games, movies, music, etc. Now we see each other whenever the other's bored or wants to watch a movie or something. Not a bad set up but as one guy pointed out in the laundry room, most people would be quite uncomfortable if they stood next to Michael. After all, he's six foot plus, quite big, and rather menacing in all the black. Plus he's crazy as hell. Which made me laugh and hop down from the washer I was sitting on to hug and be hugged by Michael, which made the guy in the laundry room give me a funny look. I told the guy, 'He's just a big teddy bear...' Gotta love stuff like that.

As you can see, teddy bear is the phrase of the day. I call them teddy bears because they can be big bears of guys, violent, protective, and good if you ever need help with a problem be it personal or in your studies, but they're also funny, intelligent, generally good natured, and are really just looking out for you. I think every girl should have like five of these guys lined up... You'll need them.

I meant to post this on September 9th, 2008 but apparently I pressed the wrong button.

Real post for today later this evening.

All In The Name Of A Clothes Basket

So I asked my friend for a ride to Walmart because I needed a clothes basket. He thought it'd be funny to come up behind me while I was at the jewelry counter talking to a woman about replacing the battery in my watch while I was there and kicked me on my ass, sending me slamming into the counter. This resulted in a chewing out by me. Then when I was doing laundry earlier tonight, the end result of me picking up the basket I had purchased earlier was me pulling my back. I had to call another friend to help me move my laundry and carry my basket after I had folded my laundry. Right now, I am rightly and thoroughly pissed.

That's all I really have to add about today. Taking meds, can't carry much in my bag tomorrow... I hate college students, especially male college students who do things that are harmful and think it's funny and the chicks who try entirely too hard and more worried about their looks and their boyfriends than their grades... Oh well, that's pretty much the entire nation with the exception of a delightful and unique few...

Chopsticks and History Class

For the record, I honestly think that Honor classes don't even begin to prepare you for college. When my honors English IV teacher told us that she was going to treat us like we were in college even though we weren't in her AP class, I thought I'd get a taste for the way classes would really be. Oh how wrong I was. She did take things late, she did give us extensions on deadlines, she did give us extra credit... People here will grab you by the balls and swing you by them if you don't read the material, if you don't take the quizzes seriously and especially if you don't seek help for your problem areas. At least I'm learning this early on in the semester instead of the end of it, which is good.

My history class is US History Since 1877 (because the US History Prior 1877 was full when I tried to sign up for it) is actually pretty okay. Sure, it's taught by someone in their fifties, sixties with white hair, a mustache and glasses (pretty much what you'd expect a professor of history to look like) but generally, he tries to make jokes and keep the subject light. He isn't the best lecturer for those of us who would like to take notes because he simply doesn't repeat things. He generally is just a rattling on and on without thinking about repeating years, statistics, names he hasn't written on the board, etc. After you get past that, I suppose some would consider it easy. My problem is that he gives quizzes (announced quizzes, there's one coming up on Wednesday on Chapter 17) that are five questions, multiple choice. Now, either I have a problem understanding the options given to me or I misunderstand the answers given to me to choose from. Or, which is probably the more likely case, I'm not able to compute the textbook. I read the sections, I look up the organizations and people and treaties and such that he gives us to study, but somehow either I'm not grasping what the text is trying to tell me or my study skills are sorely lacking. On this one, I'm voting for both the not grasping the text and my study skills.

Worst of it is, I read the sections then study the morning of the quiz over breakfast with Jordan. This last time, I studied the night before with Joel. You would think I would be better prepared for the quiz but no - oh, no. Jordan got a one hundred on his quiz, Joel's off to class now but since I helped him study before his quiz, I'm sure he also did better than me. I'm going off the fact that he was hugging me constantly after the quiz and calling me his hero and such. So why is it that I'm the one not getting it? I honestly don't understand. I guess it's like chopsticks. Some people pick it up easily, some you have to give the children's version of chopsticks to (where they're attached at the top instead of being separate?), and some you have to teach slowly. I suppose I'm the latter, which bothers me. So I'm off to study for my quiz on Wednesday and hope that the construction outside my window will cease. They seem to be tilling up the land for some reason unbeknownst to me... But everytime something goes -bang- I jump out of my seat like two feet in the air. Gives me a heart attack every time. Music isn't drowning it out which is bad...

I'll post more later probably if I'm not busy, which I don't think I will be but I do have to do my laundry today, running out of clothes. And I have a present waiting for me from my parents next I see them, a webcam and my old iPod fixed. Yay!

Grey Clouds Across the Horizon

Stray trembles course through my bones, my muscles, as I sit here at my desk with thoughts of the week before, with this week, and of this weekend running through my head. All I can think is that I'm tired. Emotionally, physically... I'm just tired. I'm tired of being away from my family, from my friends, from my love. I'm tired of not being able to sleep in my own bed, I'm tired of not being able to see the walls that I painted with my parents, the clouds I painted with my mom. I'm tired of having to share a room with someone who isn't family and who isn't of my choosing.

I'm tired of not being around people who understand me. They don't know how to deal with me when I'm angry and I don't want to talk about it, I just want to cool off, they don't know how to deal with me when I'm acting like a little kid, just excited about anything and everything. They aren't sure how to read my looks or my movements, they aren't sure what I mean by what I say at times, they can't figure me out. For some, it'll probably take years, a lot of them will never be able to figure it out. A few, a very small few will be able to learn and they'll be few, far between, and very dear to me.

