Things That Don't Matter At All (And Some Things That Do)

I still get embarrassed when people ask me out.
I think it's funny when people are rude.
I like to talk to myself.
I have a crappy job.
I hate working out.
I like soft pretzels and caramel candy.
I cry during every movie I watch.  I even cried during Sky High.
If I could, I'd watch youtube videos for the rest of my life.
I still have my baby blanket.
I like apple scented things.
I used to have a big problem with lying to take the easy way out.  (Oh, it's still a problem.  Just not a big one anymore.)
I really hate it when people talk about themselves too much.  Kind of like I'm doing right now.
I have a crazy obsessive personality, and I probably have a social disorder.
I love musical theatre.
I could live off of strawberries and flan.
I like being alone more than I like being with my friends, which really worries me.
I went through a phase where I only said things I heard on TV.  I was convinced it would make people like me more and think I was funnier.
I still like to hold my dad's hand.  Even in public.
I am really uncomfortable with sexuality.
When I moved to Colorado I spoke with what I thought was a rocking British accent for a week, and then randomly stopped.  On an unrelated note I also had no friends.
I'm obsessed with Jessie Mueller.
I have a shopping addiction.
I'm constantly trying to prove myself to everyone I meet.
On two very separate occasions, I've used my dad's heart attack as an excuse to leave work early.

I keep a lot of my emotions to myself, and am afraid of being up front about my life with people.
Everything is a metaphor.  Everything is a simplified and censored version of the truth.
Yes, I lie.
Yes, I prefer to be alone.
Yes, I want to be happy.
But no, I don't.

I have too much in me, and I'm always different.  I'm always the same.
A constant existence with nothing to show for it.


I still wait for the bus to come where the high school got torn down.

Comrades

*Disclaimer: This isn't about any one person.  It's about all of us.*

Half empty, half full,

we're starting over.

I wrote you a letter called Comrades In October.  It doesn't make a lot of sense and goes on for longer than it needed to be.  I talked a lot about Pulp Fiction and it got a bit accusatory of Israel.  But I meant well.

Things never really turn out right.  Or at least not how we want them to.

I wanted a lot more than what you gave me.  The minimalist approach to human interaction, the half-hearted blow off.  When it was slow, it was alcohol you turned to.  The feeling that whatever you did didn't count or mean anything turned you on.  You were invincible.

But you didn't even recognize me at midnight when I left.  Telling you I was just a phone call away and you turned the other way and said you really hate the way I look at you when you're drunk.

"I need to get my life together, don't I?"

We're always starting over.  A big hug and an empty bottle.  You'll get your life together maybe if you want to.  But until then, I'll paint you a picture of a girl who is trying to not let herself love you any more than she already does.

But we'll always have October.  And you'll always be that one who sang me songs and cared about my stupid crushes.  You were there from the beginning, when all we needed was our tree.  Our tree, our music, and our wasted teenage lives.

I'm starting over.

Here's A List

• I just wish
• I was doing something
• More important
• With my life

The Extras

I forget sometimes to believe in gravity.  And the peace that comes with having two feet stuck firmly to the ground.

Somewhere between my fifth house and my hundredth new school, I forgot.  Wishing on turkey bones and laughing at people who carry dogs in their handbags.  I forgot what it meant to be stable.

There is a person standing at the edge of a precipice, wondering where the gas leak is coming from.  Wondering about how many people still wear socks with holes in them.  And what time it is in Africa.  And how to do winged eyeliner without messing up.   

And how that boy had really beautiful eyes, and how he used them in the right way but for the wrong reason.  How it sounds when it’s quiet enough to hear everything.  How skin feels against more skin and how knees feel during bon fires. 

If it's worth the risk.

There are people who think about June weddings and flowers and big dresses, and there are people who think about girls with big lips and long hair at dark and musky bars.  There are people who write their feelings on napkins and leave them in booths in cafes.  There are people who kiss in parks and on boats, and there are mothers who tell their sons not to look down girls’ shirts.

There is Right, and there is Wrong, and there is Sometimes. 

And I am nowhere to be found.