Paris Holds the Key to Her Heart

Paris:

The bitter swell of my metaphorical coffee burning slowly down my throat. Warm yellow lights hit me in all the right places, and the flakes of snow bow down to kiss my hair. The lower lamp lights my skin and it smoothly whispers 'perfection'.

The neighbor's music's swimming up through our apartment floor like kisses to my eardrums. Planting seeds of love in our fraying carpet. The musician never sleeps.

Because we can always hear the music. We rock and sway together on our balcony. Cold metal railing. Icy, like the tips of my fingers, you tell me.



We will sleep till the sun hits my easel and my oils and my brushes. Then will the angels drag me from the blankets and from the comforter of my own bed.

And the gods and the muses and the demigods and the spirits of my children will work through me. Starting at my roots and creating sparks at each curve of my ringlets. But the fire splits at each of my ends, and that's the greatest part of it all. We'll create things heavier than the sun that filters through the cracks of our lace curtains.

And we'll write down everything, so our children can know what it's really like in Paris. So when they have to grow like an adult and they by their tickets out, they can know why I married you in Paris. Know why I loved in Paris and know why the best baguette's are in Paris. And know why they make 'paris' out of 'paradise'.

We'll be watching Hepburn in old black and white films and checking out Walt Disney biographies in the old man's makeshift library on the third floor.
We'll hold hands 7 blocks down. Then we stop there and get some lunch.

There's no time in Paris. No tea time or d.e.a.r. time or me time or you time.

Paris is wherever I'm with you.

Look at us Go

Look at us go. I am laughing and spinning and my classes are great. And I wanna hug everyone. Ev-er-y-one. And I have never wanted to hug anyone before.

Things are going good and I don't have a bit of regret and, ohhhhhhh. It feels so good to feel so new.
It's like gold glitter and silver hair.
And vanilla bean ice cream.
It's refreshing... like running down the summertime streets wearing Lone Peak choir robes, running at night, because we love to feel like Harry Potter, but we don't have to be Harry Potter.

Back when night was warm.
And running wasn't just for athletes.

This feels like banana cream pie. Or doing the dishes early on a Saturday morning. Kitchen windows facing east.

It's feels like when we would climb the boxelder tree at our old house and play time-machine. And Rachel was always "Sarah, the tri-sarah-top".
And remember when we sat in my brother's car and talked about Tyler's boxers? Cuz he had some with sailboats on them and some with green stripes? Yeah, that's how I feel. We were both proud that we knew that. I'm practically as happy as I was that day.

I'm feeling like wearing pink, and I never really feel like wearing pink.
I'm feeling nothing like this weather outside.
Brilliance and light, like white feathers.
                              Radiance.
                                           Sunbeams and Old Dust.
                                                                             Glitter and Gold.

I'm feeling like blue 1950's dresses.
I'm feeling like watching the beginning of 500 Days of Summer.
I'm feeling like staying in my church clothes, pretending to dance with someone when really, I am alone.

                                         I'm feeling like Taylor Swift's 'You Belong With Me'.

And you're all surprised because I'm feeling at all.
But only because things are working out.

let's see how long that lasts.

B

By Sarah Kay

If I should have a daughter, instead of “Mom,” she’s gonna call me “Point B,” because that way she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I’m going to paint solar systems on the backs of her hands so she has to learn the entire universe before she can say, “Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.”

And she’s going to learn that this life will hit you hard in the face, wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. There is hurt here that cannot be fixed by Band-Aids or poetry. So the first time she realizes that Wonder Woman isn’t coming, I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I’ve tried. “And, baby,” I’ll tell her, don’t keep your nose up in the air like that. I know that trick; I’ve done it a million times.

You’re just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house, so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else find the boy who lit the fire in the first place, to see if you can change him.” But I know she will anyway, so instead I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boots nearby, because there is no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix. Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks that chocolate can’t fix. But that’s what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything, if you let it. I want her to look at the world through the underside of a glass-bottom boat, to look through a microscope at the galaxies that exist on the pinpoint of a human mind, because that’s the way my mom taught me.