I'm tired of having to handle things by myself. Yes, I know, I have people I can ask help from, advice from, but it just scares me , it does, to know that I'm here stranded. I don't mind doing things like my appointments or my prescriptions, but I can't come home and plop the book down in front of mom and dad and say explain this to me another way. I have arms to hold me, but they aren't arms of people that I know well, they aren't arms of the people I love, they're pleasant strangers. When I'm sad and crying, when I'm angry and pissed of, when I'm just being me or sarcastic or silly - they can't deal with it. I just wish I could go home, but I refuse to fail, I refuse to go home from this place defeated. That's why I keep saying that I'll wait a year.

Oh I'm so tired. So very tired. I haven't been able to sleep well and when I have been able to sleep, it's been short naps. I wake up easily during the night, with sounds from the hallway (people coming in the door, people leaving rooms, people entering rooms, people talking on their cell phones, people walking in groups down the hall - I can hear everything). I think I wake when my roommate rolls over, when my refrigerator turns on and hums for a while. I wish I could just knacker myself out so that I can finally get some sleep, but every time I think I've gotten to that point, I found myself awake in the middle of the night and I wish I could find something to help me.

It isn't all doom and gloom, mind you, it really isn't, but sometimes I get to the point where I'm just heart broken. I miss my friends that understood me, that knew me, that loved me for who I am with all of my little quirks. Here I'm just like everyone's little sister, they look out for me but... I miss my family, I miss my grandmother especially even though my grandmother's sickness at times did depress me. I miss my dog, and I even miss that hateful, mean African Grey parrot that's been around since before I was born. Ye gods, I hope he doesn't last until after I'm dead and gone, that would just be too much... Devil incarnated...

I miss the places I used to frequent, even school. I miss the used bookshop in Hillsboro Village (Bookman & Bookwoman), I miss walking up and down the Village, catching shuttles to places around West End and 21st Avenue, I miss walking around Vanderbilt hospital (both the general and the Children's) and the Vanderbilt campus. Since moving up here back in 2000, with my mom working at Vanderbilt since then, I have become very attached to the place, extremely well versed in places where it's safe to cross, places it's better not going, the best food, the best buys... Everything. That was my stomping ground and I loved it so very much. Although I'm versed vaguely where things are here, it is by far no where near what it was like there.

Sure, some say that the longer I'm here, the more comfortable I'll become, but I miss Nashville. I miss the people, the life there, the prosperity. For being Johnson City, it feels very small. I'm tired of having nothing to do, of not being able get my fix of my favorite sights such as the Parthenon, the Belle Meade Mansion, the houses that were built over by the parks that looked like mini-mansions and mini-castles. I miss every road we went down that was familiar to me and I'm tired of feeling so lost. I feel like my compass is broken, I don't know what direction I want to take anymore. I'm just exhausted. There are so many things, so many many things and I'm not sure where to stop, where they stop, so I guess I'll just stop here and try and at least not be tired in the morning. And that reminds me, it's Friday, I can sleep in and now I can turn off the alarm. Huzzah! A small silver lining.

Stray Thoughts On A Word

Please - six letters, three of them vowels, three of them consonants. A one syllable word that is either used in polite conversation or used to mean pleasing or pleasurable. Generally, when I use please, I'm either answering a question of whether I'd like to do something or have something or I'm asking someone to do something for me. Most of the time, my please has a meaning but occasionally I just want to look at someone as say please. Please what? they may ask me but you know what? Sometimes I just don't know. I don't know if I'm pleading for my future, forgiveness for my past, or requesting permission for the present. I don't know if I'm asking for someone to listen to me, someone to hold me, someone to just treat me like a human being - I honestly don't know, there are so many options for that open-ended 'please'.

Perhaps I'm asking for forgiveness for being so far from home, perhaps I'm begging for him to take me in his arms when next I see him and every time after, perhaps I regret the choices I've made up to this point concerning college. Perhaps I regret cheating us of our time together, perhaps I'm sorry for leaving the house when my grandmother is so sick and I feel the guilt of not being there for her. I'm sorry for not being a better person but I hope to change that. I hope to make those who supported me proud, those who thought I couldn't succeed ashamed, and I hope to show those who helped me along the way that I was actually worth the effort. Mayhaps it was a plea for a better life, a happier one, one where I can earn my way instead of relying so heavily on others. I can make my own path in this world, I know I can - maybe it was plea to not have to walk it alone. I don't know what I have to ask for, have to say I'm sorry for, or have to thank for except everything and nothing. Maybe that's the point.

At any rate, I've begun to tremble. Perhaps I should go to sleep. Yes, this is über short for me but if I start typing any more, I will sound like the love sick fool that I've already portrayed myself to be, so I'll cease. Until tomorrow, twitter twitter.

Wish Token

My mother bought me two tokens that I saw that I wanted before I left for college. We hadn't been looking for them, we had actually been shopping for unmentionables, but there they were, on the counter as we were checking out and I just had to get a few. They're metal coin-like objects, about the size of quarters, with shapes cut out the center of them and words written on ether side of the tokens. The first one I picked out was a 'Hug Token', a heart cut out of the center with the words 'Good For One Hug' around one side of it. The other one was a 'Wish Token', a star cut out of the center with the words 'Good For One Wish' around one side of it.

