So I made a mistake earlier today, and the person who the mistake affected asked me, "What were you thinking?"
I shrugged half-heartedly, and said, "I wasn't thinking."
But, my dear readers, this was a lie.
Do you want to know what I was thinking? Well, even if you don't, I'm gonna tell you anyway.
Remus
Tonks
Severus
Fred
Colin
Moody
Hedwig
Sirius
DumbledoreDammit, Rowling!
So now that I've managed to work up the stones to actually tell Krysta, how the everliving fuck am I going to do it?
What, exactly, is wrong with my knee?
Am I going to have enough money to go to TARDISCon?
What am I going to get Anne for her graduation?
What am I going to get Grace for her birthday?
How am I supposed to help Kayla when the answer she's looking for is one I'd kill to know myself?
I don't think I can manage AP Euro this year. How can I get out of it?
My laundry needs doing.
I need to call Mrs. Garcia about babysitting the kids.
I need to call Dad about the weed whacker.
I need food.
My head hurts. Am I getting another migraine? I'm nauseous, too. I think I might be. Damn. So, with the migraine, including nausea, should I eat? What if the reason I have a headache is that I haven't eaten since nine this morning?
To watch, or not to watch?
Also, why am I misquoting Shakespeare again?
When should Zeckra and Duren's relationship move past "just friends"? How do I make Gethin less one-dimensional? I mean, I don't want to pull a Meyer and be all "He's evil because I say he is so there." I need to be more Jacques-like and actually show that he's one vicious bastard. Also, when the hell will Hazel start acting like a normal person? And when does Zeckra tell Duren and Mikal about her "evil plan" to influence Hazel's personality? Who am I going to dedicate it to, anyway? Christina? Emily? Mom? Brian Jacques? Dude, I don't even fucking know.
I'm a stitch away from making it, and a scar away from falling apart. Why do these lyrics always seem to fit me way too closely?
It is okay to let your eyes wander, right? Especially when you're not actually in a relationship? I mean, it doesn't mean you're any less in love with the first person, yeah? Or maybe I should be asking myself if this ridiculous crush is finally waning, 'cause sometimes I wish it were.
Did Dad make my appointment yet? I really want to find out what's wrong with my knee. I want it to heal, too, because I want to ride my skateboard. Also, what about my sports physical? I need one of those. Swim starts in less than a month.
I should probably ask Abby and Stefanie if they need rides in August. I mean, Stef's almost eighteen, and it's only, like, ten or fifteen minutes of driving. Plus I obey all the other laws, so I shouldn't get pulled over.
So, sir, if you want to yell at me for what I did, go ahead. If you think that that should be my highest priority, by all means, do so. However, I have enough to worry about, and I really can't think about cutting your lawn in a goddamn straight line. It's all cut, isn't it? So fork over my money, and let me be on my merry way, with all my worries still intact.
People. Jeez.
18 July, 2011
17 June, 2011
Subject Matter: Me
Because I have nothing better to do. I'm seriously siriusly one of two people in this building right now. YAYZ.
So my job is pretty darn boring. I do nothing but scanning and answering phones all day, and the scanner needs a break (it's old). That's why I'm just sitting here. I mean, if I had my flash drive, at least I could write or something while the scanner cools off, but no dice.
But, in the hopes of making this post a little more interesting, I'm going to tell you a little about myself, personality-wise, and then maybe make a couple interesting points. If I remember.
Okay, first of all, a question: Have you read the Harry Potter books/seen the movies? If yes, skip the next paragraph; if no, do not skip it.
STOP. YOU HAVE BEEN CHARGED WITH THE CRIME OF NEVER READING HARRY POTTER. YOU MUST DROP WHAT YOU ARE DOING AND GO AND READ THEM. IF YOU DO NOT HAVE TIME, WATCHING THE MOVIES IS ALSO ACCEPTABLE. ONLY WHEN YOU KNOW WHAT GOES ON IN THAT WORLD MAY YOU RETURN TO THIS BLOG. READY? SET? GO!
For those of you who have read the books (I'm going to leave out "seen the movies" from now on, because it gets annoying to type), you should all love Mrs. Weasley. If you don't, I ask you to sit back and examine you life, your choices, and what might have gone wrong. We good? Okay then.