That there’ll be days like this. “There’ll be days like this, my momma said.”

When you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises; when you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you want to save are the ones standing on your cape; when your boots will fill with rain, and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment. And those are the very days you have all the more reason to say thank you. Because there’s nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline, no matter how many times it’s sent away. You will put the wind in winsome, lose some. You will put the star in starting over, and over. And no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute, be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life. 

And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am pretty damn naive. But I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily, but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it. “Baby,” I’ll tell her, “remember, your momma is a worrier, and your poppa is a warrior, and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.” Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things. And always apologize when you’ve done something wrong, but don’t you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining. Your voice is small, but don’t ever stop singing. And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip war and hatred under your door and offer you handouts on street-corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.

If you read that entire thing, I will kiss you.

I would be Sorry.

On the subject of following your heart, I once said to someone, "It comes God, then Parents, then me." But now I can't remember which came first, parents or God.

I said, "I never really had an awkward phase." and he says, "Phyllis, you've never not been in an awkward phase. Actually, we shouldn't even name it a phase, it's just always been awkward."


She says, "You have no opinions. I've always liked that most about you."
That was the first memorable slap in the face.
I've always had opinions, I just never thought mine were important enough to share with you. To become vocal about. But don't worry, since then I have shared so many of them.

And I picture you lying in your bed at night, wondering, where did all the opinion-less friends go?

Because you've never been very okay with other people's opinions.
It's almost comical how judgmental you can be.
And prejudice too.
You're missing out on so much.
And it makes me sad, because you're so freakin blind.



I am sorry sometimes.

Sorry that I turned out the way I did.
I am sorry I am me and that I love it.

I am so sorry I am not afraid of you anymore.

I am sorry for you.


But, yes, at the end of everything, you made me Me.
So I guess my words shouldn't be "sorry" but they should read "thank you".

Hearts Skipped a Beat

Ever since I got a king-sized bed I've lost the matching sock to almost every pair I've got.

It was kinda awkward. I never looked at the clock at '6:56' and being extremely superstitious like I am, I instantly thought that this meant something big was coming. That somethings are going to change.

And I would not be the least bit scared of a little big change right now. Yeah, cash and checks would be nice too.

I picture Christmases to come to be a little different... and it gets me so excited, really. I see me setting up my tree in June and decorating it for the 4th and for Halloween and Thanksgiving. Decorate it with a whole bunch of Indian feathers and turkeys. Yeah... live turkeys.

There was a time my sophomore year that I made myself high without using anything harmful. Just straight Anne of Green Gables and Seductive Pea bath soap in the early morning hours.

Which is rather addictive actually and I was beyond happy. I wasn't high. I called it "floating", because that's how it felt.

And you told me that this is not healthy. "That's dangerous, Phyllis. That's just not healthy at all."

I've realized on this blog that I've talked about my hairy legs twice. Now three times and it makes me feel kind of weird.

And I remember when i told you about my most 'spiritual experience', my 'vision', that dream I had 2 years ago, and you thought I was real crazy. I've never told anyone but you, but you thought I was crazy.
But I think you're pretty crazy most of the time.

This doesn't make any sense, I know. This isn't what I want to write, you know that too. But you asked for a blog post and now you've got it.

"Sandy, Baby"

On Being Miserable: A How To Guide

•Don't even lay down for a moment and think about all that you have. Remind yourself that your life really could not be any worse. You are suffering more than anyone.

•Don't sit down for a single second. This may cause contemplation, which may result in a small amount of "content". And even a sliver of happiness can infect the whole finger. The positivity can spread through your system to your brain and, in time, you will find the optimism has taken over the sum of your entire body.

•And you don't want that.

•Count your many trials name them one by one.

•Don't turn on the radio. Music is dangerous. Tapping of the foot may release some emotional weight off your brain, so just try to avoid beats and rhythms in general. It is safest with out the music anyways.

