The Loss

Last week I went on quite the tangent on how sometimes it is metaphorically important to kill a friendship. Today I am faced with the necessity of killing a true friend. Before anyone freaks out I am talking about my dog. His name is Elijah, Eli for short, and he is my nine-year-old schnauzer.

I’ve known for almost a year now that Eli has been sick, and we had a limited time left with him. All I know is that day has finally come. As I write this, my mom is taking Eli to be put to sleep. I can’t get over how peaceful that little phrase sounds. When I was little and a pet needed to be put down, my dad would always take me to do something fun like go to the zoo. This didn’t prevent me from realizing that my pet was dead. I didn’t have any delusions about what happened, but the trips would always soften the blow.

This is the first time that I’ve been old enough to really grieve and regret when we need to put a pet down (I’m not counting the random death of my other dog Zeke last year). Originally I wanted to go and be there for Mom, because Eli is her dog. But I just couldn’t do it. I knew I couldn’t look into his big, sad, brown eyes as they stuck a needle in his side and watch the life drain out of them.

I just can’t reconcile this sickly dog with the little puppy I brought home nine years ago. I don’t know where the time went, as cliché as that sounds! I know we’re doing the right thing, but that doesn’t make it any better. Eli is essentially starving because he can’t keep food down. That poor dog was essentially doomed anyway. I mean, the vet said that first his kidneys were failing, then that Eli might have cancer. We just couldn’t let him suffer any more and I know this needs to be done, but my heart feels so hollow. Eli and I essentially grew up together and I just can’t handle that he’s going to the long sleep.

And You, Friend?

Lately I’ve been considering the idea of friendship. Brooding is probably the more accurate term rather than considering. Recent events have me questioning the concept of friendship. What is it? Does it truly exist? How do you kill it, if it truly lives? And if you kill it does that make you a bad person?

I always hear about these people who’ve been friends since grade school. And it’s not on-again, off-again friendships these people are claiming but the hard-core bff, bound by blood (metaphorically and sometimes literally) sort of friendship. I can maybe claim one or two off those friendships, but for the most part I’m stumped.

Which leads to my big question: are high school friendships the real deal, or are they just something we cultivate to make the years less troublesome? Based on the majority of my relationships with friends and acquaintances now, I suppose it is the latter. Some may disagree, claiming their friendships are for life. But I would love to see these people in ten years and if they are still together. Call me a cynic but I doubt it.

My freshman year I took health class, just to get it out of the way. Of course there was a chapter on healthy (and not so healthy) relationships. The teacher droned on about how each of has different circles of friendship. We’re in the center and each ring around us is a different level or circle of friendship. Best friends or confidantes are the smallest and closest to us, good friends in the next smallest, acquaintances in a bigger ring, etc. the base idea is that we have fewer best friends and more “average” friends, and that sometimes these people change circles over time. I’m not arguing with the idea, it’s quite clever, but I’ve heard it before in Dante’s Inferno.

Think about it. Our friendship circles are basically levels of hell. The ones on the outer rims have committed minor friendship crimes or like the atheists they just don’t know you too well. The closer you get the worse it is. Your good friends maybe dig on you a little or “forgot” to invite you to something. Now your best friends are the highest level of betrayal simple because you trust them. The flames of Friendship Hell are hotter here in this circle because you just don’t see the knife coming. It will though, without fail.

By writing this I’m essentially cementing my cynic status, and I’m sure some of you who are reading this are rolling your eyes or saying something like, “That’s just not true.” But when you leave this blog, your thoughts are going to get to you, and you’ll realize (unfortunately) that I’m right. Normally I would consider myself a loyalist where friendship is concerned; I’m like a dog, defending without question. But sometimes other bitches bite back.

Obviously I’m enraged by something a “friend” of mine has done. I won’t bother describing the event because it is petty and unworthy mentioning in and of itself. What is of note is that this incident is one in a ridiculously long line of friendship travesties, and each one hurts more than the next. This is a girl for whom I’ve kept secrets, defended against slander, and weathered various storms with. I know I am not faultless in this friendship but I still feel betrayed. The question: Why do I keep her around? The answer: I tolerate her betrayals because of the hell we had to walk through to get to this point, and it forms a twisted bond.

