Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Not Today.

Rest and relaxation my ass. The first few days I was here, I did nothing but work. Hello, Liz Claibourne, here I come. That retail store came out the scathed one after I got my days off. I went bowling with an ex-boyfriend and an ex-friend (it was a night for the exes, and that just happened to include stunning the shit out of them by speaking only in sarcasm and witty comebacks to insults, which they didn't always understand, because their dialect is a little different from mine), saw a few people I knew in high school, attended the Christmas party of said ex-boyfriend's mom (who, by the way, still loves me, unlike said boy!), took a vacation to a comedy club in B-ham, went snowboarding on 3 hours of sleep and adrenaline (very interesting, since it was my first day back on the slopes after a year hiatus), had a not-so-fun conversation with my little sister about her trouble-making doings, had a not-so-fun experience with marijuana (I wasn't smoking it, and I ended up in the previously mentioned ex's car, having a nervous breakdown), went Christmas shopping (yes, my family procrastinates), set up the Christmas tree (again, the procrastination), and finally hit Christmas.

A friend of mine said today, "This Christmas felt less like Christmas than any other before, but I think that's how it will continue to feel for the rest of my life." He took the words right out of my mouth. Even though my family and I have been taking part in the same Christmas routine for five years now, this Christmas being hardly different, it wasn't the same for me. Maybe it's just because I'm not a kid anymore. I've grown up, turned eighteen. Time is passing me by, too fast for me to see, and I can't catch it, can't hold it back. Maybe it's because this Christmas is truly different because I have experienced more than I ever wanted to this year; the death of a best friend; the fast approaching death of a beloved great-grandmother and that of a great-granddad; the idea that drugs are becoming a big deal in the lives of over half of my friends; that I have witnessed people do stupid things and screw up their lives for no apparent reason other than "liking it too much to give it up" (applied to more than just drugs).

Recently, the theme of my life has become change. It's what I've been talking about lately. The topic of conversations, the obessions of my non-existant OCD, the reason why my "friends" are letting me down. I must face the fact: I'm changing. Everyone and everything around me is changing. And even though I don't want to lose those people I used to call my friends, maybe it's better if I do. Stop calling. Stop writing, stop communication. And maybe one day, I'll be able to forgive, to accept, to return. But that day isn't today. Or tomorrow. Or even a week from now. From this day, looking forward, it appears miles away. You can barely see it through all the jungle of untrekked life. But it's there. One day, I will come back. But not today.

Sunday, November 18, 2007

Eventual. Gradual.

"Say it's alright, have a good time, cause it's alright, yeah, it's alright."
Since I got to college I have found these words to be true several times. However, College wants to conquer me with it's hard times, bad roommates, bad food, lack of God, and many fewer friends than I had in high school.
What did I expect college to be? I expected a new start, which I got (but what did I make of it?). I expected good food, like the stuff my mom makes, which I didn't get (nobody could ever cook as well as my mom). I expected an awesome job, and I suppose that the theatre is awesome, but the job I have sucks (I sit around in a metaphorical box all day). I expected a HUGE amount of friends, and more interesting, conversation-based classes. I got a couple more interesting, none are more conversationally oriented. I expected to go to bed at a decent hour. FAT CHANCE. Hence, what I am still doing up at 7:00 in the morning. I haven't slept all night because I had an anxiety attack at 3:00 in the morning, I started cleaning, and I am just now finishing up. I expected a peaceful living situation. One in which my roommate was mature, and had compromising abilities. I have a single upperclassman that I know that I can depend on, and several friends off and on campus that I can rely on for advice and a shoulder to lean on. I expected to dive into all the activities I could. I have a radio show out of the ten clubs I started out with. I expected to leave behind feelings for my lost beau. Unfortunately, that didn't happen either.
I didn't expect math to be hard. I didn't expect the loneliness. I didn't expect so much freedom. I didn't expect to be so broke. I didn't expect to run out of meal points. I didn't expect to breakdown crying five times over a period of two days. I didn't expect suicidal thoughts.

