Almost everyone has that moment in their life, the one where they do something utterly stupid and have something to learn from it. My life is filled with those moments, and by this point i’ve stopped being depressed about it. I figure, it’s just another road bump and this is only one life. Take it, learn from it, get over it. But i’m always surprised at what lesson will come next because they are never what I expect.

Take my latest shenanigan for instance. I learned two days ago that speeding, then taking a sharp turn while pressing on the breaks is a very, very bad idea. I also learned that airbags aren’t as soft as I thought they would be. In fact, it feels like being punched in the face. I learned that insurance people are funny, because they won’t cover the fucked up suspension, or the exploded and dismantled tire, or the airbags, but they will cover the broken rearview mirror and the windsheild that it flew into because that was the airbag’s fault, not mine. But the most important thing I learned-or rather, proved-was my near death theory.

See, i’ve always believed that some authors are filled with utter shit. When a character (or if in an autobiography, themself) has a near death experience, there’s constantly this flashback scene playing in their mind or they’re thinking about someone precious to them. That just sounds too sappy to me. When your car is spinning out of control or when you’re being sucked under by a current and drowning, and you’re alone, you aren’t thinking a damn thing. It’s a beautiful and dangerous reaction called instinct that takes over. Unless you are specifically trained to handle panic situations, when you’re in danger, your body doesn’t think as much as it just does. The only thing I remember from wrecking my car is when the world finally stopped spinning and I found myself staring at a smoking airbag. If something had been shot threw me and killed me, I wouldn’t have registered it at all. I wasn’t even afraid.  And it was the same for when I was little. A current got a hold of me and I was being shoved around, not thinking anything, just kicking and flailing mindlessly until it let me go.

Not to say that this goes for all situations. I mean, if you have a gun pointed at you or if you’re dangling thousands of feet above the ground for more than a few minutes, you’ll have the time to think about everything. And even more importantly, if someone is with you when everything is spinning out of control, you’ll probably be thinking about their safety rather than your own. But besides that, I did prove my theory. Now when I read that Jimmy was thinking about his childhood when a truck was coming at him at 80 mph, I can call bullshit.

I think.

XD

I’m really bad at the piano, but would you still listen to me?
Would you understand at least three chords of it?Theres something I never had a chance to say to you for so long now,
But I’m bad with words and it’s a little embarrassing so I made them into notes.

It’s always the same lullaby playing over in my head. As if i’m desperate in disaster, it cries that no one’s coming. I’m going to die alone.

All nonsense in the face of age and years ahead, but there are few certain of how long they live and I, personally, don’t want to leave this earth still dry of the feeling everyone is raving about. What is it that makes them smile? How can they stand each other for so long? I see these couples, and I don’t feel anything. Nothing at all because I don’t understand.

And yet, at the same time, i’m crying.

I’m old enough to know that the initial spark doesn’t last. I know infatuation, obession, denial, and imitation. But what is the real thing? What is it to be comfortable around another person?

The problem could be in time-that I haven’t waited long enough and i’m impatient-but it could also be in self distortion. What I see in the mirror and what I believe others deserve collide. Most believe that you should love your body, yet I detest my own and lack the will to fix it. I’ve given up on that part of myself. My soul is what I have hope for, but in comparison to the better looking, I fade away. Gorgeous girls can have beautiful spirits, and next to them I find no reason to fight for anyone. They take what they want and I hand it to them willingly because every guy deserves that perfect girl, and I only want the best for them.

I only wonder if someone will look back and take me instead.

I can pretend to be wise and sympathetic, but how wise can I really be without knowing the feeling of love?

The room is plastered with paisley wallpaper, family photos, and certificates. I know you just want me to feel comfortable, as if I’m just talking to another human being (a really intelligent human being) instead of the over analytical doctor I know you are. But honestly, can’t you have a bit more taste than paisley? The dark maroon and gold running across the walls makes the room seem smaller. If I were insane, I’d be very uncomfortable right now, walking into your office and sitting in your old, plush armchair. But I am sane-for the most part-and the only issue I have that I will never tell you is how grossed out I am thinking about how many different people have snotted and cried on this very seat cushion.

You smile at me.

Psych: Good evening. What would you like to talk about today?

Me: ….my feelings. 

Psych: Really?

You grin and I admit, I have to keep down a smile.

Me: I know, normally you have to probe people into it or something but…it’s something to talk about, right?

Psych: Well then, go right ahead. 

Me: Alright.  My feelings aren’t normal.

Psych: Not normal? What do you mean? 

Me: They just…aren’t. One moment I’ll be exploding with emotion, so much that I have to fight it back. And than most of the time I’m just…placid. Unnaturally stale.

