He Puts Himself On A Pedestal and They Go Down On It

No one does this. No one objectifies a list of 35 girls, ranking them on a points system based on attractiveness, performance, and availability (the virgins or one's with boyfriends score higher). Some of them he hasn't even been with yet, and when he gets into their pants he crosses their name off. No one walks over countless amounts of people with no ramifications. Most importantly, no one does this to me. I PICKED YOU UP FROM THE FUCKING ROSEBOWL WHEN YOU STAYED AT UCLA ONLY TO FIND OUT YOU HAD A THREESOME THERE THE NIGHT BEFORE?!?!?! And not only did you cheat on me, you cheated on the OTHER GIRLFRIEND YOU'VE BEEN WITH FOR 4 MONTHS?!? Sorry. Excuse my burst of sudden anger. But the hardest part for me to understand is how so many other people simply allowed things like that to happen. Most people have a problem embracing their worth, with knowing how they deserve to be treated.

As far as it goes for me, in the beginning all I wanted was the feeling of being cared about. You might not know, but for someone as depressed as me, that warmth, that assurance that you are in fact important to someone, is like a drug to a heroin addict. And I was stupid. You go into a relationship looking for safety and security, and it's easy to forget that while this irenic quietude may shelter you from the teeming masses, it also puts you at the mercy of one person. And in the end you will most likely feel varying degrees of pain from a million betrayals, ones big or small. He spoon fed me bullshit about how he was in love with me, and I, too willingly, believed it.

I have never met someone who turns women into play things. He had two girlfriends- *excuse me apparently 3 now?- one of whom took him back after doing this to before. Cheats on everyone he's been together with. Compulsively lies not just to us, but to his friends about where he's going, or even about what he ate for breakfast. Everyday he works out, putting forth all of the effort towards getting girls. All he talks about, all his ego is built upon, is sex- which is something he isn't even that great at. Mister D1 athlete- whose scholarship he lost- puts himself up on a pedestal and girls go down on it- again, and again, and again. I felt like I had to do something to finally teach him a lesson.

Yelling at him would do nothing. The words would just make me feel like I was severely fingering myself. They're just words is all. Powerless. Vocabulary. I wanted every girl to know the kind of guy he is, so I posted that status on Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/permalink.php?story_fbid=175613269123102&id=675367542). Getting high fives in the hallway all day pumped me up even further, and by break I was so livid I couldn't even see straight. I resorted to mutually assured destruction, and after fun things went down in the ceramics room with his back pack, things finally escalated when I poured a water bottle on him during passing period. It felt so good.

So fuck you for luring me into a life of nihilism, but listen here you beautiful son of a bitch. I am not like the rest of the girls from your past. I am not a lifeless Stepford Wife who cooks, cleans, and fucks with a blissful, idiotic smile. Nor am I some simple, easy girl who can be reduced to the stereotype of a slut. I know my worth and you do not deserve me, and I hope through all of this you have learned you cannot fuck with me. But more importantly I hope that you no longer treat women as toys.

the night I found out

It is Sunday night, we're about at that point when it's Monday morning, and I am curled up into the fetal position on my bed. I sit here with my face in my hands as if to catch my head, to keep it from rolling across a field like a soccer ball that someone might kick by accident.

And the thing that's really bugging me, as I lie curled up, is the scene that I'm enacting reminds me of my entire life.

These are the same tears I cry when I hear the gospel song that goes This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine, and I think of the way ordinary people are able to triumph, in ways small or large, over adversity. And I remember crying like this after seeing Robert Redford in The Natural, crying over the way determination and conviction can make a simple baseball player do supernatural things. And everyone thought I was stupid, but I wanted to tell them that I was crying because whatever my gifts- the pieces of good buried inside and under so much that I feel is bad, is wrong, is twisted- are less clear than the ability to hit a ball with a bat. My gifts are for life itself, for an unfortunately astute understanding of all the cruelty and pain in the world. My gifts are unspecific. I am an artist manque, someone full of crazy ideas and grandiloquent needs and even a little bit of happiness, but with no particular way to express it.

Now I'll go smoke a cigarette, return to my room, watch the 11 o'clock news, and fall asleep with the blue light of the TV still on, feeling completely pathetic.