•Do nothing too risky. Or different. Any sort of physical or emotional activity can be dangerous to your overall misery. So keep the blinds closed and spend your Saturdays sleeping alone.

•Keep all social interaction to a bare minimum. Conversations must stay away from news of high importance. "Hi, how are you. Nice weather we're having." Spongebob said it best.

•Be careful not to smile. Smiling can change a person's whole face and personality.. make them look so much more attractive.. it's kinda like... magic. But to keep a perfectly miserable countenance, all sort of loveliness must be avoided. So keep your hood over your eyes and your lips over your teeth, pressed into a frown. Yes. Oh, yes. Now you look wonderfully melancholy.

•Most crucially, you must avoid Love. This is the most dangerous drug of all. If caught, the joy can be quite contagious and is fatal to everyone's overall misery that come in contact with you. This sort of joy can be addictive and will only result in a disgusting amount of happiness.

• But this one can be avoided if you only read the stories and never create one of your own.

If you're happy and cannot sleep count your miseries instead of sheep.

for the sick and for the tired

I am so tired. 
Those words were typed with as much emphasis as my fingers could possibly press for you.

I am so tired of shaving my legs.
I am tired of my hair. These tangles are exhausting me. The ringlets, tiring me.
I am so tired of clothes. It's so hard for me to want to get dressed these mornings. Want to put anything on at all.
I am sick of my body. Every limb.
Most nights I spend lying in the dark on my bed, watching the upside down moon through my window. Those nights I wish I could detach my limbs from me, one by one by one by one. Erasing, beginning at my toes, tickling up my legs, crawling over my thighs, numbing my waist and everything above... Because maybe it would release the tension at my joints.

Let me complain to you. Pleeease. Because all this time, I've been what you've wanted me to be. The Happy One.

I am exhausted with The Fakers. I am tired of the people who secretly hate me. The ones who are mad at me when I succeed. Why are you still around?? Why are you still here if you hate to be with me?? If it makes you sick to see me be loved? Even brats like me need to be loved.
Maybe I am the most exciting thing you've got? Maybe it's because I know a bit about love and I have big secrets? I won't be mad, have you're own adventures. I won't be green. I won't be jealous one bit. I will be extremely happy.

"What are 'friends' really? Just, just define friends for me, please." I asked. But he couldn't. "Exactly."

I am here to please you, my pretties. I am only here to be what I always have been. The Happy One.
But, tell me, how far does "just be your self" go? I really want you to tell me, because I don't know anymore. Because I am so confused sometimes.

I wonder sometimes how much I would hurt, how much I would lose, if I were to just "be my self" for the first time...

It's not that I like the silence, it's just that we've had so much time to say all that we could ever say.

I am so tired.

I Remember Boys

I remember Brant Carmicheal. I remember he was so mean to me, but he was the only boy I ever knew. He ruined my elementary school life. But I was in love with him and 5 year old love counts to me.

I remember believing in Serendipity as an 8 year old.

I was sure Spencer Reinstein and I were getting married because we both moved here on the same day. What says marriage more than that?

I can remember cleaning up in class and Clay Francis and I reached for the same piece of trash on the floor. Our hands touched and I was sure we were getting married.

I remember the very first time I met Travis Kirk. I was eating cherries in the best cherry tree and it was a Sunday. I remember I never thought I had seen a more beautiful boy before. And I remember thinking I really made an impression because my hair was in two pig tails. I just knew he had fallen for me.

I still remember the first time I saw Andrew Saxton. He was peeing on a tree in my backyard when he thought no one was looking. We yelled at him and my sister and I hated him for as long as kids can hate.

I remember the first time I had a play-date with a boy out of school. It was The Boy. I didn't say a word to him, of course, and we played Nancy Drew Clue games on the computer.

I can remember my first boy friend at my charter school. Everyone said I shouldn't like him cuz he's so fat, but I reassured everyone that this guy in '13 Going in 30' is chubby at 13, but he's hot when he's older. Plus, he told me I was skinny. And that was a compliment, even in the 5th grade.