And for those of you who have just finished reading this and who are about to tell me that everything will be okay, I know. I don't need telling again, because I've been told several times. And yes, it has sunk in. I will be okay... eventually.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Home Is Where the Heart Is

To begin with, let us speak on the definition of the word "home":

1 a: one's place of residence : domicile b: house
2: the social unit formed by a family living together
3 a: a familiar or usual setting : congenial environment; also : the focus of one's domestic attention b: habitat
4 a: a place of origin ; also : one's own country b: headquarters
5: an establishment providing residence and care for people with special needs
6: the objective in various games; especially : home plate

Personally, I don't agree with any of these definitions. Coming to college has changed my perspective of the word greatly. Everyone keeps speaking of the rapidly approaching Christmas Break, and how they get to return home. I still have not decided as to whether or not I'm excited to return. A wise woman once said, "Not every place you live will be your home. Like M.V. was not home for me, even though I lived there for several years. Some places are just resting places; places you happen to pass through on your journey through life."

I have come to the realization that W. is not my home yet, nor do I expect it to be. It still has the potential to become such. But as of now, it hasn't happened, nor is it happening. I have friends here. Or, to put a finer point on it, I have the qualities of friendship without the love that comes with friendship. And I definitely don't have the family love here. D.H. lives nearby, but not near enough to visit every weekend. I also have work, hobbies, homework, food, and Jones soda. All the elements of a home, and yet it really is not my home.

Then I look back. Look back at what I left behind in little old S.W: D.T.O. (the guy I loved), K.S. (who moved to California anyways), H.T. (who I wasn't really that close with to begin with), S.S, my family, and some others.
Next question: who out of those people speak to me through the internet, or call me here at college? And who do I have to call?
H.T. communicates with me part of the time. D.T.O. and I had a hard time when I left, so we don't speak much, and when we do, it's me calling him. K.S. and my mom are really the only people I talk to who call me as much as I call them. We talk on a regular and frequent basis, and I think that those two, and the rest of my family are the only people/things that I have left there. And K.S. doesn't even live there anymore.

W. isn't my home, S.W, we can conclude, isn't really home anymore. Therefore, we can further conclude that I really am "homeless" in a figurative sense of the word. Makes me feel alone in this world.

So, the final question, I think, is: am I excited to go "home" for break?
What reason do I have to be exited? Many of my friends at home don't talk to me on a regular basis, so I probably won't see them for the time that I will be there. The one's that do talk to me, I will probably see a few times, we'll probably hang out, get caught up and whatnot. Or maybe I'll just end up working through my whole break. Drown my loneliness with business, and maybe be distracted, if only to forget for a moment how alone I feel, with the purpose of making it hurt less when I return to W.

Thursday, November 08, 2007


So, other than the person I recently gave this URL to, I doubt I have any readers left. I hope that soon improves, as the angst in my life has returned in the form of college. Homework stress (and the fact that I'm posting a blog right now probably doesn't help that), boy stress (which will probably go away on its own, eventually), and roommate stress (apparently I have some things wrong with me that I didn't know about before I came here. But see, she leaves the door open ALL THE TIME. The door to the outside? Where it's cold? And then SHE LEAVES THE ROOM... Is it just me or is there something wrong with this picture? Oh, and the zits have decided to take over my face. No matter what I do, they don't go away. Ever. Just gotta love adolescence and all the lovely things that come with it.
More later. I have a killer poem that I haven't typed up yet. And hopefully there wont be a nine month delay in between this post and my last. (I promise I wasn't pregnant.)

Saturday, February 10, 2007

Okay, I admit it. I am scared to death. I'm scared that I will die too soon, before I've made my difference in the world. I am scared that I won't go to a good college and will end up at the local community college where all the work that I've done to get where I am will be worthless, as they start everyone out in pre-algebra when I've taken calculus. I am scared that I will never find the person that I'm supposed to spend the rest of my life with, and I'm scared that the boy I'm with won't be him. I'm afraid of not traveling the world and not getting a good job. Frightened of letting my family down, and afraid that my sister will turn to drugs, alchohol, suicide, or running away because her mother won't listen to what she has to say about her step-father. I'm scared that I will lose more of my young family members before I have a chance to get closer. I'm frightened that I don't believe enough in Christ, and that I'm letting my peers test and weaken my beliefs. I'm scared I will end up like my father, or my step-mother.