Senior Year

The weirdest part about me being a senior is that I have felt no change and have felt a tremendous change at the same time. Being a freshman, you could spot out the older girls... the well-dressed ones who seemed to radiate coolness through their confident, more-mature mannerisms. I don't feel older, I don't feel a heightened sense of fashion, and aside from losing the doe-eyed look in the halls, not much has changed. I still identify myself as me from 8th grade me; I can remember memories from then up until now as though they were yesterday, and not only that but all my previous emotions are still so tangible to me.

At the same time, however, nothing is the same. My outlook on things are completely different, the way I act is completely different. I never EVER could have imagined myself at where I am right now. Two years ago, if you were to tell me I would smoke weed daily, get a tattoo, go on vacation with Lacey, or even become best friends with Katy Conti, I would have laughed in your face.

I can't explain how I got here. I know that I have felt anguish, and it was often blank, undifferentiated. Rarely would it carry a clearly written label that also contains its motivation, and any label it did have was mendacious. I've learned at this point that someone can believe or declare their self to be anguished for one reason and be so due to something different. You can think that you are suffering facing the future and instead be rapt with the passed. You can think that your suffering for others, out of pity or compassion, but deep down you know that it's for your own reasons- more or less profound, more or less avowed- and sometimes they are so deep that only specialists, analysts of the souls, can exhume them.

Regardless, I feel immense excitement gearing towards this year. Reasons include: taking Kirsten and Katy to school every morning, Katy being in my 5th period philosophy class and leaving everyday with her, my new-found friendship with Lacey, no longer being the ostracism and receiving general acceptance from my peers (this eliminates my fear of nutrition break), having two jobs, and having an easy schedule.

The Snowball Effect

Can someone please explain it to me? How is this possible: First I'm in a good mood, but my eyes get watery because Ali, the glamorous Bachelorette from season 6, clearlyyyyy made the wrong decision in the end. But as the tears start pooling together, it's like all my problems flash before me. The reality T.V. series gets me worked up over the heartbreak, then some stupid person said some stupid thing that got me upset over a similar heartbreak of my own, and then, before I know it, I'm a wreck. So first its Ali then its Nick then its loss then its Katy then its nostalgia then its Jordan then its back to loss then it's the cause of all the hurt I am, and soon enough the tear drops that were once plump and perfectly round are falling down the side of my face at such an uncontrollable rate that you can no longer see the perfect streaks left behind, but instead just a blotchy, red, wet complexion. It's like the filter of recall is itself altered, so that it blocks out anything but the darkest colors of the spectrum. Being unhappy precludes all else. The feeling is narcissistic, nothing that does not resonate with my unhappiness can interest me. That's when time becomes palpable and vicious. Every minute, every second, every nanosecond, gets wrapped around my spine so that my nerves tighten and ache. At that point I fade into abstraction. A self-generated narcosis creates a painful blank where my mind used to be. I feel the numbness come over me. It's so familiar, yet each time it feels worse than anything, I'm sure. Numbness is an understatement. It's more of a deep freeze, in which the ice threatens to crack at any minute, except underneath there won't be water, there won't be any fluid at all, just more and more layers of ice... ice cubes and icebergs and ice floes and ice statues, where a girl used to be.

What if...

What if I want to be large in a world that has me small, diminished. I don't want to diet, I don't want to say "no, thank you", and pretend somehow that what is there is enough when always, always I want more. That will always be my defining characteristic- I have appetites, and only if I'm truly shameless will I even begin to be sated because nothing is ever really enough. Not because I am greedy, or unsatisfiable, but because I just can't help it, I can't go along with the fiction that the world would have me believe and adhere to, that you ought to settle and be careful and accept the crumbs that are supposed to pass for a life, this minimized self you are supposed to put up with. Everything tells us to stop, to not have another piece of pizza, to not talk to the guy first, to not take an extra shot.