I think more than anything the keep word in that sentence is tolerate. Returning to my original thought, friendship is merely a mutual tolerance of another person’s flaws. The closer you are with a person, the better you tolerate them. Sometimes your patience snaps with a person. Returning to my dog, master analogy, you can only kick a dog so many times before it fights back. I think we reach a point in our friendships where we have to fight back, and not in petty ways but in major ways.

Can a friendship be killed? Of course it can. Most deaths occur when your patience snaps, and you no longer tolerate their BS. Killing a friendship doesn’t make you a bad person it makes you a human; a human with emotions and most importantly a human with limits. My patience has about snapped, and I’m ready to pull the knife out of my back and kill this friendship, which is damn shame. I’d like to think that I stuck with this girl so long because ours was a friendship that lasts. But I’m beginning to think those friendships just don’t exist. I hope they do, but I also hope to see a unicorn and a pot of gold at the end of my rainbow.

How I Spent My Saturday

I am not a morning person by any stretch of the phrase. So when my mother asked me to get up at five forty-five a.m. on a Saturday to go to an estate sale with her, I asked what I was going to get out of it. Greedy, I know, but when it’s that early in the morning I need some form of incentive.

Mom does this every once in a while—ask me to get up at an un-godly hour of the day. And it’s almost always for an estate sale. You see my mother has been trying to amass enough antiques and knick-knacks to start up a booth in the South County Antique Mall. It’s always been something she wanted to do, but she truly didn’t consider it until college was looming in front of us.

My Mom and I are really close, closer than your average teenager and their mother. I have no doubt that it will be excruciating on the both of us when I leave. I’ll have a college campus to keep me semi-occupied at the very least, and now Mom decided she was going to live her dream.

I’ve been very supportive from the get go and have constantly urged her forward. Admittedly, my urging got a little more forceful when our living room was piled high with collectables, but I have always wanted her to succeed in this. Finally she took the plunge and got a booth of her own as of October first.

So this weekend I was being recruited to help stock the booth, but before that could happen we had yet another choice estate sale to go to. I’ve only been on one or two estate raids (probably because of my grumbling). The woman who has run them is named Dottie. I like Dottie—even if she is part of the reason my butt is being dragged up so early—because she’s got spunk. She’s also really good to dealers like my mom.

My job as co-raider of the estate sale is to get what my mom wants. Mom tells me what she is looking for and I go get it—like a terrier. Despite the fact that I am incredibly cranky, I get the items in question quickly (I even get my own little basket). I think the other reason my mom brings me along is people seem to be irrationally afraid of teenagers, especially some of the older people. Not all of them mind you, some of the little old ladies chat my ear off as I grab the goodies I’m supposed to nab; they are so sweet I can’t help but smile and converse back, even at this early hour.

Other people seem to be afraid of my tenacity or perhaps it is my growling demeanor (either way I’m still a terrier). They give me wide-eyed looks or they give me lots of personal space. It’s as if they’re saying, “Oh God a teenager! Head for the hills before it slays us!” This happens particularly when Mom wants to ask about a price and I am to stand guard over said object. So I stand, arms crossed, over the object; in this case a turquoise chair and glare at anything that comes within five feet of me like a good little pup. I think it is hilarious that people scurry away from me when I do this! I mean, for the love of God I’m a five-foot two blonde pipsqueak, who weighs about one hundred and five pounds. I am not intimidating. But apparently my bouncer stance is quite off-putting.

Anyway, Mom doesn’t find the price of the turquoise chair to her liking and we head off with our items, promising to come back at noon when Dottie drops the prices. Next we make a run to the house and gather more stock items. Boxes of silver, depression era glass, and Halloween decorations are piled into the back of our CRV, as well as a few hatboxes and two chairs that we bought at the estate sale. We also slide in supplies for making tags, and cleaning supplies so I can polish the furniture (I am a multi purpose tool). Even after we fill the car Mom says it will take another trip to get the booth stocked.