I gave one to my boyfriend on a weekend when I was feeling particularly vulnerable, paranoid about the upcoming leave for college, everything. I, of course, gave him the hug token, because at that time, I just wanted to be held. Hell, I wanted and needed to be held at that time. For most of the day it was all I could do not to cling to him but I finally gave up and just clung to him. He has always been my home, my safe haven, my calm port, my warmth and my light, my joy and my heart. I was glad I got all of the fear and need out of me that weekend because even though it was difficult to leave him in the end, it would have been worse had I bottled it up. He gave me a form of release and relief.

The other token, I have in the bottom of a film canister with quarters on top. Talking to him tonight, I thought of it, and I wished. I wished with all my heart that he were here in front of me or I were there in front of him. I wished for his arms around me, his lips on mine, his heartbeat thundering in my ear... I wished to be curled up next to him, listening to his voice, watching him smile, just in general watching him. I miss the way he walked around, head held high with a mischievous look in his eyes. I miss everything about him, I miss every single thing about him, even the way he bobs his head (which my mother isn't fond of) whenever he's sure of himself or giving me an encouraging signal. I love that man so very much...

Short one for tonight. I miss him too much, and I'm not happy with a few things local, so I'll just let things alone for the night and try to end on a positive note. I love him, he loves me, and we can't wait to see each other again but at least I know we'll see each other soon. Twitter twitter.

Laundry Room Day Dreams

There's something about having to stay in a warm room with the thrum of washers and dryers running that just lull me into a sense of semi-stupor. The sound of the computer and the sound of a motor running (as in a car motor) have the same effect on me but for now, let's stick to the laundry room because I did laundry today.

It's the thoughts that occur during this time of relaxation when it's just me and the machines that really get me though. From my position curled up on top of the eighth washer, which had my clothes in it, I had a clear view of both the doors that lead into the laundry room so no one was going to sneak up on me. But being on top of the washer and next to a running dryer just made my eyelids start to droop so I rested my head against the wall, my ears intent on any sound of the door opening. I opened my eyes several times because my paranoia got the better of me and a noise I'd hear from the machines would sound like the click of the door opening. But it's those few moments where I actually was able to doze in relative peace that had strange images and thoughts filtering through my head. Perhaps it was partly from the heat... I know not.

But the thoughts I had made me think, why am I here? Why am I doing this? Questions he'd asked me before seemed more lethal in this setting of a college dorm laundry room. Why exactly was I here, in this dorm, on this campus? Was it because I wanted to escape family? Perhaps my family was pressuring me to choose to go somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was college? Did I really choose this path? And if I did, what was I thinking? Why did I decide to stray so far from home, why did I leave those who love me behind and decide to go so far away that they couldn't possibly get to me if there were an emergency? What the hell was I thinking when I did all of this? I still don't have the answers for it.

All I know is that I miss my home. Not necessarily the life that I had over the summer, I would offer some drastic changes for when I returned home for good, but I miss my home and I miss the people that I know and those who I was just beginning to know. I forsake one happiness for something that I thought had to be experienced before my life was complete and now I know it isn't the education you get. It isn't the job you receive, the pay you earn, it isn't even the food that you consume that bring you the greatest joys in life. What brings you the greatest joy that you will ever know is another person or a group of people, like family whether they're the family of friends that you chose or the family you were born into.

I feel like a mistake has been made but I know had I not experienced this, I would have gone through life wondering if my not going was a mistake or not. Now I know. Some are going, oh, she's going to give up now. Hardly. I will finish this year at this university and then, depending on what all happens this year, I may transfer home or I may stay and rent an apartment. Either way, things will change drastically from what they are now and I look forward to that day. And any break my love can get to come visit me. But I'll stay off that subject for fear of being too emotional or something silly.

But my laundry finished and all was well in the end. I'm still here and I will remain here. And no matter what my choice, I know at least one person who will always support me, just like he always has. And I couldn't be any more grateful to him for all that he has been and all that he has done for me. My dearest love, my life, my shining star in this bleak immature existence known as college. Whatever happened to the scholars?

Promises and Observations

If I have any audience at all, which is pretty difficult to imagine but I will attempt to imagine one all the same, they are probably wondering as to my inconsistency as of late. After all, prior to these past few weeks, I've been pretty good about updating every day even if it meant posting some of my old things just to pacify this said imaginary audience. Instead, you have been met with silence. I will say this to you now - college is going to stomp all over me for a little while so my schedule may be erratic at times but I will still try to update at least once a day, Monday through Friday, with thoughts and problems and such. That's a promise.

While I was brushing my teeth tonight in my bathroom (our dorm rooms all have private bathrooms for every room since it's co-ed by dorm room not by floor), I dropped a little toothpaste into the sink. Now, I didn't think about it, I was most interested in brushing my teeth, flossing them and the likes but I noticed how that seemingly solid blob had slid down a little, like a paint drop, making it's slug-like way down to the drain. Now, there wasn't enough of it to actually make it to the drain so I had to wash it away but it did get me thinking. Sometimes it's the strangest things that trigger your thought process, you know?