Psych: That’s interesting. Why would you say placid or stale? Why not just calm? 

Me:  Because it’s not calm. It’s more like a solid. Impenetrable.  It’s like…a marble ball rolling on water. Have you ever seen one of those? The marble rolls with the running water, but it can’t go anywhere. It’s too heavy.  That’s what I feel most of the time. As if I’m the marble, letting everything roll off of me without getting in.

You nod and stare at me for a while, to see if I have anything else to say. Or maybe you’re just thinking. 

…Is it weird that I don’t feel that way now that I’ve told you about it?

Psych: No, not at all. What do you feel now? 

Me: I feel…like an autumn breeze. But it won’t last.

You smile at me and nod again.

Psych:  Even so, it’s good. 

I lean back in the chair and sigh.

Me: Good.

Occasionally, when it gets bad, i’ll look back and wonder when it started. Was I born this way or was I made this way? Is there any real way to fix it? Can I live with it? And then I realize how much I treat it like a disease when it’s just a habit. A habit that, like cigarettes, can slowly take your life away.

I doubt myself.

 Perhaps it was early on, when I was small. I remember my father always asking what I wanted at the restaurant and then I would whisper it in his ear like a secret so that he could tell the waitress. He let me do that until I was eleven, when I finally had to start ordering on my own. But I still hate subway. I hate telling someone what I want when the truth is, I hardly know it myself.

Or maybe it was in elementary school, when every person I trusted turned their back on me and all I was left with was a need for attention. Middle school maybe? When others told me to keep quiet because everything I said seemed wrong. That carried on to high school and I once didn’t speak for a week in fear of reprimand, and now I still doubt what I say even when I shouldn’t. I’ll have the right answer, but all that comes out is a murmur. What happened?

But I know the main reason, above it all, is her. She’s the reason for every word of doubt ringing in my head and I know it, but I also believe that those words are truth.

Brat. Lazy. You’ll get no where. Who could be friends with you? How could someone love you? Chubby. Plain. Unattractive. Stupid. You’re so cruel to everyone. Ungrateful. You don’t deserve friends. You don’t deserve anyone to love you. 

I think that when somethings are told to you for so long-beaten into you-that eventually you start to see and believe them. I remember a time when I used to tell her that none of those things were true, but after a while, all I could do was insult her in return. It was all I could do. Because every time I looked in the mirror, all I saw-all I see are the imperfections she listed out for me. Even after i’m rid of her, she’s still a little devil on my shoulder, telling me how much i’m bringing everyone else down. How much i’m annoying them. How horrible I look. She’s everywhere. It’s like she planted these seeds of thoughts in my head just for the purpose of knowing that I could never forget about her, as if she knew that I would look at myself and remember every cut and bruise and hateful word pressed on me.
She is the only person in this world that I hate.
So much for always loving your mother.

I still remember the shaking hands. The freckles turning red under the sun. I remember every nervous etch in her face. She was beautiful. She was my sin. Temptation had never been so kind as her apologetic voice.

She was lost when I found her, clutching her purse nervously as if anyone might snatch it. A runaway. The one I just happened to bump into. And like any good Shepard, I led the lamb into safer ground. I fed her, cared for her, but for reasons unpronounced, I couldn’t let her go.

My favorite song became her laugh. I found myself hanging on her every word, listening to dazzling stories of who she used to be. The sight of her filled my very being, and I couldn’t stop it. I fell in love with a stranger.

But all I know of her now is an empty bed. An open door. Shattered glass.

The silence pressing onto me was deafening, shoving her absence against my body like gravity, dragging me further down into the reality. A coward. I would be better off without her.

A bitter end.

I don’t want to live in dying. I don’t want to be an empty shell of mechanical passion.

I want to love.

I wish that was a simpler thing to ask for.

Adventure Week One: Well, Damn.

I was right. I got horribly lost a hundred times and didn’t figure out my way through the school until this afternoon. The sad thing is-i’ll probably forget everything by Monday. I hate life.

On the bright side-yes there is a bright side-I managed to scoop up a few friends this week from my classes.  The first being the boy that followed me home.

Yes, I know. Most people bring home stray puppies or kitties or lizards, but what do I bring home on my first day of school? A boy.

See, Monday and Tuesday I hadn’t received my parking permit yet, so I walked the two miles to my Dad’s house instead of riding the bus. And behold, Monday afternoon, a boy walks up from behind me and asks what i’m reading and follows me home. Out of the way from his own house. Talking to a stranger. Weird, but kind of flattering. He was hitting on me a lot of the time.