Let me just take a moment to mention how immensely proud of my mother I am. I really admire that she’s going after her long time dream. I know she’s scared, but I keep telling her that she’ll do fine. I know she will because this is what she loves to do—there is no way she can fail. I believe in my mom’s success but more importantly I just want her to have fun.

All of this is being discussed on the way to the Antique Mall. I can tell how nervous Mom is by the way she’s gripping the steering wheel. We finally get there and start unloading the chairs onto a cart we snagged from the back room. Mom leads me through the street-like rows that compose the quaint little mall to her booth. It’s a striking blue-green color she tells me is called Lilly Creek. The only other items there are a pink china hutch and a charmingly worn mantle that Mom purchased for display purposes.

I get to work polishing the two chairs and when I’m done the booth carries the faint aroma of the cedar polish I used. I help Mom unload her products and start arranging decorations. I place a white faux pumpkin topped with a raven that I have affectionately named Fred on the mantle, and a smiling gourd goes on top of the pink hutch. Soon I’m punching holes in tags and tying them to silver pitchers, and paintings.

A couple of hours later we return to the estate sale and buy the gorgeous turquoise chair for a marked down price. Mom’s eyes shine with glee at her acquisition, and I’m just happy because she is. Again we head home to stock up on more decorations and filler items. Before we go back to the mall I make Mom uphold her end of the estate sale bargain—she has to take me to the used bookstore and buy me a McFlurry. For some reason the time it takes to make good on the bargain feels like a nanosecond, and I’m excited to get back to Mom’s booth—I’m just so darn proud of her!

Once again the car seems to be the place for doubts. Mom bites her lip and asks me, “What if I don’t sell anything?” I tell her it will never happen, and reassure her that she has good taste that people will respond to. We return to the mall and grab the items from our trunk. Winding our way through the alleyways of the mall I stop once we enter Mom’s booth. I look around askance at the Lilly Creek walls and remark that something is different. It’s like a game of Where’s Waldo.

I notice the large silver pitcher has been moved, and Mom says two vases were set down differently. I thought that might have been it, but then I see it—the blank space that used to hold a picture of a rustic farmhouse. I grab my Mom and whisper in her ear, “You sold something! You sold something!” She looks around to where I’m pointing and has the world in her smile. Seeing her so excited and tickled from something so small was so pleasant and heartwarming. Mom had a secret smile on her face for the rest of the day as she draped doilies and placed the new turquoise chair in a place of honor. She was just so happy that she sold something and made a profit, and I was just so happy to be a part of her experience.

At the end of the day being dragged up at five in the morning was worth it to see Mom smile. Seeing how wonderful of a job she did on her first day made me think that we would both be okay. I’m proud of the booth my mom put up, but more importantly I’m proud of my mother.

Procrastination

AHHHH! I am in a procrastination meltdown. I have things I need to do. But am I doing them? No. Duh. I need to write my philosophy paper. (Why do we study philosophy?) I've got the idea all locked safe in my head, but I don't have the focus to actually write the paper. I've always said that I work best under pressure. So since it's due on Tuesday, pressure is a given. But I honestly don't have the ability to care. Isn't that sad? I just don't care. It's a mood I suppose. I'll snap out of it, but not for today. I blame the procrastination box a.k.a. the T.V. And by blaming something else I hit the essence of procrastination-putting something off. Anyway, MTV has got this marathon of So You Think You Can Dance on and I'm mildly addicted. Honestly, I used to look down my nose at shows like this, but now my nose is glued to the procrastination box. It's so intense!!! I have serious appreciation for people who can move like that! I know I can't. I mean right now, between this sentence and the last I had to pause because Neil and Sabra were dancing. Sorry, you don't occupy my full attention at this momment. I'm also on some serious cough medicine (again). Maybe that has something to do with it. I didn't look at the side-effects. But anything that has the slightest chance of making me drowsy will times about ten. I'm very susceptable to medication, which is why I will NEVER do drugs! It would just kill me. I'm very sleepy. I like the possibility that it's not me it's the meds. But in reality it's probably the other way around. I've always been an advocate of America's procrastination.