My point about Mrs. Weasley: she is what is referred to as "everyone's Jewish mother" (warning: that's a TV Tropes link; if you decide to click it, bring a rope). In my times of great boredom, I have gone wandering around teh Interwebz, looking for fun quizzes, and I have come up with plenty of Harry Potter personality tests. Guess who I get every single time. Have you been paying attention? Then your answer should be Mrs. Weasley.
Truth be told, it fits. At only seventeen, I am everyone's Jewish mother. I bring my guy friends home and feed them. I make sure my friends have done their homework. I remind my best friend to eat. I carry bandages, painkillers, antiseptic cream, and chocolate in my purse. I teach, tutor, and guide. I'm patient, and I listen to anyone and everyone with a problem.
Okay, interesting point time! It ties in with what we were just talking about. If you're here, you've obviously already read the Harry Potter books. Have you read them a second time? No? Well, go ahead, then. I'll wait.
Back? Cool. So is your mind blown?Seriously Siriusly. J.K. Rowling is a genius. Did you see those hints? Did you get her subtleties? Man, I wanna be just like her. That's so awesome. She seriously siriusly made my brain explode when I first reread The Philosopher's Stone after finishing Deathly Hallows. I kid you not. There was grey matter almost literally everywhere.
Also, I never get tired of that pun, and I promised to never spell the word correctly again. Just so you know.
Back to personality! When compared to an animal, I am a wolf, most likely pack alpha, though unwillingly. (The thing about this one is that you can't just accept answers at face value; you must read descriptions and decide whether or not they fit you.) I am loyal to friends and family, open and loving with those I know, but distrustful and aggressive towards outsiders and anyone who looks like they might harm my pack. Though I prefer to stay in the background (shyness, you know), when I am placed in authority, as happens more often than not, I do well, and those who know me listen.
What else is there to say about me? Not much, I think. Not at this time, anyway. I read and I write and I draw and I trace, I can write HTML coding and make animated movies, and I work part-time as a secretary. I crack jokes and throw out playful insults that generally just make people laugh and occasionally tell me that I'm evil.
Interesting point #2: Actually, it's more a warning. Never give a hyperactive teenage insomniac something sugary/laced with caffine at two in the morning. Unless, of course, you have a camera nearby and want to send something into America's Funniest Home Videos. I really should have had a camera on me the other night.......
So my job is pretty darn boring. I do nothing but scanning and answering phones all day, and the scanner needs a break (it's old). That's why I'm just sitting here. I mean, if I had my flash drive, at least I could write or something while the scanner cools off, but no dice.
But, in the hopes of making this post a little more interesting, I'm going to tell you a little about myself, personality-wise, and then maybe make a couple interesting points. If I remember.
Okay, first of all, a question: Have you read the Harry Potter books/seen the movies? If yes, skip the next paragraph; if no, do not skip it.
STOP. YOU HAVE BEEN CHARGED WITH THE CRIME OF NEVER READING HARRY POTTER. YOU MUST DROP WHAT YOU ARE DOING AND GO AND READ THEM. IF YOU DO NOT HAVE TIME, WATCHING THE MOVIES IS ALSO ACCEPTABLE. ONLY WHEN YOU KNOW WHAT GOES ON IN THAT WORLD MAY YOU RETURN TO THIS BLOG. READY? SET? GO!
For those of you who have read the books (I'm going to leave out "seen the movies" from now on, because it gets annoying to type), you should all love Mrs. Weasley. If you don't, I ask you to sit back and examine you life, your choices, and what might have gone wrong. We good? Okay then.
My point about Mrs. Weasley: she is what is referred to as "everyone's Jewish mother" (warning: that's a TV Tropes link; if you decide to click it, bring a rope). In my times of great boredom, I have gone wandering around teh Interwebz, looking for fun quizzes, and I have come up with plenty of Harry Potter personality tests. Guess who I get every single time. Have you been paying attention? Then your answer should be Mrs. Weasley.
Truth be told, it fits. At only seventeen, I am everyone's Jewish mother. I bring my guy friends home and feed them. I make sure my friends have done their homework. I remind my best friend to eat. I carry bandages, painkillers, antiseptic cream, and chocolate in my purse. I teach, tutor, and guide. I'm patient, and I listen to anyone and everyone with a problem.
Okay, interesting point time! It ties in with what we were just talking about. If you're here, you've obviously already read the Harry Potter books. Have you read them a second time? No? Well, go ahead, then. I'll wait.
Back? Cool. So is your mind blown?