Friday, February 09, 2007

I've been thinking about her again. It's been over a month since Cassie died and people are still commenting her daily on Everybody loved her. I loved her. She was one of my best friends. I remember climbing trees with her when we were five or six. I would tell her my secrets, but sometimes she couldn't hear me because she was born with a mishapen, faulty ear. So she would whisper to me "Pst! Wrong ear!" Even when we were sixteen (well, when I was sixteen, she was fifteen) she would come over to my house and we would sleep outside under the stars and talk about the things we never told anyone else.
She always slept so hard, I remember. I was braiding her hair one night when we were in middle school, trying to pull an all-nighter. Her sister was there, and so was mine. I was braiding her hair into the little braids all over her head, like cornrows, but not French-braided. We were sitting on my bed (the top bunk of a bunk bed) and she was supposed to sleep on the floor. Well, she fell asleep on top of me, and we had to push her to the side so I could get off. That lucky girl stole my bed that night!
We rode our bikes to WalMart once, going shopping for bathing suits. We both ended up giggling uncontrolably in the fitting rooms. You see, because I am so well endowed, I cannot wear two pieces. The biggest size will not fit... So I tried on this bikini, and started cracking up. Cassie, of course, wanted to know what was funny, so I let her into my fitting room. She unabashedly began laughing at me too.
The last time I saw her, she had just bought her new car, just gotten her liscense. We went to a movie and afterwards drove around to various places in the town my father lives in. We stayed out until one in the morning, about the time her parents started calling us. We were punished severely. She and I fought about punishment, because I thought hers was too lax, and she had never told us about the curfew that we were supposed to have. She apologized, and we started talking again. I never saw her after that night, even though I was at my dad's house right after Christmas.
I hate not having her a phone call, or an instant message away. There are so many things I never got to tell her, so many secrets I have not shared. My best friend is gone, and I cannot morally find her. I miss her so much.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

A Sea Breeze Martini and No Prince Charming

Curly, auburn hair that hangs to Her shoulders.
A smile that reveals a shock of white teeth.
Long, tanned legs, crossed under the short black skirt.
A tinkling laugh that bursts forth from
Tickle-me-pink glossed lips
Which underline the delicate ski-jump nose.
Brown shadow outlines the smoke-colored eyes
That sparkle with reflections of the neon lights
That hang on the walls of the flashy dance club.
With slender fingers, tipped by perfectly manicured nails,
She raises the frosted glass of Her Sea Breeze Martini
To Her soft, rose-painted lips.
He approaches the bar and the young Woman,
And pets Her soft curls,
As if he owned them,
And the whole world,
While he suavely asks Her if he may have the pleasure,
Neigh, the honor of buying her a drink.
Coldly, She delivers her reply.
She has a drink.
She has a boyfriend.
She is set for the evening.
But thank you, kind sir, for the offer.
The man,
Walks away with two truths and a lie.
She ponders,
Why do they always choose Her as the object
Of their affections?
She must be a muse,
The Muse of one thousand sonnets.
Another appears.
The ninth of the evening.
He isn't Prince Charming,
That's for sure.
He sits heavily down
Orders His drink
Makes small talk with the bartender,
small talk with the Lady, in turn.
He stutters when talking to Her,
When flirting with Her.
Seems nervous when He asks Her
For a dance,
To buy her a drink.

And She accepts because He's different.
He stutters when he talks.

She is having fun with the Man from the bar.
So he offers to walk her to her car.

And She accepts because He's different.
He's not handsome, but not unhandsome.

But She has had too much alcohol.
So he offers her a ride home.

And She accepts because He's different.
He isn't cocky, and doesn't try to be suave.

He opens the door for Her,
She steps in,
And He closes the door.
She chatters on as She gives Him directions.
He remains quiet
And drives.
At the last turn to Her house,
The Man continues on.
What is He doing? She wonders.
He is silent,
Hasn't said a word.