Whatever Happened to the Energizer Bunny?

Nostalgia is something we all feel at some point in our lives. There is no way any one of us can escape it, because it is human nature to look back and sigh. I looked back and sighed this weekend, or rather I looked up and sighed. Yesterday was the annual balloon race down at Forrest Park.

When I was a child, we lived in the city, the very place so recently declared as the most dangerous city in the United States. I’m not going to lie, there were many nights were I heard what Mom called “a car backfiring”, but it wasn’t all bad. I remember Mom always tried to find fun, family-oriented things to do for us. One of my more vivid memories is going to Forrest Park and watching the balloons take off.

There they were large colorful carcasses balefully lying on the neatly trimmed grass. Even in rest the balloons looked magnificent to the young child that I was. Bouncing on the balls of my feet I tried to get a better look, but Mother’s hand kept me close to her side. Patience, always she preached to me of patience. I had to be patient in order to see the balloons.

Then after an eternity of child’s time, the balloons began to inflate. Great blasts of flame sucking air into the massive structure like the inverse of a dragon. Slowly the heaving sacks would take shape and dangle precariously above the Earth by a few feet, still tethered as I was to my mother.

The balloons were a sight to see waging war with the trees in a bid for space. Bright colors amid a canvas of green. When they took of it was as if I was with them. Flying high over the city, wind blowing in my face. I had all the emotion of a take off but I remained on the ground with my mother—unable to fly and soar.

Throughout the day we would watch for the balloons as we went about our other errands. They were always there, parading across the horizon. I always looked for the Energizer Bunny Balloon. In my heart of hearts I wanted that Bunny to win the race. And it never occurred to me that it didn’t always win because by nature the Energizer Bunny is supposed to keep going and going and going. I never supposed that would even stop, it was after all the Bunny.

When we moved out of the city to the suburbs, we never went back to the balloon race. We made new traditions of course, but a part of my heart still aches. I didn’t even realize that my heart hurt until last night when I saw the Energizer Bunny gliding across the sky, leading the pack of conventional balloons to glory. I kept my eyes on them as long as I could and sighed when they disappeared beneath the tree line as we drove through Old Webster. Nostalgia bit a hole in my heart and it aches knowing that it is missing some valuable piece. At times like this I miss my childhood, and wish I could charter a balloon to Never Never Land.

If wishes were horses, how far would I ride?

I wish I were whole. I wish things weren’t so melodramatic. I wish my knees were better. I wish nations didn’t try to destroy nations. I wish supernatural was natural. I wish people were 100% honest with me. I wish I were 100% honest with everyone else. I wish choices were easy. I wish for no regrets. I wish I would get published. I wish people didn’t starve. I wish my heart felt weightless. I wish people didn’t die needlessly every day. I wish my future were secure. I wish I could travel more. I wish I wasn’t afraid of so much. I wish for happiness. I wish I had a special someone. I wish that I could meet everyone’s expectations. I wish I could do what I love without hurting myself. I wish I were free. I wish he would go away. I wish I had religious convictions. I wish for sunny days. I wish for warm breezes. I wish for hope. I wish for roses. I wish for simplicity. I wish for good chocolate. I wish for magic. I wish for health. I wish for an inhibition-less existence. I wish for good grades. I wish for smiles. I wish for popularity. I wish my dog wouldn’t die. I wish I were strong enough to cry at the right moment, and to hold back at the wrong moment. I wish I could fix some things. I wish for wealth. I wish for an answer. I wish for music. I wish for laughter. I wish to be profound. I wish to be understood. I wish to fly through time. I wish good things for my mom. I wish for full moons. I wish for stars. I wish for green grass. I wish for pretty horses. I wish for blue skies. I wish for the right words. I wish for tranquility. I wish I were carefree. I wish for time. I wish for pleasant dreams. I wish for beauty. I wish for universal understanding. I wish for a castle. I wish I could forgive him. I wish I weren’t consumed by hate. I wish I always did the right thing. I wish I didn’t hurt anyone. I wish I would ride again. I wish for romance. I wish for rainbows. I wish for a tattoo. I wish for bravery. I wish for pretty shoes. I wish good always triumphed over evil. I wish there were no overdoses or suicides; I wish people happiness. I wish I were without greed. I wish I were without jealousy. I wish I were without hubris. I wish I had no addictions. I wish for more stories. I wish for sleep. I wish Murphy wasn’t right. I wish for an infinite number of wishes.