I started thinking about how my college career has gone so far. I've started out solid for the first week or two, I've been eating rather regularly, drinking lots of fluids, eating things like salads which I don't normally eat - I mean, I've been doing alright for myself. And so I think of myself at the top of this wash basin. But the more I slide into college life, the more I'm being sucked into things like late-night movies, hours spent playing video games and the likes. As the weeks continue and I continue down this path, I'll be even more entrenched in this habit of not studying like I should and blowing it off for frivolities. Now, those who are looking at this are either going, That's what college is about, fun!; Boy, that girl has a good head on her shoulders.; or You shouldn't coup yourself up in your room/the library and miss what's going on around you. Now, while all of these statements have some merit of truth to them all (college can be fun but you shouldn't shirk off your studies to have that fun because your grades will fall and then you won't be in college but don't keep your nose to the grindstone, lighten up), I've realized that a better schedule needs to be constructed so that by the time I get to the drain (i.e. Winter Break), I'll have earned that break instead of messing around.

Now, some heads may be spinning as to where this all came from but the explanation is simple. I have reading that I need done before class tomorrow that I don't have done and now I'll be a bit behind in the classes. Fortunate for me, a few of them are lecture style. Unfortunate for me, a few of them don't announce quizzes. So it's a fifty fifty if the material I speed read is relevant to the next class or not. So with this thought in mind, I'll take my leave and impart these words of wisdom to current and future college students - Always check your syllabus!

Thursday Morning Drizzle

Okay, so I haven't been avoiding this, it's more along the lines that I would think about it and then forget about it or be too tired to do much about it. So Tuesday... Tuesday was the floor meeting, meet and great, drink pop and eat ice cream sandwiches, and learn just how many assholes live on your floor. Yay. When I got back from the meeting, I read the pages for History and went to bed, completely knackered, around eleven thirty. Wednesday, I admit it, I gamed. I finally got a chance to play Soul Calibur 4 and I find it absolutely magical. I'm still learning the controls on the Xbox 360 but I mean, for someone with just a basic knowledge of the controller? I did pretty fantastically. Then I had to do laundry after supper and I literally had three of the small washes going at around the same time, which takes them about forty to wash, an hour or better to dry. I say an hour or better because I was tired, I was stressed, and I just shoved all three loads into one of the dryers. My towels are still damp this morning.

That being said, I suppose I'll do an update while I have some time to myself and I'm enjoying the peace and quiet that is the dorm room. I'll be enjoying it even more this weekend because my parents can't get away, my boyfriend needs to stay at work and can't go on a camping trip with his family like he does every year, and, well, I'm stuck here. Which, in comparison, I don't mind because my roommate won't be here. I won't have to listen to the buzzing of her phone, her weird ring tone, her obnoxious phone voice (which goes up several volume notches than her talking voice, her germ phobia, her need to take a shower before she goes to bed every night and to have a fan blowing on her face while she sleeps - I mean the listen honestly goes on. She's a sweet kid, but I think she needs to stay home with mommy so mommy can cater to her needs because I won't. Thankfully, the crying has stopped, her sickness has seemed to have disappeared, and besides the above, she seems to be fairly happy and adjusted. I think I'll be much happier when she's not here this weekend.

The whole 'pack my lunch before my first class in the morning' seems to be going well, the only problem I've found is that it conflicts with what little time I have to eat breakfast so I still have to sort that out. I mean, I have dry cereal but between making my pb&j, picking a bag of chips, grabbing a fruit, packing my water bottles, and checking to make sure I have all my materials, the forty five minutes I have before class barely seem like enough time. You're saying ' Well, you could do some of that before you go to bed,' and believe me, I've tried, but there are some things... Some things it's better to wait until the morning. Like making the sandwich. But honestly, I seem unable to get out of here in a timely manner with eating breakfast. I'll figure it out though, worry not. And before you suggest that I get up earlier, it's bad enough I only had seven hours of sleep last night, getting up earlier won't help my situation currently.

And for the record, I'm going to start doing laundry twice a week. I realize it's a dollar to wash and a dollar to dry but yesterday was ridiculous with three washers. So I'm thinking Monday, I'll do the stuff from the weekend, and Thursday I'll do the stuff from the week. Or something, also to be figured out at a later date. Right now I'm just glad I have clothes to wear in this drizzle.

It's been raining all week and even though I've seen hints of sunshine, it's supposed to rain tomorrow to. It'll be clear this weekend, they say, and I'm looking forward to an extra free day already, but I have a sneaking suspicion it's going to rain next week some too... I'm not sure what's up with all this rain. I mean, I know about the tropical storm and everything, we're talking about the affects that it might have on people's lives and behaviours it were to hit now, at the end of the month, like Katrina did in 2005 in my sociology class, but this drizzle is just sapping it out of you. You never realize how different the walk is from one class to another until you try it on a dry, warm sunny Sunday like I did - a dry run, if you will - then hit the classes, soaked or sprinkled on. It's especially difficult uphill, but I've managed. The only class I've been even remotely late to was today and it was my sociology class, but I arrived before the teacher and the reason I was a bit late was because of Jordan, and my statistics class, but that's because of a detour I took into the ladies' room. After having two bottles of water, it was rather a necessity. I can honestly say I've had more water here than I have ever consumed in a week over the summer.

And I suppose that about wraps things up. I'm okay with the lecture style classes now as long as it's not the intro to music. Her voice grates on the ears in that higher pitched annoying blond sort of way.