Also, I never get tired of that pun, and I promised to never spell the word correctly again. Just so you know.
Back to personality! When compared to an animal, I am a wolf, most likely pack alpha, though unwillingly. (The thing about this one is that you can't just accept answers at face value; you must read descriptions and decide whether or not they fit you.) I am loyal to friends and family, open and loving with those I know, but distrustful and aggressive towards outsiders and anyone who looks like they might harm my pack. Though I prefer to stay in the background (shyness, you know), when I am placed in authority, as happens more often than not, I do well, and those who know me listen.
What else is there to say about me? Not much, I think. Not at this time, anyway. I read and I write and I draw and I trace, I can write HTML coding and make animated movies, and I work part-time as a secretary. I crack jokes and throw out playful insults that generally just make people laugh and occasionally tell me that I'm evil.
Interesting point #2: Actually, it's more a warning. Never give a hyperactive teenage insomniac something sugary/laced with caffine at two in the morning. Unless, of course, you have a camera nearby and want to send something into America's Funniest Home Videos. I really should have had a camera on me the other night.......
07 June, 2011
On YA Literature
Oh, hey! This blog isn't just going to be moaning about my personal life! YAY!
On the other hand, I am going to have to bring some of it in here to make my point. Anyway! Moving on!
This post has to do with this Wall Street Journal article. (Yes, it's from two days ago. Sorry, Interwebz, but I've been working. And, you know, getting money.) I will take this time to admit that I did not read the whole thing. I got outraged, and closed the tab. It was rather like my reaction to reading New Moon the first time, except that I could only metaphorically throw this article at the wall.
For those of you who are too interested in what I have to say to read the actual article (haha, aren't I funny?), it deals with how bad YA books are and how they can contaminate the children and make them do terrible, awful things, like sex and drugs and cutting. Thanks for your concern, but most of the druggies I know don't bloody read. Yes, you read that correctly. They do not pick up books, let alone read them.
Trust me. These are kids who pride themselves on never reading anything, kids who refuse to even start reading school books in case them might actually like the books (oh, the horrors!) and then end up finishing them, only to discover, Oh bugger, their record is broken!
And then there's sex. Tell me, have you ever read Story of A Girl by Sara Zarr? I'm in the middle of reading it, and it's fascinating. It tells the story of a girl who was found having sex with a sixteen-year-old. The girl was thirteen at the time. The story commences about three years later, and shows exactly where Deanna's choice led her; her father cannot have a normal conversation with her; her mother tries so hard to make things seem normal; she has a reputation at school for being a slut, because she had sex with one guy. If I had not already promised myself to my future husband (as the ring on my finger shows), this stark portrayal of the crap that can go down would have convinced me.
Now let's talk about cutting. Everyone has five fingers on each hand, right? Okay, let's not count the thumb. If my arithmetic serves me well, that makes four, yes? That's how many people in my life know exactly why I was out of school for more than two weeks back in January; my parents, and my two female best friends. My male best friend does not know. My little sister does not know. My big brothers do not know. My confidant-in-all-things-depression-wise does not know. My friends have been convinced I had pnuemonia.
The absolute truth? I had been hospitalized for self-injury. I spent two and a half weeks going through a program to deal with it. I told everyone that it had been happening for a year. This was a lie. I had been cutting for more than two years at that point, but I'd be darned if I told anyone. I'm not going to get into what started it; that's a story for another post.
There are two common categories for the reason people hurt themselves; A) they have so much emotional pain, they invoke physical pain to distract themselves (sort of like whacking something really hard so you have something other than your, say, headache to focus on), or B) what they're experiencing is a numbness so acute that they will do anything just to feel something. I personally moved between the two.
Now, you're probably asking yourself, "Where is this kid going? What does this have to do with YA books?" I'm getting to that.
Now, for this length of time, I more than once thought about killing myself. A lot of things kept me from it; the thought that doing so would be selfish, a promise I had made to my best friend to not hurt myself at all, but mostly, it was the escape I found in books.
One of my favorite series is Redwall, by the late Brian Jacques. The paperback copies of his books are relatively compact; short, thin books (height- and width-wise, I mean) with an average of 300+ pages and rather small print, a single book will fit in hoodie pockets, cargo shorts, and nicely-sized purses, and multiple books fit easily in a backpack for car trips. They are easy to take anywhere, is what I'm saying, and I did.