Now that I think about it-letting a strange guy that’s hitting on me follow me home wasn’t the brightest idea i’ve ever had. But he was nice, and now we see each other in the hallway every day. It definitely could have been worse.

My second ally is a freshman and currently the one i’m closest to. Her name is C.J. and she’s much more physically fit than I am. I only know this because we’re in P.E. together, and she owned me on the mile run. Not. Fair. I like her though. She’s hyper, talks to me, and gives me a place to sit at lunch (because I finally got kicked out of my hiding spot and was forced to eat in the cafeteria). I don’t really need much more than that.

The last I made today. I forget her real name, but she goes by Chisuki. She likes anime and knows who Miyavi is and thinks i’m cool. That’s a win relationship right there.

Yep, there is a small bright side, but i’m still not very comfortable there. For instance, my Economics teacher has a short fuse. If anyone says a single word when they aren’t supposed to, she goes on a tangent about sending students to the office for being disobedient. She likes me though. I’m the nice, quiet, shy girl who does all of her work. Sounds like me, right?

Erm, no.

During that particular class today, I realized just how shy I was being and how scared i’ve been all week. Without my friends here, I have no one to encourage me, no one to talk to, no one to depend on. And I thought that maybe I was supposed to learn something from all of this-a lesson.

I need to learn how to survive on my own.

Under the veil of shining lights and above the stale wood that has lasted through memories, we run breathlessly as children. Exhilarating freedom seems to be in the air we intake with every breath, pumping through our souls like nicotine. Every leap and climb and swing is effortless, as if gravity itself has lifted just for us-just for tonight. The world is our playground; nothing can stop us now.

The sphere of bars is our last mountain to climb and the tallest we will ever master. I watch him smile excitedly and take it on with a run while I follow at his heels and grab the bars uncertainly. I feel myself start to shake with every step, my legs becoming unsupportive and my frame giving way. I forgot to tell him-I’m afraid of heights. I look up pleadingly at what I expect to be an arrogant expression, but instead am greeted with a hand and a grin. His palm is warm and surprisingly strong grasping mine. He gives me the strength to finish my efforts, and when I finally sit at the top, we laugh at our success. But I soon realize, however, that he’s climbing back down, and of course he is, we’re finished now, aren’t we? I want to follow, but I frown as I stare at the spindly bars. No, I can’t make it to the ground on my own.

He pauses halfway down and gives me a curious stare. “Are you coming?”

I bite my lip nervously and grip the bars under me until my knuckles are white. I shake my head. “I’m scared.”

He lets out a quick laugh, looking now more amused. “Don’t worry.” I watch curiously as he begins to make his way back up. With every reach I see him grow older, his childish body becoming taller, his eyes deepening with knowledge and experience, his movements more certain and powerful than before, until suddenly he’s leaning over me with a smile on his lips.

I realize then, that I am no longer a child either. My legs have grown longer and wider, and my chest is filled like those girls I used to envy in commercials. Memories creep back, weighing me down from the effortless joy I had previously experienced. I feel myself sag in disappointment and uncertainty, but before I lose myself entirely, I feel an arm wrap around my back. I almost forgot that he was there, looming over me confidently. My breath stills and he leans forward, placing his cheek against mine and his lips against my ear. His words are like a melody in the air. “I’ve got you.”

I don’t know how I made it to the ground, but I smile shamelessly as we walk away, his hand encasing mine securely. Though my legs are still shaking and much too unstable, and though I’m constantly fearing my inevitable stumble and plummet to the ground, I know that this is still worth everything. After all, he said it, didn’t he?

I’ve got you.

I have nothing to be afraid of, anymore.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

This short story was thought of while listening to Frou Frou’s songs ‘Hear Me Out’ and, of course, ‘The Dumbing Down of Love.’ Neither of the songs have much of anything to do with the story, though. O.o

And funnily enough, I didn’t mean for this story to be symbolic at all when I started it, but I guess it just turned out that way on its own…Oh well.

Wednesday was a heavy bag of disappointment slamming into my face.

Early in the morning, my Dad and I found ourselves sitting in the waiting room of the guidance office in a school he was hoping to enroll me into. I fidgeted nervously while Dad filled out forms and tried to keep my gaze from flitting around the room so much. Of course that’s difficult when different people keep walking in, all for the same purpose as ours. There was a black woman and her son and daughter who had just moved from New York. There was another black woman and her daughter, but she had a more regal air than the first. There was a little Chinese girl who had to speak for her mother-she was actually withdrawing from school. And then there was this big guy who looked like a football player….only his toe nails were painted an ugly shade of blue. I stared shamelessly at the guy, thinking of my step-brother and his girlfriend painting his toe nails neon green. I didn’t think this guy had a girlfriend to do that for him.