Tears and Fears

To have come this far, over two hundred fifty miles from my home, just to regret it and wish to return home is not just selfish, but it's also abusive. Emotionally, you're rattled as are those affected. You abuse natural resources by hauling all of the stuff here only to decide to move it all back, you abuse the money you signed for loan wise and scholarship wise, and worst of all, you abuse what little time you have on this lovely green earth. Even if you would give everything you have just to go back, even if it was worth the knowledge that you failed your original goal of college. This is what I keep reminding myself when I look at my roommate. She has been homesick since her parents left. Since they have left, she has talked about nothing more than how she hates it here, how she wishes she could go back, how she's not sure she's even going to make it to the semester...

Even though I'm so heartsick about home, I know I'm on better footing in the long run.

How? I have the support of my family, who helped me move up here and are only a phone call away (mom, dad, and Miranda too). I have the support of my wonderful boyfriend, whom, although I think I burden him too much with insignificant worries and fears, has stuck by me and supports whatever decision I make in the end as long as he's somewhere in the plans. I'm thankful for his family, which has been great and supportive also - I mean, I have all of these people who love me, who support me, who are here to catch me when I fall no matter what. Just knowing that makes me feel eons ahead of a lot of these people who seem more interested in themselves and having fun than attending classes.

And classes have just started.

This is what I get as a general impression from the people I've watched. I agree, it can't all be books - I'm all for the Nerf war that occurred earlier tonight between two third years on the second floor in front of the library. I mean, yeah, this stuff is going to get to you and you're going to need to unwind. But some of these guys? And girls, because I question the actual presence of brain cells (most if not all were lost in the tanning/bleaching process) - they act as if the parents are out of town and their parents are doctors, living in this expensively modern place and they are dead set on trashing the hell out of it before the parents come home. The thing is, by the time they realize that the parents are on the way home, there isn't any time to clean up the mess they've made - I'm expecting the campus to be a little less in form of bodies next semester.

At least I know I won't be leaving.

My plan right now is to make it through the first year with the best grades that I can manage, work but not forget to play a little too. After that? It's up in the air. I may continue regularly, give it two full years of college and then become a part time or after this I may become a part time student or even quit all together. I just think I owe this thing a year. After all, I did work to bring up my ACT score, I filled out all of those applications (six applications, one rejection, five acceptances), sent in all of those application fees, filled out the paperwork for FAFSA, filled out the loan papers from the financial aid office... We won't even go into how much money we spent preparing my room for my presence in it, as in making it rather homey and livable instead of a cell...

Hopefully tomorrow won't be too much for me.

Pocky and Watercolors

In less than five hours, my parents and I will be out on the open road towards Gatlinburg, where we have our reservations at what used to be a Holiday Inn Express but is now a 'lodge' of some sorts. Why Gatlinburg when my college is over an hour away in Johnson City? Because, we felt like it.

No, really it's because of the NASCAR race in Bristol. It has been decided that I am from the North, whether I was born and raised there or not. Not only do I hate tea (sweet, unsweet, cold, or hot), but I hate biscuits. What's worse is that I hate gravy, especially biscuits and gravy. I think that cornbread should have sugar in it instead of just plain Jiffy corn mix and milk. I hate most if not all canned vegetables unless done correctly. Especially green beans. I neither talk with a Southern drawl nor do I put up with NASCAR or stupidity. I just don't fit.

Which is fine, I guess. It would have been scary if my boyfriend and I had actually everything in common. He loves biscuits and gravy, which we generally have at Waffle House. Why Waffle House? Because no matter the hour, he can order a hamburger and biscuits and gravy if he wants while I have a pork chop or whatever else catches my fancy. It is our eat out of choice when we're in a hurry and we're too tired to argue over where to eat. Not that we argue, it's just that he'll suggest Jack in the Crack, I'll suggest Taco Hell, so forth and so on.

Everything (or almost everything) is surprisingly packed in the Jeep leaving me little room but I'll manage somehow. I always do. I can't complain this trip because all of what's in the back is mine. Just mine, no one else's. All of the overnight bags are being placed in the baggage carrier that's already been placed on the Jeep. I've had my last meal at home, said good bye to Donald, the family friend, my grandmother, and my boyfriend - which was a teary business but more on my part than his. One of my friends said that college will be good for me, it'll teach me independence. This friend doesn't know me very well.

After all, he's talking to the kid who, when she was three or four years of age, before they came out with the holster for kids and a leash for the parents, had a dog collar around her waist and a leash for her mom to hold onto. You're talking to the kid that had her parents on first name basis with the principals thanks to her antics. I was hell when I was a kid, I was hell when I was a teenager, I've surprisingly enough calmed down rather nicely and even then I'm the wild child. I've never had a problem with being independent, it's sharing and being a partner instead of just dealing with everything myself that's the learning experience. I'm going to have to let the distance not keep me from telling Jerry something that's bothering me. I'm just going to have to do what I always try to be with him - honest and open. Whatever happens will happen and he and I will work through it.

And what's with the title? I've been eating Pocky all night and I'm staring at my box of watercolors debating on whether or not to pack them. I think I will, for grins and giggles, along with my watercolor paper of course. There. That's decided. Now. Sleep. Perhaps I'll be able to post Friday. I doubt it so if not, happy weekend.

And it looks like I get another hour or two of sleep. Huzzah!