In the two+ years that I was hurting myself, I fought the impulse, when I had the strength, by reading, because it took away the pain. The stories I read were beautifully painted, with scenery rich in detail and characters you cared about. Anyone could get lost in these worlds, and that was exactly what I used them for. When burning through the life of Martin the Warrior, my own life was gone, and all that mattered was his. When turning the pages of Marlfox, the lives of Songbreeze and Donflor were far more pertinent than my own. These books were not without tragedy; Brian Jacques was one of few authors I've experienced who knew the true value of character death, and how much better it makes a story when properly executed (pun not intended).
Though important, telling hurting teens that they are not alone is not the only thing that books can do. YA fiction provides an escape from their own world that is much safer than drugs or alcohol; the only way you can get hurt a book is by getting hit over the head with it, and there's no such thing as a book overdose.
Since getting out of the hospital, I have not once hurt myself, and I've read more in the past five months than in the three years previous. The pain and the problems aren't gone, not by a long shot, but my books give me the strength I need to fight, hope that one day it will all be better, and faith in a happy ending.
Maybe I'm just speaking for myself, and this isn't how anyone else views books. Maybe I really am just the nutcase in the corner, hiding behind her shield of books. Then again, there's a good chance that one of my best friends is lying on her bed right now, her nose in the YA book I gave her, reading about pirates and mountains and warriors, and not thinking about her fight with her boyfriend, or the fact that she needs a job if she's going to go to college, or that she was pretty damn close to failing physics this year, or that she might not even graduate with me. There's a good chance that another of my best friends is sitting on his couch, unconcerned with the fact that his parents can't send him to a good college, that he can't even take AP tests, that his little brother is once again being a prat, and that he can't hang out with his friends because he never has the money, because his mind is buried under human gods and troll gods and intricacies between kingdoms and godly wars.
So these books aren't for everyone. So they don't save all the people who need saving. At least they give it a damn good try, and grab everyone who is within reach. Every single YA author that has gotten even one letter thanking them for saving a life, no matter how bad anyone says their book(s) is/are, should be given a hug, a handshake, or a clap on the back, and a resounding "Thank you" from the world, because saving just one life is something huge.
On the other hand, I am going to have to bring some of it in here to make my point. Anyway! Moving on!
This post has to do with this Wall Street Journal article. (Yes, it's from two days ago. Sorry, Interwebz, but I've been working. And, you know, getting money.) I will take this time to admit that I did not read the whole thing. I got outraged, and closed the tab. It was rather like my reaction to reading New Moon the first time, except that I could only metaphorically throw this article at the wall.
For those of you who are too interested in what I have to say to read the actual article (haha, aren't I funny?), it deals with how bad YA books are and how they can contaminate the children and make them do terrible, awful things, like sex and drugs and cutting. Thanks for your concern, but most of the druggies I know don't bloody read. Yes, you read that correctly. They do not pick up books, let alone read them.
Trust me. These are kids who pride themselves on never reading anything, kids who refuse to even start reading school books in case them might actually like the books (oh, the horrors!) and then end up finishing them, only to discover, Oh bugger, their record is broken!
And then there's sex. Tell me, have you ever read Story of A Girl by Sara Zarr? I'm in the middle of reading it, and it's fascinating. It tells the story of a girl who was found having sex with a sixteen-year-old. The girl was thirteen at the time. The story commences about three years later, and shows exactly where Deanna's choice led her; her father cannot have a normal conversation with her; her mother tries so hard to make things seem normal; she has a reputation at school for being a slut, because she had sex with one guy. If I had not already promised myself to my future husband (as the ring on my finger shows), this stark portrayal of the crap that can go down would have convinced me.
Now let's talk about cutting. Everyone has five fingers on each hand, right? Okay, let's not count the thumb. If my arithmetic serves me well, that makes four, yes? That's how many people in my life know exactly why I was out of school for more than two weeks back in January; my parents, and my two female best friends. My male best friend does not know. My little sister does not know. My big brothers do not know. My confidant-in-all-things-depression-wise does not know. My friends have been convinced I had pnuemonia.
The absolute truth? I had been hospitalized for self-injury. I spent two and a half weeks going through a program to deal with it. I told everyone that it had been happening for a year. This was a lie. I had been cutting for more than two years at that point, but I'd be darned if I told anyone. I'm not going to get into what started it; that's a story for another post.