What Grade Do I Deserve in life?

So I have finally received my first writing assignment of the year in my Pegasus 12 class. The assignment is to write a letter (or at least that was what I chose to do) to someone on September 5th of next year about our life after high school. The whole point of this assignment is to establish what we picture for ourselves—our goals, problems, successes, etc. Also the assignment is supposed to be fun. No ma’am. No it is not.

This assignment cannot be fun. The nature of an assignment is to be graded. So if a + b = c, then I am going to be graded on what I would consider my life (or future life). To me this sounds incredibly scary. What if I get a bad grade on my life? I mean, I’m supposed to hand in this paper and let a third party judge my goals, my hopes, and my dreams. To be real I would say that is what a person is judged on to a certain degree, but getting a grade for a number of points is different. In my mind it has the potential to be extremely painful.

Where I picture myself in a year is a small town in Ohio called Ada. Ada, Ohio, is home to the small school of Ohio Northern University. I know in my heart that this is the school that I belong in. The program is excellent, the students are friendly, and class sizes are relatively small, which is what I really want. My goal in life is to write. Poetry, stories, memoirs—it doesn’t matter I just want to do it. So my major would be creative writing. Later I plan on getting a masters in English literature; maybe even a teaching certificate. What would be really nice is if I were able to teach at the college level, which would give me time to write.

Even while I know ONU is the best place for me there are a lot of roadblocks for me personally. I love my family and friends. They’ve always been close to me, and as such, a big part in my life. Ohio is a eight hour drive in one direction, which is manageable, but that also means I probably wouldn’t be able to do it too often. That is one of my biggest resignations about going to school in Ohio.

Another one is Ada’s isolation. The campus is smack dab in the middle of cornfields. For a city girl like me that’s a little odd. Not insurmountable, but odd. Also the nearest town is twenty minutes away, and there isn’t much to do there either. Wal-Mart is one of the few highlights. Call me spoiled but I like to shop; I like to have entertainment at my fingertips; I like the ability to go out and see the latest movie at random. All this is limited in Ada. Not impossible, but limited.

The other big bad is the dorm sizes. Small as a broom cupboard! Supposedly two to four people are supposed to fit into rooms that are half the size of my small room at home. Yes, the dorm is part of the college experience, but I need my space. I’m not just saying this. I really would go off on anyone who lived with me. I’m the type of person who needs their alone time or else.

Despite all this I really want to go to ONU. My theme for my senior year is no regrets. College is the main reason for that little motto. I don’t want to make the wrong decision and regret what I did or didn’t do for the rest of my life. I have all these goals, fears, and hopes that I packed into this tiny three-page paper, and I’m terrified of them being rejected.

This paper represents more than just a grade to me. This is my life that someone else is grading, and that truly scares me. Is everything I wrote going to come true? No, of course not! But it’s what I wish for when I go to sleep at night, what I dream of when I’m sleeping, and what keeps me going when I’m awake. And I just don’t want someone to give me a grade on that.

Found Poem

Shaken Paradise

Playing doctor-
Hired to dance without permission
At an even smarter price
(A parent’s worst nightmare).
The hottest new jewel in the fashion world—
fifteen months later—
has become mainstream;
down on their luck on Skid Row
Denied
Denied

It’s all in the chase.