Awakening

Music is one of the greatest bonds between people. It awakens the senses. It sends your heart pumping into overdrive as adrenaline surges through you if you're listening to rock music as loud as your speakers will let you go without losing any quality of the music, the base turned as high up as it could possibly go - your chest is literally vibrating with the pulse of the bass or the crash of the drums. Your soul weeps for songs that are low in town but hyped up in power, like the Latin hymns. You can connect every human emotion to music because music can become a personification of whatever you could possibly feel. You can always find a song that matches your mood or your thoughts because music is like an unmovable bridge between people. It is the language of the heart and soul, a universal language that just leaves you reeling in the aftermath. Sure, not every band will be your favorite but remember - someone out there loves them, fancies themselves the band's biggest fan.

Well I've been trying to use music as therapy for the past few days, fighting out my fears with bands I normally wouldn't listen to who yelled and screamed at me in indiscernible intervals, and it wasn't even screamo. I've tried to sate my need for weepy songs then listen to songs that contrasted drastically, songs that normally would perk me right up. What I like to call driving music even though I have yet to get a drivers license. I've even taken my vengeance out on my fingers, practicing on my violin relentlessly until my arms were trembling just about as hard as my fingers and for once - for once!- music failed it. It hasn't helped, it hasn't even hindered, all it has done is left everything the same.

I figured talking it out would help. When people ask me if I'm excited about going to college I tell them the truth instead of, 'Do you know how many people have asked me that? I'm sick of it, it's so unoriginal.' I tell them that I'm afraid. That I've never been far from my family, that I don't want to leave the city I love, or the people (like my boyfriend). I don't want to lose the community I built myself, I just want this over with.

Jerry did ask me if I was ready for college. I told him no, that I wouldn't be ready for college until I was already done with it. That was the way it was for high school. My senior year, more than seventy percent of the incoming freshman thought that I was a freshman and it took them over half a year to believe otherwise, that I was, in fact, a senior and graduating. Some of the more adamant freshman said that they were going to make me fail the exams because they wanted another year of high school with me. I'm glad I didn't let them. I mean, sure, my GPA was a joke when I finished high school but my ACT scores were high, especially in English, and I'd been taking honors classes for four years. It was a cruddy GPA and I didn't try as hard as I should have but I still pretty much kicked ass in every subject even if my grade didn't always reflect that.

Every thought about this makes me ache. Tomorrow night is my last night home, my last meal at home, the last time I see my boyfriend, my grandmother, and a family friend, Donald, until closer to Thanksgiving break. Sure, my parents will try and visit me once a month and so will my boyfriend. Donald may even travel up the with parents to visit a few times but I mean it's not enough. I have momentos from everyone, I have pictures of some - I'm not going empty handed per se. But I am going with empty arms and a lonely heart. No trinket, no t-shirt, no book and no photograph can ever replacing actually having someone you care about there for you.

I don't even have to leave home to know that.

Inner Turmoil

Tears. They can cleanse your heart, cleanse your soul, cleanse your mind. They can unleash emotions that you had rather kept to yourself. They can make a bond stronger or they can break it. They can mend bridges or just add to the river divide. All in all, they can be very therapeutic. Now, I charge you to come across a woman who enjoys crying. Sure, we enjoying crying a little at the end of a particularly moving movie or book, but to actually burst into tears? Unless they're of joy or of laughter, tears are pretty rotten.

I especially have no love for tears. One, because I used to cry, often. Two, because I think it shows weakness. And three, because I'm just one of the guys.When I was a kid, if a teacher pulled me aside for a chat and I was even remotely in the red, I burst into tears. Defense mechanism but when I came back into the class, my face was red, my eyes red rimmed, my lashes sticking together - I'm not one of those girls you can cry prettily unless it's over a movie or something. Tears are good for one thing when you're a girl though - they help you get out of so much trouble.

I also cry when every I'm particularly emotional or involved over a subject. If I'm talking about my boyfriend, no, I'm not about to burst into tears, but if I'm arguing? Oh yes, the tears show. The voice gets choked, the ears start to burn, the nose starts to feel stuffy, the face starts to flush and it's all over folks. The water works start and once they start, it's never easy to take deep breaths to get them under control. Digging my nails into my palm helps a little, pinching my nose sometimes works, but nothing in the world makes it easy for me to stop crying in an emotionally charged situation. Sure, at my sister's wedding, my eyes misted for a moment but that's purely because my sister was crying and I have this annoying habit of crying with those I love.

Now why do I bring this up you ask? Ladies, if you've been following this blog at all, I'm sure you understand. Guys, well, I'll put it to you bluntly. I'm about to leave for college and I'm scared out of my mind. I'm from a close knit inner family (aka my mother, my father, myself, and my dog), I'm used to having someone to talk to when things go wrong, someone to bail me out, someone to borrow money from, get a recommendation from, share things with when we're in the car on the way to somewhere - a well functioning inner family. Dad's in charge and when dad isn't in charge, mom's in charge and when she isn't in charge, I'm usually home alone with the dog.

But yeah, I'm terrified. I'll also be leaving my boyfriend of three months, as of today. Our anniversary is the 18th of May, which is the date we both agreed on as the day we 'officially' became a couple. I feel so high school drama talking about it but I don't know quite how else to phrase it. We were something from the start, we were just more so after a certain point, that point being the day we went to Ren Faire and I didn't correct the veterans when they called the 'red coat' my boyfriend. We had been dating for nearly a month before that, so it seemed rather accurate. Later, I apologized because back then I still wasn't sure if he really wanted this, but he first asked why was I apologizing, then after that we discussed it and said yeah, so what, we're a couple.