I remember the first time I met The Captain at EFY. I pretended to throw up on him as "The Initiation" into the group. I remember he thought I was crazy and I remember that's the way I wanted it.

Freedom

'My country tis of thee'

This has nothing to do with Obama.

'Sweet Land of Liberty'

This has nothing to do with Mitt Romney.

For once, this has to do with me.

'For thee, I sing.'

Maybe, in a few years, I will be there. Maybe more. High school graduation, turning eighteen, really does nothing for me. Maybe in five years time you will see us. Me and Freedom. Holding our hands in the air, wearing old copper and posing for the pictures.

What am I, Freedom, without you? Just one lone body stuck here in my bedroom. Drowning here in my basement. Bars in the window; barbed wire at all the perimeters I want to go. So I sit down and paint Freedom in my basement.

But it's hard with out the visual, because I never saw her stop at my bars. I never once saw Freedom walk passed my cell.

Miley Cyrus and the Prom Queen

                                   

Rock out like you and your sisters used to to Hannah Montana. Dancing in front of the bedroom mirror in your dress up wigs. Rock out like you and your sisters do now. Sexy dancing to the new Miley Cyrus.
Rock out like big girls now.

Rock out like your 13 again and you just held a boy's hand for the very first time. And your stomach is still flipping. Rock out like you just had your first kiss and.. I've never been kissed. But rock out to that feeling when you realize you maybe want to kiss him. Like, a lot. Like, kiss him twice. Like, maybe more.

Rock out like you're spending you're weekend alone and you're totally okay with that.

Rock out like you just made a new friend and it was actually pretty painless and you didn't freeze up or throw up or give up or anything.

Rock out like your favorite brother's here to visit. Rock out like you two actually know how to swing dance. Like how he loves to dip you.

Rock out like Anne and Gilbert just found each other again. Like Jack just saw Rose for the very first time. Like if Peter and Wendy grew old together. Like if Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan are in another movie together.

Like you just had a bishops interview and you didn't even cry once.

Rock out like you don't have anything to cry about.

Rock out like you're older now and you finally know what it's like to be free.

Rock out like there's fireflies in the west. Like it's a summer night and you're 14 again.
And you and the ginger are still best friends. And You and The Boy are still undecidedly, awkwardly in love.

Rock out like the converse are steppin and squeakin and slidin. And elbows are flyin.

Like it's high school 1985 and the great almighty voice above just crackled that you won Prom Queen.

Rock out like you know your mom used to.

Rock out like it is 1961 and you have the biggest hair in Baltimore.

While You Were Sleeping

 "Have you ever, like, seen somebody? And you knew that if only that person really knew you they would, well, they would of course dump the perfect model that they were with and realize that you were the one that they wanted to just grow old with." -Lucy

Peter: "I'm making a clean start with Lucy. She is... She is... She-- What is she? She's...."
Jack: "I'd say that she gets under your skin as soon as you meet her. She drives you so nuts you don't know whether to hug her or, or just really arm wrestle her. She would go all the way to Europe just to get a stamp in her passport. I don't know if that amounts to insanity, or just being really, really... likable."
Peter: "..... No, that's not it."

......................................................

Preist: "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to..."
Lucy: "I object."
Saul: "Oh geez."
Preist: "I didn't get to that part yet."
Jack: "I would have to object too."
Priest: "What about you?!"
Peter: "I'm thinking!"

Ashley: "Peter Callaghan is engaged to me. I object to this wedding!"
Priest: "Get in line."
Ashley's Husband: "And I object to your objection."
Mary Callaghan: "Who's that??"
Peter: "Ashley's husband."
Midge Callaghan: "You proposed to a married woman?!"
Peter: "Yes. And I'm in a coma when my brother makes a play for my-- sort of my fiance."

...........................................................

I don't even care if I don't get a single comment on this post. It will make me equally happy just to see 'While You Were Sleeping' as the title. And Bill Pullman and Sandra Bullock's faces that far apart from each other.