There are two common categories for the reason people hurt themselves; A) they have so much emotional pain, they invoke physical pain to distract themselves (sort of like whacking something really hard so you have something other than your, say, headache to focus on), or B) what they're experiencing is a numbness so acute that they will do anything just to feel something. I personally moved between the two.
Now, you're probably asking yourself, "Where is this kid going? What does this have to do with YA books?" I'm getting to that.
Now, for this length of time, I more than once thought about killing myself. A lot of things kept me from it; the thought that doing so would be selfish, a promise I had made to my best friend to not hurt myself at all, but mostly, it was the escape I found in books.
One of my favorite series is Redwall, by the late Brian Jacques. The paperback copies of his books are relatively compact; short, thin books (height- and width-wise, I mean) with an average of 300+ pages and rather small print, a single book will fit in hoodie pockets, cargo shorts, and nicely-sized purses, and multiple books fit easily in a backpack for car trips. They are easy to take anywhere, is what I'm saying, and I did.
In the two+ years that I was hurting myself, I fought the impulse, when I had the strength, by reading, because it took away the pain. The stories I read were beautifully painted, with scenery rich in detail and characters you cared about. Anyone could get lost in these worlds, and that was exactly what I used them for. When burning through the life of Martin the Warrior, my own life was gone, and all that mattered was his. When turning the pages of Marlfox, the lives of Songbreeze and Donflor were far more pertinent than my own. These books were not without tragedy; Brian Jacques was one of few authors I've experienced who knew the true value of character death, and how much better it makes a story when properly executed (pun not intended).
Though important, telling hurting teens that they are not alone is not the only thing that books can do. YA fiction provides an escape from their own world that is much safer than drugs or alcohol; the only way you can get hurt a book is by getting hit over the head with it, and there's no such thing as a book overdose.
Since getting out of the hospital, I have not once hurt myself, and I've read more in the past five months than in the three years previous. The pain and the problems aren't gone, not by a long shot, but my books give me the strength I need to fight, hope that one day it will all be better, and faith in a happy ending.
Maybe I'm just speaking for myself, and this isn't how anyone else views books. Maybe I really am just the nutcase in the corner, hiding behind her shield of books. Then again, there's a good chance that one of my best friends is lying on her bed right now, her nose in the YA book I gave her, reading about pirates and mountains and warriors, and not thinking about her fight with her boyfriend, or the fact that she needs a job if she's going to go to college, or that she was pretty damn close to failing physics this year, or that she might not even graduate with me. There's a good chance that another of my best friends is sitting on his couch, unconcerned with the fact that his parents can't send him to a good college, that he can't even take AP tests, that his little brother is once again being a prat, and that he can't hang out with his friends because he never has the money, because his mind is buried under human gods and troll gods and intricacies between kingdoms and godly wars.
So these books aren't for everyone. So they don't save all the people who need saving. At least they give it a damn good try, and grab everyone who is within reach. Every single YA author that has gotten even one letter thanking them for saving a life, no matter how bad anyone says their book(s) is/are, should be given a hug, a handshake, or a clap on the back, and a resounding "Thank you" from the world, because saving just one life is something huge.
04 June, 2011
Subject matter: Hope
I don't know if I heard or read this somewhere, or if I just came up with it on my own, but a statement has been floating around my head for a while now: "It takes a special person to look to the future for light when the present and the past are so dark."
Does that mean I'm special, then? I don't know. What I do know is that hope has gotten me through some pretty dark times. Maybe it was naive of me, but I remember months passing when I would lay down to bed at night and promise myself, "It will be better tomorrow. Someone will notice, someone will ask, someone will let me cry. Someone will see the cuts or the scars or the way I massage my barely-covered shoulders. Someone will have the heart to give me what I don't have enough will left to ask for." It was what I saw when I looked back that prompted me to say, "An old adage says that where there's life, there's hope, but it's been my experience that where there's hope, there's life," and credit it to my pen name and post in on the wall of my junior-year English classroom.
There was a time in my life where it took every ounce of willpower, coupled with thoughts of my little sisters and my parents and the fact that I could not worry them, to get out of bed every morning. It took me an hour to talk myself into getting up, an hour to convince myself that I could make it one more day, that Joey would smile at me and take my hand, or Axel would be there with his "drug-money" to buy me a soda, or Smitty would have a bar of chocolate in her purse saved just for me. It never got me down that none of that ever happened; I just told myself that it gave me a better chance for the next day.