There's a playground near Her abode
A place She loved to play as a child
Where family picnics had occurred
Where She and Her friends had gathered in high school
To cause mayhem.
Out of the glove box,
The large, overwhelming hands bring with them
A rectangular box that almost looks like a jewelry case,
But Black, and with sharp edges.
He reaches in the box again, and this time
Brings out tape.
Duct Tape.
Binding Tape.
He rips a piece long enough to cover her mouth,
Pins her to the seat,
And covers up those pretty, pink lips
With Silver.
He unbuckles her seat belt, and grabs her arm,
Nearly yanking it out of the socket,
With the force He uses to pull her out of the car.
She hopes there are teenagers in the park,
Like she used to be.
But they fail her,
Because it IS three in the morning.
Sit on the merry-go-round, pretty
He says, this time without a stutter.
It was your favorite toy as a kid.
He flings her to the gravel,
And she hits her head on the spinning device.
To avoid more pain, she does what he says.
But the gesture was worthless.
She would have done better to run.
Before she knows it, she is stripped
Each limb bound to a pole of the plaything.
He kneels on her,
Then lays on her,
His weight suffocating her.
He hurts her, hurts her, hurts her,
And gets up.
Zips His jeans.
Smiles a mean, maniacal smile
And reaches for the black box from the glove compartment.
Opening the box,
A reflection of moonlight glances off His face,
Revealing a scar along His cheek.
Must have been from another rape victim.
A five-inch knife materializes in his hand.
She would have gasped,
But she had no mouth to do it with.
Only the Silver He gave her.
Into her flesh He carves His signature,
The mark He has left on all his victims.
The Apple in the pupil of an Eye.
She moans in agony with every inch
Of creamy skin He destroys.
And with every noise, He pulls harder on the knife,
Increasing the moans to screams.
And just as He had done with every other victim,
He breaks the left side of her ribcage,
Cuts open the skin and slices the arteries and veins
Connected to her heart.
As her lifeless body spurts the remaining blood,
He removes her heart,
Wraps it in a Black plastic garbage bag He fetched from the car.
He's produced a shovel,
And has pulled back the pre-grown grass
That covers the field, thirty-four feet away from the picnic shelter.
He starts to dig.
A Hole.
Three by six by six.
She will never have a headstone.
She will only be discovered if a dog
Can smell her decay.
And the Man?
He will continue with His day life of writing books,
And His night life of killing women.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

I can't believe she's dead

Cassie. My cousin. My friend. My griping post. My shoulder to cry on. And she's dead. Why do terrible things happen to beautiful people? Sure, she did some horrible things. But why did God have to choose her to take home that night? Why did God have to take my best friend by way of getting hit by an out-of-control truck? You always hear about these kinds of things happening to other people, and think that nothing like that will ever happen to you. And then they do. And that Forever that you said you had, the Forever that gave you time to see each other once again, that Forever never comes. And there's nothing you can do. No turning back to glance that person. Only old pictures of what they once were, and the one you want is lost. I loved her so much! We used to climb trees together when we were five. I would whisper secrets in the deformed ear, and she could not hear me. So I'd go to the other side. When I spent the night at her house, we would spend the majority of the time running from her St. Bernards. We would go swimming in the pond that her dad dug, and sleep outside, only to wake up to cold feet due to dew in the morning. We would look for falling stars and talk about boys and life. In the mornings at my house, we would put on that old Dixie Chicks CD and yell at the top of our lungs the lyrics to "Good Bye, Earl" if we were the only ones home, doing dishes. The last time I saw her, we got in trouble for staying out until one in the morning. She got her car taken away, and her cell phone two. Her sentence didn't last as long as mine did, so I got mad at her. But things were repaired and we were friends, talking online when we could. The last time I had a chance to see her, I didn't take it. She talked to me online, and said she wanted to see me. I told her that she needed to talk to Shane, because I knew he would say no. She never called, and I never got to see her that last time. On the day I came home, I talked to her online while I was doing college stuff. She asked me questions, and I gave short answers because I was busy. I didn't talk to her that much. And now I never get to talk to her again. I keep wishing someone would call and tell me it was a joke. But nobody will, because it's not. The funeral is on Friday, and the viewing a day before. God, I love her so much. She was only sixteen.