When we were called, we followed a wide…well, I don’t want to call her a blakc woman. Though she was, she technically wasn’t. Her skin was an eerie pale brown color, as if she hadn’t seen the sun in ages. And to add on to my unease, she kept giving a wide, wrinkly smile that made her eyes turn to slits. She said her name was Mrs. James and because my actual guidance counselor hadn’t arrived, she would take care of me. Oh dear.

My Dad seemed to think she was nice and discussed my classes with her, neither noticing my sudden tensing at their words. I really, at that moment, wanted to lash out and cry and tell them how idiotic this all was. I wanted to know why they couldn’t see how much better everything would be if I could just go back. Where everything is familiar and comfortable. Where i’m in control and not floundering for air. But they just continue, talking about me making up a P.E. credit and doubling up in sciences. Physics is required here. My Wildlife credit doesn’t count here. How do they expect me to survive, here?

We’re done sooner than suspected. Mrs. James had brought up two other schools I may be able to go to. The first, a strict school meant solely for learning and no free time. The second, the only block schedule school in the county. And, even though he resisted, I pleaded for Dad to check out the block scheduling. He didn’t understand, but he did it anyway. He didn’t understand how much I just wanted a place that felt like home.

He dropped me off at home before going to the school I wanted. I waited for his call. I wouldn’t be able to go because they ran out of parking permits.

Thursday was filled with confusion.

I was never quite aware of my failure to comprehend directions before yesterday morning. My mission: go to the school and register for a parking permit. Simple. Quick. So very, very complicated.

I made approximately three wrong turns to get to a school not five minutes away from the house. I found it by complete luck. Period.

When I got inside, I felt extremely minute in the large entrance hall. I knew I had to get to the Senior Office but…I had no idea where that may be. In three corners of the entrance hall were three hallways. Hallways 1, 2, and 3. A huge sign said that the Senior Office was located in room 3.020. I had no idea what that meant, so I went down hallway three. By some miracle unknown to me, I wandered around and into another building that just happened to be the right one. I found the office, sure, but then they handed me a pink form to fill out and I realized that my dad was needed for it, but he was at work.

The short version: Going from: the school to the house + the house to the school + the school to Dad’s work + Dad’s work to the school + the school to the house= approximately 20 wrong turns, 4 driveways used to turn around, and 1 very deflated ego.

Today I have too much time to think.

At first this was refreshing. Living in a house with chores to do isn’t something that i’m used to. Wanting to respect the parent i’m living with is something i’m completely foreign to as well. But there is always a catch to everything and in this case it’s the caging of myself.

What does that mean? Well…the first instance was very big and very small at the same time. I wanted to paint my room, but they just wanted me to pick out a few colors and put a standard stripe on the wall. That’s it. After much debate, I convinced them into letting me paint a ribbon instead, but the white (no matter how much it clashed with the color scheme) was not to be painted over. Okay. Next instance. I have a collection of windchimes. I always keep a fan on at night and the faint clinging sounds help me sleep. I wanted to put them all up like I always have. They only let me put up the three matching glass ones-the prettiest ones with the worst sound.

Instance three. The bathroom. You would think, that since it’s evidently my bathroom, that I would at least be able to put my jewelry boxes in there, on the sink, completely out of the way. No. I “share” my bathroom with whomever is a guest in the house. The only guests we have over are family, and i’m sure they wouldn’t be offended by two closed, tiny jewelry boxes in the bathroom, but that doesn’t matter. Today I had to hide any evidence that I use that bathroom. The jewelry boxes had to be moved out, my toothpaste and contact solution had to be hidden, the shower curtain had to be completely closed, but I did show a hint of rebellion. On the mirror is a little purple fuzz ball with bead eyes and paper feet. He’s been on my bathroom mirrors since I got him in eighth grade. That sucker;s not going anywhere. >:D

But to the point-i’m starting to feel confined here. As if I can’t be trusted to make any decision on my own and as if all of my ideas and my comforts are ridiculous. They’re already planning to send me to college here, but…when have they ever asked me what I wanted? Does it really not matter that I don’t want to be here? And I don’t mean this in the terms of the people, but I hate this place. Not that I loved where I was previously living, but at least there I knew what I was doing. I could go from point A to point B without getting lost. I could go out with friends. The air wasn’t murderously thick with humidity. I wanted to graduate at that school more than anything. There isn’t anything for me here, and I don’t want there to be. And so raises a question:

Do I not want to be here because i’m unhappy, or am I unhappy because I don’t want to be here?