My Movie List

So I read this amazing book called The Best Old Movies for Families by Ty Burr the movie critic. As further proof that Mr. Leftridge and his Film App. class have totally infiltrated my life. Granted I probably missed out on some great films by completely skipping over certain sections of the book, but some things I just can't stomach. Anything with the words John Wayne, foreign film, or silent caused me to turn the page. The only exception being "Metropolis", because I have some strange desire to see that one in its entirety. As much as I liked "The 400 Blows" in film class I have no deep burning desire to read a film; like Opera, foreign films are assuredly great, just not to my taste. As far as John Wayne goes I can't stomach him. After watching "The Searchers" and analyzing the it I just can't deal with him anymore. Rampant racism and freaky psuedo-sexual issues. But I digress. As I was reading this book I wrote a list of old movies that intruiged me and I officially have to see them! Here they are...

• The Adventure of Robin Hood
• Captain Blood
• The Sea Hawk
• Bringing Up Baby
• The Harvey Girls
• The Pirate
• The Clock
• The Ghost and Mrs. Muir
• Some Like It Hot
• Gentelmen Prefer Blondes
• Metropolis
• Rebel Without a Cause
• East of Eden
• Giant
• His Girl Friday
• I was a Male War Bride
• Monkey Business
• It Happened One Night
• The Lady Eve
• Easy Living
• Ball of Fire
• My Man Godfrey
• To Be or Not to Be
• Adam's Rib
• The Philadelphia Story
• Pillow Talk
• Lover Come Back
• Teacher's Pet
• That Touch of Mink
• The Man Who Knew Too Much
• Love Me or Leave Me
• The Shop Around the Corner
• Trouble in Paradise
• The Manchurian Candidate
• The Wild One
• Queen Christina
• The Roman Holiday
• Splendor in the Grass
• Ten Commandments
• Imitation of Life
• Easter Parade
• Kiss Me Kate
• It's Always Fair Weather
• Funny Face
• Top Hat
• The Music Man
• The Crimson Pirate
• The Black Swan
• Treasure Island
• Destry Rides Again
• The Thin Man (and series)
• Gilda
• The Asphalt Jungle
• The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex
• Charade

Hopefully I can get ahold of most of these, and my goal is to write reviews or at least brief opinions as I find them. The only trouble is my Netflix que just gets larger and larger and I may have to wait awhile before I can check everything off my list. But at least it will be a fun task.

Catastrophe

Harley is a beauty. No, I’m not talking about a motorcycle (although I do have this life goal of riding a motorcycle before I die, just not sequentially); I’m talking about my cat, Harlequin, or Harley for short. She is of the tortoiseshell breed, which means she’s black, crème, and light brown. Like I said, she’s beautiful. Damn cat knows it too! So when I cooed at her and told her she was gorgeous I thought I was just stroking her ego. Apparently I was wrong.

Harley was just so happy with my praise that she sauntered off the bed. At the time I didn’t really notice that I had been left. I was far too busy watching a “Project Runway Season Three” marathon on Bravo. When commercial break came I started to get up in search of a soda when Harley jumped back on the bed, a mouse dangling from her mouth. Harley often likes to distribute such presents when we have pleased her greatly.

There was my cat, pale green eyes glowing with pride; a cobweb sweeping from the tips of her whiskers like an elegant scarf. But what caught my attention was the pale brown mouse between Harley’s sparkling teeth. My middle name is Elizabeth, not Grace, so needless to say I freaked out. In true housewife fashion I screamed, “Oh my God!” over and over again in my highest pitch in the hopes that the messiah himself would come down and handle my plight. No such luck.

Instead, Harley dropped the mouse in fright of my frantic screaming. It moved. Moved is not so much an accurate description—it scrambled. I THOUGHT IT WAS DEAD!!!!!!! On one hand I happy for Stuart Little’s distant relation, on the other I am now in the middle of a literal cat and mouse chase. I tucked my knees under my chin and screamed louder because, you know, that really helps. Meanwhile The Mouse is rushing across the duvet cover trying to find a way off the bed. Harley, no longer in shock over my rejection, pounced on it (she’s de-clawed, so it helps the mouse’s odds a little). She sprang back and The Mouse went racing again. This time the little guy found the end of the bed. Faced with the decision of Harley’s jaws and what to the mouse must have looked like a huge leap, the mouse jumped, spread-eagled, on to the laundry pile. Not having seen the landing myself, I still would have given the little guy a nine on diving form alone.