I'm 16, and in my opinion, I have the rest of my life to "stop"- to stand still. But I'm 16 and I intend on going, on living however I please, while I still can, while we still have zero responsibilities. Of course the sadness is still there inside me, like a stone, and it often leaves room for no other thoughts. I'm not trying to make an appeal to your sympathies, I'm just shifting this big weight inside of me from one place to the other. You know that things aren't going well for you when you can't even tell a person the simplest fact about your life, just because they'll presume you're asking them to feel sorry for you. I guess that's why I feel so far from everyone in the end; I can't think of any way to explain myself without sounding stupid or making them feel miserable.

Also, I'm tired of people trying to analyze my life when I myself have no clue as to what is going on, what it all means. I guess the reason for why I'm writing this blog is to use it as a staple, to remember how I felt two days prior to my birthday- lugubrious and irrevocably depressed. Who knows what was the cause, what came first, the sadness or the substance, but it doesn't really matter. Wow. I just had a really scary thought that made me pause my typing after I finished the last sentance. I can literally apply "it doesn't really matter" to every attribute of my life. Jesus, Kaelee, that's really really shitty. I mean how do you even solve that? Pick up a hobby? No. Get some friends? I have them. It's just like I don't feel like I know myself very well right now, so how could I ever be sure about anything? I'm always feeling awkward, like I'm walking on egg shells inside of myself. It's like I don't belong in my own skin and sometimes it makes me so frustrated at everything, I could scream or cry and there'd be no reason for it, aside from me just being so unhappy with myself.

It's okay though. My life is always this, at some point or another. I don't know if I'm getting better or getting used to it, but I know I'm so beyond need at this point. How amazing would it be if we could all decide not to be nice, never to be sorry? To have no regrets: what is before me belongs to me, my life is a result of the experiences I've been through. To say catch me if you can bitches I'm so free this is my life the rest of you can fuck off and die!

Someone asked me

to post a blog about my opinions on homosexuality. I grew up going to Sunday School, learning about how Jesus says to love God and love your neighbor as yourself and that the entity of the "Law" is summed up in that and yadda yadda yadda. That being said, I find it really hard to understand how homosexuality could be considered non-loving or harmful.

I used to be particularly narrow minded. I don't know, I guess as I got older or more mature that changed or something. Seeing flamboyantly gay people used to make me very uncomfortable and uneasy. But after experiencing love and life and the lack of control one can have over their emotions, I don't think it's wrong for a guy to love a guy or a girl to love a girl. It's love, it's all the same. Plus, I've recently made friends with a lot of gay people and they are probably some of the best people I've ever met. So I don't have anything against homosexuality.

If you, my anonymous formspring friend, are asking my opinion from a political standpoint, know that despite how liberal I may seem I do fall under the fiscally conservative republican category. I feel that allowing gay marriage would enable too many surreptitiously-straight people to get married in order to receive benefits. So I don't really know if that answers your question or what... but ya.

sorry if we ruin your lives

The bitch persona has moments of style and certain moments of substance, but quite often the attitude reveals itself to be about genuine anger, disturbance, or fear. It's the kind of female resentment and rage that produce girls like Sandy from Grease, for example. We all want to be Olivia Newton-John in the last scene, the girl swiveling her foot like a broken record to put out a cigarette with one of her red high heels (which are no longer "Fuck Me" pumps but rather "Fuck You" shoes), the girl with ratted hair, in slinky shiny black pegged pants. Yes, by the end of the movie Sandy has become your 1958 basic slut: the girl who, after suffering months of rejection for being a party pooper prude who didn't smoke or drink, has finally realized that you do have to "pet" to be popular, that you do have to put out to get the guy, that it isn't the blondes who have more fun- it's the sluts. Placing one's pretty power, one's pussy power, one's sexual energy out there for popular consumption no longer makes you a bimbo, it makes you smart.

We as girls already have ages of bad blood, beginning with Eve, ending our stay in Eden with her curiosity and lust for strange fruit, and to me it seems that even if we act like good people, the world is still quite likely to find us bad. So fuck dignity. It seems so much more exciting to be a Siren beckoning with her song or Calypso captivating on her island than to be Penelope, the archetype of female fidelity, weaving and unweaving, sending her suitors away while waiting for the errant Odysseus to return, waiting while he luxuriates in lotusland as he commits adultery with gorgeous, high-class women.