Don’t you just hate questions like that?

7/28/08

I. (Random Thought)
I wonder why they can’t
take blood from your feet.
The veins on my feet are
so visible they might pop out
which sounds kind of gross,
but it’s better than having no veins,
like on my arms.
I’m fairly certain that when
the day comes for them
to finally take blood from my arms,
i’ll end up with one of those big, ugly bruises
that i’ve heard so much about.

II. (Dorkiness is Genetic)
Everyone is in the living room
reading a book.
For those who always see me
rading or writing,
this is where I get it from.

My family consists of a bunch of dorks.

And i’m the only one left out
of this dorky reading time
because i’ve already read
the books I brought with me,
and I don’t care to read a book
that’s a hundred years old.

I think this is is cure for kids
addicted to television.
“Read books or be shunned!” O.O
…i’m done now.

III. (That Doll-Thing)
There’s this old, creepy doll
in the playroom
that no matter how many times
I bury it in the toybox,
always manages to end up out in the open again.
Finally I got frustrated
and took the creepy doll
and scrubbed it’s grime-covered face
until it was clean.
Turns out that it looks a lot
less creepy without the dirt on it.

Stupid doll.
All it needed
was to be taken care of.

7/27/08

Today
wasn’t very exciting
but it wasn’t boring either.

After waking up from another strange dream
(I have many of those)
my aunt came in the room
and announced we were going to the lake today.

‘The lake’ is Lake Ontario.
On the shore of which my family
has owned a beach house
for, like, 50-something years
at least.

It sounds exciting-
and I guess it kinda is-
but I know what’s in that water,
and after coming up for air
to find a dead fish next to your head,
swimming in that lake isn’t so exciting anymore.

When we get there
I don’t waste any time heading
around the house towards the shore.
I may not have planned on swimming,
but I did go through the trouble
of putting Dove: Energy Glow on my legs.
Even though it’s a hopeless cause,
I still like to believe they will tan some day.

The shore is smaller than I remember
which means that either my memory has gotten worse
or the water rose significantly this summer.
Either way, I suddenly realized
how much I missed the shore of sparkling, colored rocks
and the foggy horizon that doesn’t end.
It may smell faintly of rotting fish,
but part of it feels like home.

In the winter it gets so cold
that the waves freeze over
and you can walk on the iced-over water
to touch a frozen picture of something beautiful.
Isn’t that amazing?

But right now it’s summer.
The same time of year
as when I accidentally kicked one of those sparkly rocks
right into some girl’s face
because I didn’t listen to my Aunt
when she said to stop kicking rocks behind me.
The girl lost a tooth
and I haven’t seen her since.
Not a very pleasant memory.
So I strip to my bathing suit
and will my legs to tan.

At first I just sit on the rocks and read a book,
which isn’t very comfortable
especially with giant, flying ants and
tiny, jumping spiders crawling all around me.
then I realize how much I must look like a killjoy
compared to my cousins swimming in the lake.
Settling on an option, I put down the book
and sit at the shore edge instead,
skipping rocks across the surface.

1,2
Plunk
Plunk
1,2,3

I’ve never been incredibly amazing at skipping rocks.
I always let them go too late or too early
so they either fall straight into the water
or hit the person next to me.
On occasion I get lucky,
but if you ever happen to see me skipping rocks,
I suggest you run away.
Quickly.

Plunk

I watched placidly as another rock fell into the water.
By now I have come to terms with
how athletically challenged I am,
but that doesn’t stop my Aunts’
crooked smiles
from making my back tingle in agitation.

I bend down to pick up another rock,
determined to show them that i’m not completely horrible.
My hand brushes a plain, flat one
and something catches my eye.

A rock that looks like marble
with white and orange blotches
and wiry black lines,
glistening innocently next to my feet.
I snatch it before the next wave comes in and
place it safely beside where i’m sitting.

I don’t know why but
every year I end up with a collection
of pretty, glittering rocks.
Sometimes i’ll take them home with me
and hand them out to my friends,
but other times I just put them in a pile
out of harms way.
It just seems like such a waste
to let something so beautiful slip away.

And so I skip
and collect
and skip
and collect
Until I notice something
that makes me feel a little guilty.

The rocks I throw are all plain or ugly
while the pretty ones lay safely under the sun.
And it made me a bit depressed to realize
that if I were a rock
I would be thrown into the lake.

So I went back to reading my book.

But i’m happy to report
that when I changed out of my swimsuit earlier,
I saw a very visible, very definite
tan line.