At this point the soundtrack that had been on loop (my cries of “Oh my God! Oh my God!) finished with a shriek that faded much like an ambulance siren. Harley, having lost her quarry and temporarily my affection, sent a severely pissed off glare my way and stormed out of the room in a huff. I convinced myself that I had to see about The Mouse. Shaking slightly, I crawled to the end of the bed. The Mouse had disappeared. The entire event took about two minutes to occur, as well as taking twenty years off my life.

I am grateful for two things here. One that the little fella may have survived—Harley may be beautiful but I prefer not to think of her as a femme fatal. And two that it was not my bedroom that The Mouse escaped into. This has to be one of the only moments where I have been glad that my room does not have a TV like my mom’s. That’s right folks a mouse is now loose in my mother’s room. I can’t wait to tell her that little tidbit. For now, I’m just tiptoeing through the house and staying the hell away from Mom’s room. You know, I’m trying to give the little guy space.

"What's this pill do?"

I'm sick. And I'm scared. I've been having these intense stomach painsI’m sick. And I’m scared. I’ve been having these intense stomach pains for almost a week. When I tried explaining this to various adults the best I can come up with is that it’s like being stabbed in the gut. The pain comes swiftly, and is so sharp I either have to stop what I’m doing or double over with the force of it.

The trouble is the pain isn’t in any one place but all across my stomach. Aforementioned various adults have been asking me different questions. Do you hunch over when you walk, or do you walk straight? Does it hurt to touch the right side of your stomach? When you jump up and down does it hurt? The weirder the question the more it just freaks me out! My mom has been talking in terms of hospital visits or at least my pediatrician. But I’m so chill about being sick (cause I can’t go a season without getting ill) that I think it’s nothing. On the other hand the fact that everyone else seems to think it’s something is starting to damage my calm.

The other thing is I’ve been taking more random colored pills than an x-freak. Always over the counter stuff so it won’t hurt me if it doesn’t take care of the problem. Who knew pills came in fuchsia, fire engine red, and Tiffany blue? They’re pretty but they don’t seem to be doing anything. I mean some make me woozy and others just plain put me to sleep. But in terms of pain relief if any of them do anything it’s only temporary. And none of them can fully stop the pains. It’s only over the counter but still! Shouldn’t something stop this???

Hence I’m starting to panic a teence. Oh. Did I mention the throat pain? Yeah that’s nice too.

I'll Regret Posting This In the Morning

I haven’t written here in a long time. Not for lack of inspiration or anything. More like general laziness. I can’t say that’s all going to change because that would probably be a lie. Strike that it would be a lie.

I don’t want to turn this into some sort of “Dear Diary” thing. If I really wanted that kind of confessional I’d become Catholic or actually use the damn journal I have. No, what I think I will do is…okay so I don’t have a legitimate plan. Heartbreaking, I know. For right now the best I can come up with is a stream of consciousness rant that is slightly different from a frilly diary; it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump away from a diary but I think it’s the hop that makes it important.

I’m in one of my melancholy moods. No trigger that I can put my finger on (Wow I just realized how bad of a pun that was, and completely unintentional too). I mean school is boring. I’ve pretty much mentally checked-out already. As far as school is concerned my junior year is almost over. I don’t feel particularly inclined to savor it either. Yet, what I do want to savor are my senior friends. It always seems that I meet the best ones before they graduate. And then I feel this HUGE loss because I just met them and never got a chance to really know them when I could have had three more years with them. Lost opportunities and such.