It seems to me, in the pageantry of public life, the one statement a girl can make to declare her strength, her surefootedness, her autonomy- her self as a self- is to somehow be bad, somehow do something that is sure to make her parents weep. We only seem interesting if something seems not quite right. Marilyn Monroe might have been miserable, but her death is immortal.

The Stupid Things You Do

Insight alone is not a transformative force. It doesn't work that way. Everyday you might come to a new conclusion about yourself and about the reasoning behind your behaivor, and you can tell yourself that this knowledge will make all the difference. But in all likelihood, you're going to keep on doing the same old things. You'll still be the same person. You'll still cling to your destructive, debilitating habits because your emotional tie to them is so strong- so much stronger than any cereal box insight you might come up with- that the stupid things you do are really the only things you've got that keep you centered and connected. They're the only things about you that make you you.


If only life were like the movies where characters muddle things through and do what's right in the end. In The Breakfast Club, a geek, a jock, a rich bitch, a girl in black, and a hoodlum become best friends and reconcile their differences in a few hours' worth of detention.... In real life, any momentary intimacy at Saturday school would result only in some forced, awkward exchanges on Monday morning, everyone returning to the same old cliques and clans, the same old lipstick shades and sunglasses.

"The Dead Girl", by Melanie Thernstrom

"It was like sawdust, the unhappiness: it infiltrated everything, everything was a problem, everything made her cry- school, homework, boyfriends, the future, the lack of future, the uncertainty of future, the fear of future, fear in general- but it was hard to say exactly what the problem was in the first place."

I'm starting to feel like I can't maintain my facade any longer, that I just might start to show through, and I wish I knew what was wrong. I have this palpable, absolute sense that I'm breaking down and there's really no good reason as to why, and- even worse- there's nothing I can do about it.

I'm certain that they'll never understand the philosophical underpinnings of the state I'm in. Sometimes I'm just fine, I can cope with the ebb and tide of life, I can handle the setbacks with aplomb, I can be a good sport. But when my head is clean and clear of this clutter of reason and rationality, what I'm mostly thinking is: why? Why take it like a man? Why be mature? Why accept adversity? Why surrender with grace the follies of youth? Why put up with the bullshit?

The thing is that the nature of life- even normal, sane, not depressed life- has worn me down and will continue to wear me down even more. It's just a fact that if I am to grow up, and get married, and eventually have kids, and do all the normal, happy things, along the way I will have so much trial and error to go through, so much living that I can only anticipate with dread.

There will be so many more Nicks, so many more heartbreaks, so many more cycles of elation at the first kiss, and devastation when it's over. I accept this pattern as a perfectly decent way for people to make their way through the "mating game", but I can't handle it. I am so wrecked already, so unstable, a piece of work who was never given the tools it takes to deal with what everyone else considers business as usual. I am not equipped with any emotional resilience, can't go with the flow, can't stand steady when the boat rocks and rolls. I have been robbed of that give, that elasticity that everyone else calls perspective.

Measure of Mindfulness

The measure of our mindfulness, the touchstone for sanity in this society, is our level of productivity and our attention to responsibility. If you're still at the point when you're even just barely going through the motions (i.e. showing up at school, making small talk) you are still okay or okay enough. But you're not, and a desire not to acknowledge depression in ourselves or those close to us- better known these days as denial- is such a strong urge that plenty of people prefer to think that until you're actually flying out of a window, you don't have a problem.

I can't quite shake this feeling that we live in a world gone wrong, that there are all these feelings that you're not supposed to have because there's no reason to have them anymore. But they're still there, stuck somewhere, a flaw that evolution hasn't managed to eliminate yet, like tonsils or an appendix. I wonder if anything will work or if there is no drink, no drug, no pill, no potion, no serum, no shot, nothing under the whole black sun that can possibly penetrate a pain so deep. There must be something, some very strong hand with a very tight grip that can turn off the way I feel.

Jesus Christ

Every guy I fall for becomes Jesus Christ within the first 24 hours of our relationship.

I know that this happens, I see it happening, I even feel myself, sometimes, standing at some temporal crossroad, some distinct moment at which I can walk away and keep this all from happening, but I never do.

I always imagine the end, the despair I will suffer when it comes, and it makes any happiness I have in the present seem not merely ephemeral, but doomed. Because the happier I allow myself to be, the more miserable I will be later.