Over the summer, it's become serious. Not life or death, still high school drama, 'oh-my-god, how-will-I-ever-live-without-you, if-you-died-I-would-die'. Nothing quite so high strung. Just an honest, mature relationship that knocks me off my feet every time I think about it, makes grown women go awwww and 'why doesn't my boyfriend/husband do that', and my friends have higher aspirations for themselves.

Still, this bedroom feels so sterile and I'm not even done packing all of my clothes and the extra things we bought over the weekend and my care package. I mean, it has my flair everywhere but I feel so detached from it. It's still my sanctuary, sure, but I mean it's different - and I don't like that feeling. I want when someone walks in to use my room as a guest room to feel like they're trespassing a little because while I'm still unmarried, unemployed (I won't be working through college), and in college, this room is mine, every single holiday, every single break unless something else comes up. I'm just so frustrated with this 'What will I take up the first trip, what will mom and dad bring up the next trip, will I need this, will I lose this, will this be worth the effort of taking or should I just buy it when I get there'.

Just... so much stress and it builds so quickly and it's over whelming. Just like the tears. I leave on Thursday, so I have two days home. What is home anyways?

This Time Next Week

Yeah, so this time next week, I'll be set up in my dorm. Freshman year at a state school, living in the newest dorm that's environmentally friendly on the first floor, which never happens to a freshman. I'll probably have the bed next to the door to our room and the door leading to our bathroom, which will be awful because the dorm door is right next to an outside door.

I'm hopping that when I get there we'll be able to get everything the way we want it to be. Honestly, I hate being by the door but I'm too paranoid to be next to the window. I'm not keen on matching any decor. If she doesn't like my rugs or something, I don't care. It's my stuff and I'll have my side of the room and she'll have hers. Not the best way to look at it but I'm not fashion forward and I don't think I have to be, when it comes to my room decor. Eh, enough about that.

I probably won't post next Thursday, because that's when I leave town officially but I'm crossing my fingers. Perhaps I'll at least get a quick connection, to say I'm here and everything's great. Not that I think anyone reads these mad ramblings, I know I sure wouldn't. I'm hoping by next Friday night I'll have my connection up and everything

So, yeah. Not thrilled about leaving this room, I kinda like living in a space by myself, more or less. I don't have to worry about someone else going through my stuff, asking to borrow a shirt, eating some of my food without asking, looking through my notes, possibly trying to break into my computer, looking over my shoulder - I don't like it at all, but even though I'm willing to take out a loan to pay for the newer, eco-friendly building, I'm not willing to fork over the nearly four thousand five hundred dollars needed to have my own room. I'd rather rent an apartment.

I know I'm taking some things up there - after all, that's what I spent most of the summer packing. But I also know that I'll be buying a lot of things once I'm up there. I'm not looking forward to it. Honestly, I'm scared. I've never been so far away from my family for such a long time and with grams so sick? I don't want to be. I don't want to leave Jerry, I don't want to leave my friends who are staying local. But I chose this school for me and for at least the first year, I'll stick with it. After that, I may come running home, because that place is big and it's scary and there are going to be a lot of people that are going to be rat bastards but there are going to be a lot of people who are going to be great, like Michael. I just hope I don't regret anything.

After all, I'm going to college to continue learning, the book style. If I wanted to keep learning real life experience, I would be saying 'Would you like fries with that?' After my sister's wedding, this should be a piece of cake, right? Right.

Good night world, have a good weekend and I'll see you Monday. Twitter twitter.

Thoughts of Writing

Everyone's had that day when you've sat down with a blank page in front of you, a pencil or pen in your hand, a million thoughts going in a million different directions, and you just can't seem to grasp one well enough to put it into words. Personally, that kind of thing happens to me often and it drives me crazy because when I do finally harness the ability to write? It's all over the place - just like my thought process. Take writing a letter to my laddy love, for instance. While I'm writing it, it's great, I have great things to say and I know just how I want to say it and what I want to say next. It's a fantastic feeling, never running out of things to say about him or to him, but thank whatever gods may be that I go back and I re-read my letters to him or I would be sending him a jumbled mess.

I was reading a book that Stephen King wrote on how to be a writer, why he's a writer, for my honors composition course this semester and something he said stuck with me. Now, he had gotten the advice from someone else, and I don't have it perfect, but it stuck with me. It's easy to write a lot of words but it's harder to write only the words you need. You can add and add and add all day long but in the end, you lose the message, you lose what you spent all that effort in trying to tell someone. If you can say it in a sentence, do it - it doesn't always have to be the length of a novel. I mean, if you're on a date with a woman at night and you're sitting on a bench, gazing up at the moon, are you going to give a drawn out version of why you think the moon is beautiful and why your date is beautiful? Come on, you're going to get right to it: 'The moonlight adds a very alluring mystical glow about you,' or some such nonsense.