Once I was officially out of bed and on my way to getting out the door and making the bus, my way to keep going was the fact that I didn't want to trouble my parents to have to drive me to school. At school, breaking down would lead to being sent to the counselor's office, which would lead to the story coming out, which would lead to one of my parents coming to school, which meant inconvenience for them, and I didn't want that to happen, so nothing would happen at school. Back at home, head to my room, lock the door, watch Buffy or Doctor Who or Sherlock, or read something, and get lost in a world that doesn't exist. Then it would be dinner and chores and sleep and do it all again tomorrow, still while constantly thinking, "It'll get better tomorrow. It'll get better tomorrow."
So if it takes a special person to do that, then I suppose I am special. To quote my (marvelous) junior high social studies teacher, "There's more than one definition of the word 'special,' Dillon."
Does that mean I'm special, then? I don't know. What I do know is that hope has gotten me through some pretty dark times. Maybe it was naive of me, but I remember months passing when I would lay down to bed at night and promise myself, "It will be better tomorrow. Someone will notice, someone will ask, someone will let me cry. Someone will see the cuts or the scars or the way I massage my barely-covered shoulders. Someone will have the heart to give me what I don't have enough will left to ask for." It was what I saw when I looked back that prompted me to say, "An old adage says that where there's life, there's hope, but it's been my experience that where there's hope, there's life," and credit it to my pen name and post in on the wall of my junior-year English classroom.
There was a time in my life where it took every ounce of willpower, coupled with thoughts of my little sisters and my parents and the fact that I could not worry them, to get out of bed every morning. It took me an hour to talk myself into getting up, an hour to convince myself that I could make it one more day, that Joey would smile at me and take my hand, or Axel would be there with his "drug-money" to buy me a soda, or Smitty would have a bar of chocolate in her purse saved just for me. It never got me down that none of that ever happened; I just told myself that it gave me a better chance for the next day.
Once I was officially out of bed and on my way to getting out the door and making the bus, my way to keep going was the fact that I didn't want to trouble my parents to have to drive me to school. At school, breaking down would lead to being sent to the counselor's office, which would lead to the story coming out, which would lead to one of my parents coming to school, which meant inconvenience for them, and I didn't want that to happen, so nothing would happen at school. Back at home, head to my room, lock the door, watch Buffy or Doctor Who or Sherlock, or read something, and get lost in a world that doesn't exist. Then it would be dinner and chores and sleep and do it all again tomorrow, still while constantly thinking, "It'll get better tomorrow. It'll get better tomorrow."
So if it takes a special person to do that, then I suppose I am special. To quote my (marvelous) junior high social studies teacher, "There's more than one definition of the word 'special,' Dillon."
28 May, 2011
All At Once--My thoughts on a relatively popular song
So I was mowing my neighbor's lawn earlier today, and one of my less-listened-to songs came on. "All At Once" by The Fray. Have you ever heard it? If you haven't, a lyric video is here.
Anyway, this song, which I've had on my iPod for a long time, suddenly means a bit more to me. See, I don't admit this to everyone, but with the certain anonimity that goes with blogging and the fact that I haven't told anyone about this, I feel okay sharing. I'm bisexual, and I'm in love with my female best friend. My oldest best friend. The girl who has admitted to being my soul mate, because we are just similar enough for it to awesome, and just different enough to fill in each other's shortcomings.
Now, I'm pretty sure that she knows. Either that, or she's really fricking dense. Anyway, so there was some fuckwittery going on earlier this month, having to do with a thirteen-year-old I met at a hospital and my best friend getting herself drunk without telling me (not that I'd want to get drunk with her; it'd be embarrassing for both of us, it's just what went on in the conversation we had while she was drunk).
Anyway, long story short (seriously, the whole took, like, a week to play out), she told me that she might love me in "more than a best friend way", but she was too scared to really look at her feelings and that I was a lot like her ex (which I'm not, by the way, he's rude and creepy and shit) and that it would be better if we just ignored it.
Now, it's necessary to know at this point that I've been living with the fact that I'm in love with her and she's never going to love me back the same way for about two years now. Just think about it; you settle yourself to the fact that what you really want is never going to happen, then you find out that is could happen, and the only reason it's not happening is because the other person is too much of a fucking coward to figure out if it's even possible.