Sometimes I wish I could walk around with a HANDLE WITH CARE sign on my forehead. Sometimes I wish there was a way to let people know that just because we live in a world without rules, and in a life that is lawless, doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt so bad the morning after. Sometimes I think that I was forced to withdraw into depression because it was the only rightful protest I could throw in the face of a world that said it was alright for people to come and go as they please, that there were simply no real obligations left. Certainly deceit and treachery in both romantic and political relationships are nothing new, but at one time, it was bad, callous, and cold to hurt somebody. Now it's just the way things go, part of the growth process.

I grab at everything, I end up with nothing, and then I feel bereft. I mourn over the loss of something I never even had. I am a sick, sick girl.

Soviet Union

I am the girl who is lost in space, the girl who is disappearing always, forever fading away and receding farther and farther into the background. Just like the Cheshire cat, someday I will suddenly leave, but the artificial warmth of my smile- that phony, clownish curve, the kind you see on miserably sad people and villains in cartoons- will remain behind as an ironic remnant. I am the girl you see in the photograph from some party or some picnic in the park, the one who looks vibrant and shimmery, but who is in fact remarkably insignificant and soon going to be gone. When you look at that picture again, I want to assure you, I will no longer be there. I will be erased from history, like a traitor in the Soviet Union. Because everyday that goes by, I feel myself becoming more and more invisible, getting covered over more thickly with darkness, coats and coats of darkness that are going to suffocate me in the sweltering heat of the summer sun that I can't even see anymore, even though I can feel it burn.

Snow Globe

I am a stranger wherever I go because I am strange to myself. My mind just goes off doing its own thing, never consulting me at all about whether it's alright to feel this way or that. I feel like one of those souvenir plastic domes that are full of glitter which you get at Disneyland or at truck stops, the kind that makes snow when you turn it over. That's what it's like in my head all the time, constant weather patterns of all sorts- blizzards, cyclones. I am the fucking Wizard of Oz. I am constantly standing several feet away from myself, watching as I say or do or feel something that I don't like or don't want at all, and I still can't stop it.

Now

I just feel like crying because I hate the butterflies.

2 blogs in under 24 hours

Despite my innate need to analyze and hypothesize, what I really need is something I can't articulate. Its nonverbal: I need love. The sort of thing where my mind will shut off and my heart will take over, if you will. Something that I can feel, not describe.

What I do feel is the scariness of my potential. I feel the warmth of my friends, but I don't deserve it. I feel the sincerity of my anonymous formspring posts, telling me that I'm genuinely a good person, but I fear that those people are misled. I feel wasted. I know that I got a 4.0 last semester, and that I have a high vocabulary, and I can write well, but I don't feel smart. Here I am, not at school but alternatively reading while drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. It's not that I'm not sick, I'm just tired and don't feel like it. Like so many other days.

It scares me. I look around my room- and see tons of books, and trash, and dirty dishes, and so many clothes on my floor that you can't even see my carpet- and all I want is out of this mess. I don't know how I got to this point. I wonder where I went.

Bumper Sticker

I saw a bumper sticker on a car today that read "If you're not angry, you're not paying attention". We'd probably all be better off if we weren't paying attention. Centuries of bumper stickers have enriched our lives, and now we cannot go day to day without noticing the tailgaiting jerk behind us, the woman screeching into her cell phone, or the waiter who thinks he's Gods gift. After all, in the words of Thomas Gray, "Ignorance is bliss".

But for better or for worse, we no longer have the gift of oblivion. So many inconsequential details have made their way into our lives, and it's incredibly difficult to ignore. We pay attention, and the result is misanthropy ranging from the vague to the acute. We seem to take delight in comparing our irritations with others- take the blogging movement, for example.

This annoyance, however, isn't particularly good for us. Researchers have said that physiologically speaking, anger has many different effects on our body. But moreover, it appears to be something we crave- as much as sex, as much as food, as much as drugs. Aggression engages the brain's reward pathways and involves dopamine.

I don't understand why we act the way we do. But maybe it'd be easier to accept it that way.

in hope of relating to someone

Why is is that I always blog when I'm sad?