What’s really got me down is my relationship or lack thereof to me more specific. See, I pretty much gave my heart away a while back. It was a terribly stupid thing to do since he was…oh there are so many good adjectives to describe him. Uncaring. Cocky. Selfish. Rude. Horrible. Wandering. And so much more. Point is it was a mistake. I read somewhere that teenagers fall in love, really in love, for the first time when they’re seventeen or eighteen. Well ring-a-ding-ding I just pulled that pile of crap from the Cracker Jack box. What I’m afraid of is that what I had with this guy was love, because that’s what my idiotic heart keeps telling me. And I had all these happy notions of love. Notions he decided to put his cigarette out in. I see him on rare occasions in the halls and it hurts. I don’t handle pain well.

So I keep dwelling on all of this. The pain, the heartache, the loss, and it just overwhelms me. It keeps building on itself and I just let it. Add a dash of self-loathing for the lot of it, and PRESTO, insta-melancholy mood. Yum.

Chivalry and All That Jazz

Chivalry a’int dead; it’s just on life support. And I’m sitting here staring at this white knight, trying to decide weather or not I want to pull the plug. How did the white knight end up on life support you may ask? Well I couldn’t say for sure but if I had to take a guess, I’d say he was: bludgeoned by a wife beater; attacked by a drug addict (‘cause he tried to do the right thing by taking away the addict’s crack); shot by a completely unrelated drive-by shooting; and, kneed in the balls by a rampant feminist. But that’s just a guess.

Still, every once in awhile chivalry rears its handsome head. And it totally freaks me out! More from shock than disparagement, but still. I mean the man is supposed to be in a coma here, not pop up and open the door for me. It’s just completely unexpected. Yet, still pleasant. Like the other day, at school, some guy I don’t even know opened the door for me. Not a knock me over with a feather moment or anything, just enough to put a chagrined smile on my face. Another time one of my guy-friends took my hand in a gentlemanly way and kissed my knuckles. I had to seriously fight the urge to check his temperature. But the most recent cavalcade of chivalry in my life is my mother’s boyfriend. Overall, I approve of him; he’s nice. He’s total old school about some things though. Like, he pulls out our chairs and seats us at even the most casual of dinners, and he stands whenever either my mom or I stand up when we’re eating. The first time that happened I froze like the freakin deer in the headlights because I didn’t realize what he was doing. It’s nice and sweet from the daughter perspective, but I know if a boyfriend of mine did that I’d probably freak out.

Thing is, I was raised in a feminist house. So I’ve got this little voice in my head caterwauling about all the things I should do for myself. Like the last time a date offered to pay I couldn’t wrap my brain around the concept of someone else paying for me. It just seemed unfair. On one hand it’s a great gesture, but on the other I feel really awkward and almost greedy. And I’ve never understood the whole walking each other to class thing. This lack of understanding doesn’t come from a feminist place though; it’s just me being a nerd. When I go to school my focus is most often class, and the whole idea of meandering through the halls with your honey, only to stop outside the classroom and linger through the bell thereby making the other person late as well, just boggles me. Of course that could also be my obsession with being on time kicking in again, but whatever. I mean, it’s sweet and sort of charming to see but I couldn’t put myself in a similar picture. But other than that, I like the idea of chivalry. So I end up telling the little feminist voice to shut up. Besides, the white knight’s kinda cute. It would be a total waste to pull the plug on that.

Pieces, Pieces, Pieces

I am broken
And I can’t fix it
I shattered into pieces on the floor
And I’ve been picking them up
Trying to put it all back together again,
Which is hard because I wasn’t fully formed to begin with.
I have been putting the pieces in one big space
Like a million piece puzzle on a board.
One board for one puzzle—that’s how it goes.
But the puzzle never gets finished because there’s always a gap.
Too many pieces.
It’s like that for me too.
I have got a hole where the pieces I can’t find are supposed to go.
I’ve tried filling it with everything I can think of.
Clothesmoneymusicmoviesboysfriendssarcasmpictureslaughterdancing
Won’t fit.
But I really want it to.
I want to be whole again
Or at least some semblance of it.
God, why won’t any of it fit?