It's been really hard lately, talking to her and trying to pretend that everything's okay, but I have no intention, right now, anyway, of letting her go, because I've spent a few months without her in the past, and I don't ever want to go through that again. This song, All At Once, tells the story of someone who has something special at home, but for some reason doesn't think it's enough, and goes out in search of perfection. The line near the end, "Perfection will not come," shows how futile this person's search is, because what he/she is looking for cannot be found.
Another of the lines, "She won't keep on waiting/For you without a doubt/Much longer for you to sort it out," says that if this person's search takes too long, his/her girl will eventually give up on him/her. In the end, this person could end up totally alone, because he/she pushed away what he/she had, and couldn't find what he/she was looking for, because it can't be found.
Now, to apply this to my life, my best friend doesn't have to worry. I will never leave her. But the fact that she is off searching for something that's right in front of her face makes me sad, and the fact that she refuses to recognize what's right in front of her face hurts like Hell.
Maybe one day I'll get over this. Maybe I'll stop loving her so much. Maybe I'll keep loving her, but forgive how much she hurt me. Maybe one day I'll be able to forget. Maybe I'll move on. Maybe I'll fall in love with someone I actually have a chance with. Maybe I'll be able to just stop thinking about it one day.
I don't know what the future brings, but I do know that for now, I'll nurse a secret heartache once more, and I'll cry every now and then, and I'll try not to get green with envy the next time she has a boyfriend. I'll pretend to her and to my family and most of my friends that everything's okay, and pray that one day that I won't have to pretend anymore.
Anyway, this song, which I've had on my iPod for a long time, suddenly means a bit more to me. See, I don't admit this to everyone, but with the certain anonimity that goes with blogging and the fact that I haven't told anyone about this, I feel okay sharing. I'm bisexual, and I'm in love with my female best friend. My oldest best friend. The girl who has admitted to being my soul mate, because we are just similar enough for it to awesome, and just different enough to fill in each other's shortcomings.
Now, I'm pretty sure that she knows. Either that, or she's really fricking dense. Anyway, so there was some fuckwittery going on earlier this month, having to do with a thirteen-year-old I met at a hospital and my best friend getting herself drunk without telling me (not that I'd want to get drunk with her; it'd be embarrassing for both of us, it's just what went on in the conversation we had while she was drunk).
Anyway, long story short (seriously, the whole took, like, a week to play out), she told me that she might love me in "more than a best friend way", but she was too scared to really look at her feelings and that I was a lot like her ex (which I'm not, by the way, he's rude and creepy and shit) and that it would be better if we just ignored it.
Now, it's necessary to know at this point that I've been living with the fact that I'm in love with her and she's never going to love me back the same way for about two years now. Just think about it; you settle yourself to the fact that what you really want is never going to happen, then you find out that is could happen, and the only reason it's not happening is because the other person is too much of a fucking coward to figure out if it's even possible.
It's been really hard lately, talking to her and trying to pretend that everything's okay, but I have no intention, right now, anyway, of letting her go, because I've spent a few months without her in the past, and I don't ever want to go through that again. This song, All At Once, tells the story of someone who has something special at home, but for some reason doesn't think it's enough, and goes out in search of perfection. The line near the end, "Perfection will not come," shows how futile this person's search is, because what he/she is looking for cannot be found.
Another of the lines, "She won't keep on waiting/For you without a doubt/Much longer for you to sort it out," says that if this person's search takes too long, his/her girl will eventually give up on him/her. In the end, this person could end up totally alone, because he/she pushed away what he/she had, and couldn't find what he/she was looking for, because it can't be found.
Now, to apply this to my life, my best friend doesn't have to worry. I will never leave her. But the fact that she is off searching for something that's right in front of her face makes me sad, and the fact that she refuses to recognize what's right in front of her face hurts like Hell.
Maybe one day I'll get over this. Maybe I'll stop loving her so much. Maybe I'll keep loving her, but forgive how much she hurt me. Maybe one day I'll be able to forget. Maybe I'll move on. Maybe I'll fall in love with someone I actually have a chance with. Maybe I'll be able to just stop thinking about it one day.
I don't know what the future brings, but I do know that for now, I'll nurse a secret heartache once more, and I'll cry every now and then, and I'll try not to get green with envy the next time she has a boyfriend. I'll pretend to her and to my family and most of my friends that everything's okay, and pray that one day that I won't have to pretend anymore.
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