Today started off to be such a good day. I specifically wrote Chelsea a rather cute note telling her so admist my glee. But then if my day hadn't already taken a turn for the worse- which it did- I got an oh-so pleasant surprise from you just to put the cherry on top of things. That's fucking stellar.

I guess the most devastating thing is that you can still make me cry. I'm so mad at myself for giving you that power. I know that it's something you are always going to hold over me, and it makes me cry all over again. You know how to get to me, and you use that against me. What's worse is that it hurts so much more coming from you.

Furthermore, it's so frustrating that you can't just be mature. I know you're still at the phase when you slap high fives with each clever insult you come up with. I know so because that used to be you and me when you would get in fights with your exgirlfriend. A token of your alleged affection, perhaps. But I've grown up. I really, really have. You don't know the person I am today. I wouldn't believe me either if I we're you; I know we had that conversation a gazillion times. But clearly it speaks for itself when you have an attitude, and you put up this entire wall as a defense mechanism, and you text me accusing me of things that aren't true... yet I reply back to you calmly and rationally, despite the tears streaming down my face, and tell you to have a good day at the end. Why does it always have to be an argument with you?

If I realized anything today, it's that I know what it's like to feel alone. And that is why I stay alone, because I never want to feel alone again.

Time to go smoke weed.

Reborn.

This weekend will never be forgotten. But literally. I got a tattoo. But more importantly I feel reborn. My entire outlook on life has changed and I feel like a completely new person. I'm so fucking fortunate to have the friends that I do. We're all products of our environment, whether you want to attest to it or not. For example, the mannerisms in which you are taught growing up in your household environment effect the person you are equally as much as the energy surrounding you in your social environment. Not necessarily in the matter of appearance or interest, but certainly in the state of mind. You want to be with people who will make you thrive, not force their views upon you. Someone to make you think, to stimulate your mind to new ideas, and to challenge the orthodox stances.

I can't describe it to you. The idea, sure. But not the realization. The most remarkable part about allowing your mind to encroach beyond your safe, gyrating thoughts is the physiological element associated with it. For me at least, something will hit me, and this constant surge of euphoria will radiate throughout my body. Its like you can physically feel your mind open up and your thoughts flow freely. Its like all of your emotions are vehemently and cohesively in sync. But what I realized is how free spirited I want to be. I want to be able to do whatever the hell I want without giving two shits about what anyone thinks of it. I want to live my life thoroughly and to the utmost extremity- within reason- because I never want to look back and think "wow I wish I would have enjoyed more".

So I got a tattoo. Because that's what I want. When I'm older, I want to have a tattoo that I regret. Because that just goes to show how you lived your life for yourself. What's important is the memory of how badly you wanted it, and you got it, and how happy you were when you did. I have my memory with me forever now. So many things worked out so perfectly, from timing to songs on the radio, that I just knew it was meant to be. It's a sparrow. This goes to show the free spirted nature I hope stays with me. Birds are beautiful, and they can fly away, and they are free.

I think its so crazy how everything comes around full circle. I'm so happy right now and I can genuinely tell you that for the first time in what seems like forever I love my life. And I love my friends. God, what would I do without them. So many things this weekend... a perfect memory to look back on forever and ever and ever.

sunflower seeds

I would have been there to help you.

As for me, sunflower seeds it is.

tonight I'm not here

to fill your mind with bullshit. I'm not going to ellaborate on some awe-inspiring quote I heard way's back to sounds really insightful and optimisitc. No, I'm going to be blunt with you. And tell you that my life is spiralling down the drain. Or what's left of it at least.

Don't be mislead, now. I don't feel sorry for myself. I'm not trying to evoke any sympathy from you, anonymous blog reader, either. Sometimes it just feels nice to get it all out there. Especially tonight.

You said you didn't need this sort of thing.

Yeah, I don't blame you. I know I'm annoying. I know nobody wants to befriend or date the one with baggage. Well that aside even, I don't know who would want to be around me period. I wouldn't want to meet me if I saw me at a party, I wouldn't want me to join the circle of desks to work on homework, I wouldn't want to date me. I know I'm a "burden".

You said you can't be my friend anymore.