I guess that's what I'm having trouble with the most. I've been writing a letter to him for days, nay, nearly a week now. I know it won't be my last letter, by any means, but this one - this one is important. The first letter, I mailed it to him while I was at orientation. Sure, he didn't get it until I was already back home, but I actually spent the entire ride to Johnson City writing that fabulous man of mine a letter with the intent of sending it to him when I got there - and I did. The second letter, I wrote before I was going to seem him one weekend about a month ago and I left it where he would find it. Just to make sure he would find it, I called him later and wished him a good night over the phone, then told him where to find it. Not very coy of me but I honestly don't care about games. This one - this one I want to hand to him and watch him read it. Silly, but true.

So here I am, with a notebook left over from high school, filling up pages and pages with what we've talked about, thinks I've wanted to tell him but I get my tongue too twisted to say, questions I bumbled in asking and want to clarify - and I'm look at this going, 'Why would I subject anyone to read all of this? Why not just keep it clean and simple?' I mean, he isn't going to sit down with four or five sheets of notebook paper in his hand and read it - I wouldn't expect him to. It's like trying to keep a guys attention while explain why you chose contact lenses over glasses - I mean, he loves the fact he can see your eyes, but honestly? He really doesn't care. So why bother?

Why bother? Why bother writing him a letter when I've written him twice before, when I tell him every time I see him that I love him, when I talk to him every night and I see him every weekend? Because I wake up every day and it's like falling in love all over again. I never cease to find things to love about him, I'm never bored with him, I'm never looking at my watch and going 'Ye gods, when will this end?' On the contrary, I'm wishing for more time with him because he makes me feel like no one else has ever made me feel. He makes he feel beautiful and makes me believe that I'm beautiful. I am happiest when I'm with him and I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with that man.

So why can't I just sit down and write a letter starting off with something like that?

Because I think I just did.

Tangled Nest

My thoughts are tangled and twisted, contorted into shapes and knots in such a way that I have no idea where one thought begins, ends, or crosses over another not. Everything is monochrome in color and all I hear is white noise, like the constant twittering of birds.

I'm thinking about college, about home, about love and about life.
I'm thinking about my grandmother, my sister, my parents and my boyfriend.
I'm thinking about weekends past, the weekend coming up and the three day weekends in college.
I'm thinking about packing up clothes, of hauling boxes and of my room losing my identity.
I'm thinking about my roommate, about my friends, about my classes and about money.
I'm thinking about financial aid, loans, scholarships and other things.
I'm thinking about marriage, my marriage, the family he and I could make.
I'm thinking about what could I really get with a degree in English, which is a question mark.
I'm thinking about all of my cds, dvds, favorite links and Facebook.
I'm thinking about how I still haven't solved that damn Rubik's cube sitting on the corner of my desk.
I'm thinking about rings, of how I hate diamonds because they seem cheap and common.
I'm thinking about my cell phone, how I wish it would ring more and I'd hear his voice.
I'm thinking about Italian food, my inability to eat a lot of meat, and fresh baked bread.
I'm thinking about ways to please, ways to give, ways to understand someone who is opening up but is slow and cautious in doing so.
Most of all I'm thinking about madness and this headache that's forming around my eyes, behind my eyes, between my eyes, from looking at the computer screen without my glasses and trying to untangle the mass of thoughts that is my nest.

I am left with a hazy crystal ball in the madness of it all and some tea leaves in a bottom of an empty cup that make no sense.

Music = Life

Music moves
Through a person
Like the wind
Moves through
The trees;
You can't see
The wind but
You can see
The effect it has
On the trees.

Music is like that.

Music strikes
An invisible chord
That makes the body
Vibrate and thrum
In answer
To unseen
Stroking fingers;
A person
Can't help but
Be moved by it.

Music is timeless like that.

Music expresses
Emotions better
Than an actor
Can compare to;
It holds sorrow,
Ignites passion,
Extinguishes hatred,
Nurtures love,
Banishes fears,
And dries tears.

Music is selfless like that.

Music slides
Past all defenses;
It echoes
Through everything
And doesn't care
About shape
Or size
Or age
Or color.
Music doesn't care.

Music is life like that.

~2007

Dear Friend

Dear Friend,

Why do you sit there, glued to the computer screen? A year ago, you didn't know how to use it or even have an e-mail account. Now you are a willing slave to technology. You don't listen to living, breathing people anymore, you just tell them to e-mail you. You blow off real friends in pursuit of those digital ones.

"Look at this," you tell me. "Did you know about this," you explain. "Have you ever heard of (such a thing)," and I feel like going insane. I want to yell at you, to tell you to make up your mind. That you can't not want me there in physical space with you and then you want me there at the same time. It doesn't work like that! You can't have it both ways! And I want to tell you I'm jaded. That nothing on that contraption will surprise me. That the world technology has given me has been disillusioned, and the only thing new and exciting anymore is actually living. Just living.

So get back to your virtual reality. You probably didn't hear me anyways. You're caught up in this thing, breathing electricity, fed on your inability to keep from it's keys and mouse. You're not you anymore. You're like an addict, unable to deny a craving and unable to stop once you're able to get your fix. You can't stop, can't eat or sleep, your mind gone on things that could be waiting on you in the magical hard drive kingdom. You have to have someone tell you to stop, to keep you from O.D.ing on information.

And you binge, trying to get as much as you can, as fast as you can. As if you were trying to make up for the years you spent in naivety. And when you come back, you seem adrift, lost. Unable to care about the real world. You're cradled in the arms of technology. One day it will bury you alive and pull your plug.

Your Friend,

Mlle Magpie

~2006