"Have you ever been so alone you spend the night talking to a man in a coma?"

Like how you're Manhattan and I'm Syracuse

And this pain splitting in my side is comforting. The deep pits here in my stomach keep me well. Keep me from getting ill. From going totally crazy. The wrong kind of crazy. This makes us "me".

We don't go to New York for the silver bullet subways or their plastic benches. We go for the people. And I go for the lack of cars. And the lack of trees. Because Central Park really doesn't count as landscape..

Manhattan makes me feel good. Good about being me.

We've got no stickiness in the air and no urine on the grounds. We can wake up to silence- maybe the sound of a dog or a lawn mower.
You don't hear that, see that or feel that in Manhattan.

And maybe we should never complain about how bad we've got it. Because maybe you could see something said in the weather worn eyes of these woman who were born here. Maybe, if you look, you could see it in the eyes and wrinkled faces of the men who will never leave here. The children who might never see mountains.

Sure thing, holding a coffee, wearing a pencil skirt and looking busy might look like some real fun, man. But I bet there's coffee shops in Nebraska..

I bet there's romance in Nebraska. You've seen the movies. There's romance in New York. All I see is that everyone just wants to kiss each other. It's their eyes; you can see. It's kinda a vampireous Edward-Bella look. But I'm sure you'd find a Tom Hanks-Meg Ryan sort of fling if you looked deep enough.

I don't know.
Maybe there's only meaningless kisses and maybe there's no coffee shops. Maybe there really isn't anything in Nebraska.
But maybe still I'd rather watch all our mountains burn than watch skyscrapers fall. Because I'd rather be looking at our mountains..

Dig back down to the ships that made Manhattan. I bet they never predicted this.

The city like bugs. Night bugs. Crawling and scratching through the city. Stilettos and poetry. Gay guys and hot dogs. Charcoal sketches of naked ladies. Musicians in the subways. Coffee and more gay people. Or maybe they're not gay. This city never sleeps.

In a Brick'n World.

Oh, brick it. I won't lie to you. I wouldn't. No, yes. Yes, I am scared, of some things.

I fear your glasses.
I don't get them. And everyone has them.
And, really, I don't get why he even likes me.. when I don't act and I don't really care what's about my hair, I don't care what I wear or how hairy my legs are. What the brick, I don't even care to shower most days. And I take pleasure in the fact that I don't.

Forgive me, too much, too soon.

I guess Confusion is what mostly strikes fear in us, yes. Confusion, that filthy brick.
I am scared it is too late to change. Everyone says we need to.
I'm afraid it's too late to start reading my scriptures. Everyone else is already in Mosiah anyways.

But I just can't stop thinking

and thinking

and thinking.

And you don't even know that this post is between pleading and screaming.

I can't stop thinking of how I'm "turning out". I am scared I will be a mother made of fluff. Nothin' but brickin' fluff, ya know. Yes, you know. Nothing but a bunch of cotton balls. AND THEY'RE NOT EVEN BRAND NAME. They're completely generic. Gosh, I don't know if they're even cotton at all.
I don't want to be the Generic Mom. Sun glasses and rhinestone studded jeans. Eye shadows and going to the pool only to read.
Watching your kids living the life you never had. Life you wanted. Life you think you can't get back. Damn it, you're only 42. You're not even half way to heaven, but you think you must now be unburdened with your own problems, only carrying crises of the ones you love.

And you don't even know that all the while I am thinking, my brain is screaming.

It's rubbing it's forehead and pulling it's stripped and dyed hairs out in chunks.

And, please, it is bleeding.



I cannot stop thinking of how I'm "turning out".

What is turning out anyways?! Maybe I already have, huh? Because teenagers are supposed to go through this faze.. and I've been this way my whole freaking life. --my whole bricking life-- I make subtle changes, but really, down in my core, I am always back with Anne of Green Gables and babies and Harry Potter and Zuaguario and Troon.