Yeah, I don't blame you either. This isn't a very fair ultimatum though. How can I put up a defense for the special relationship that we have if I don't even want to be friends with myself? This isn't the way for to get me to stop.

But on tonight, the night I'm not here, the night that I don't exist in anyone's eyes, is really the night that I'm more present than any other. Because I sat there. My resources all used up. The closest people to me shut off. My life lines already called. And I made myself feel all of it. All the pain. A sick, sadistic punishment. I didn't get the luxury of getting numb, of getting high.

So there.

You

It slowly became more apparent to me. The nervousness, the tightness in chest. The glee, the anticipation. Gradually, it turned into pacing the room at the mention of your name. Its obvious that you're different. I realize that now and it scares me. You're like a drug to me. The things I would do for you. The withdrawals I go through. I long for you. I smell your scent on me the rest of the day. It's not the reputation you uphold that makes my palms sweaty- I think that exceeds you by far, anyway. The thing is that you get to me. More so, and in a different way, than everyone else. Physically and emotionally; thoroughly, all the way to my core. You make me hurt in an exquisite way. Everything inside me melts and I feel alive, happy and alive. The way you talk, the sports you play, the watch you wear, the car you drive, the friends you have, the stories you tell, the compliments you give, the way you look at me when I lay with you... the sensory overload is too much and entirely overwhelming.

You scare me. This feeling scares me. Nothing will ever happen. You're too good for me and I know that, everyone knows that. I've always had a crush on you- a "dig", as you like to say. But it's all so tangible now. Remarkably and painstakingly close; you're within my grasp. Real. I can reach out, and touch you, and there you are.

You just called me. I was sleeping and you woke me up. Something about your voice is so soothing... every part of my body relaxes. You ask if you can see me this weekend, you'll be in town. Time after time, you continue to assuage me of my fears. The grin on my face, if you only knew. I think you do know now. You're friends must have told you we talked about you this weekend. I wish I could tell you it was something stupid that slipped when I was drunk, but that would be a lie. It was strategic almost, I went into the night hoping that you would get brought up. I wanted to know your feelings about it.

I always want to talk about you. I want everyone to know the way I feel about you. I want everyone to know about you. I want you to know about you. And it hurts so bad because I am confident in the fact that that will never happen. But I feel almost fortunate for the pain associated with that realization. I would never feel anything that bad without having felt something so good. I've never wanted anything so badly in my life. Like I said, you make me feel alive.

Juxtaposed

Of course I choose to blog while I could be doing so many other things. But I just don't understand myself. I have all forms of comforts available at my disposal but I am not able to enjoy them. I have a nice bed but I am not always able to enjoy sleep. I have enough food but I don't find it appetizing. I have 24 hours in a day but I can't find even half an hour to relax, to enjoy freedom.

But it gets worse. I find myself to be in denial. So many issues are rooted so deep within me, and by pushing them aside or taking them lightheartedly I make myself feel okay. Yet at the same time, I know how chronically depressed I am... but I consistently feel so thankful for the life I have. How is that possible?

It's remarkable. Something so otherwise minor results in the collapse of me. That alone demonstrates how fucking fragile I am. Little by little, the weight of my subconscience becomes overwhelmed and the compiled issues simply cannot withstand being pushed aside any longer. It's then, at my breaking point, that it all hits me in the face: I seek the worst in everything. By never getting my hopes up, I never get let down. By assuming the worst in situations, I never get disappointed. By searching for the least admirable qualities in people, it's less painful when they end up hurting me, which seems inevitable. I'm so accustomed to being sad, that I gave up on positivity.

Due to recent events, I've come to realize a lot. From heart-to-hearts with my teacher, to empowering talks with my friends, to little pick-me-ups from people who aren't even trying to cheer me up, I've slowly become more okay with things. I've come to understand that all the shit that I've been through has made me a more mature person, and I owe all that I am to the people that have fucked me over. Life is simple. Everything happens for you, not to you. Everything happens at exactly the right moment, neither too soon nor too late. You don't have to like it, it's just easier if you do. It's actually beautiful in a way. The timing, the irony. Not at first maybe. But it all comes around full circle in the end. Life is now. There was never a time when your life was not now, nor will there ever be. Take it, internalize it, and grow from it. It's all that anyone can do.