Hit me with a brick; hit me back to reality. Because my thoughts can eat me from the inside out.

So I say, brick it.

Because the world doesn't care how hard it hits you with it.

"Because I Could Not Stop For Death"

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor, and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove

At recess, in the ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, he passed us;

The dews grew quivering and chill,

For only gossamer my gown,

My tippet only tulle.

We paused before a house that seemed

A swelling of the ground;

The roof was scarcely visible,

The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries, but each

Feels shorter than the day

I first surmised the horses' heads

Were toward eternity.

~Emily Dickinson

Dear Colton Carrier,

If I were dead, all my siblings could have their own room.

Today, this post is all about my funeral.

This is about the big hats and the canes I want my funeral attenders to have. All in black and white, yes. Like My Fair Lady. If it gives you a headache, you're free to go. My guests will laugh and chat and whisper rumors, telling crazy stories of my adventures-- like, like, I'm Bilbo Baggins or somebody.

                                   What adventures? Well, I'm yet to have them.

At my funeral, I want 67 boys to confess their love for me. At least. Even if they're lying. Because it's a lot less difficult to say "I love you" to a beautiful little dead girl. Right?

I want that boy who was with me in Brother Filmore's class to come and I want him to play Halo by Rihanna... or Beyonce. I don't really know the difference. But I do know that that song made me cry when he played it... and I do know that it's not by Jordan Sparks..

I want last year's A Capella Choir to sing Thou Gracious God at my funeral.    
Oh dear.. I do hope they're not all dead. Especially not Cameron Leavitt, because he's the best. 

And in my viewing, I want to look like Juliet did in the 1968 film, when everyone thinks she's dead. I want to be thought of as the most beautiful, romantic, stylin' dead girl Warenski Funeral Home has ever seen.

But I don't want to be pushed out in my coffin to float forever on the sea. I don't want Lancelot's flaming arrow to ignite my sailing casket. I don't want to be buried in satin and sunk in a river at dawn. I don't even want to be layed down in a bed of roses. And I especially don't want anybody to keep my ashes in their blue puppy-paw-print urns. I want a good, spooky, old-fashioned, ground burial. In the dark, yes, I want my burial to be at night. Everyone will hold lanterns and the shadows will be cast across their pale faces. They'll know not to be too afraid, because I wouldn't let the other ghosts haunt them. I'll be their guardian angel.

I want my favorite bench to be my headstone. So those 67 boys can sit on my bench of a headstone at full moon and write poems about how awfully stuffy it must be down there, in the dirt, for me. They'll write of how they wished I'd come breaking through the clean-cut grass right then, so I could sit on their porches and talk their heads off, just like old times, before my tragic death.

And it must be tragic, for I wouldn't want anything else. I've gotta be interesting, even when I'm dead.

I want everyone who has ever looked at me to come to my funeral. Anyone who has ever thought of me at all. I guess Mr. Nelson could come, because, although I'm not on the football team, I thought he might've looked at me when he was calling roll that day.  But I'm not totally sure.

But he's thought of Phyllis, and that's good enough for me.

My family will know just what to do when I die, because I have my plans all written down. In my Dead Journal is where my plans are. And my Dead Letters will be sent out the moment I die. They are letters to say things I couldn't say to people when I was living. Yes, what if they die before me? I already have letters written to people who have died before I could speak to them, I figure they will read through my Dead Journal as an angel. God will work something out for me.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -`- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Dear Colton Carrier,
I think you're amazing and I've never let anyone convince me otherwise. I've thought so ever since 9th grade at Mountain Ridge. I don't know, I think we had Computer Tech together... maybe not. I feel like I can see right through you and I know what you are really like. My sort-of-people tell me "you don't know him, you don't know the things he's done" and I say, "shut up. neither do you." But I think that I know you. I've watched you for years now, we've always had a class together, and you might be the only first-impression-person who has never let me down.. at all. And maybe I just don't know you and maybe you really are completely rotten like my judgmental friends think, but I want you to know that I think you are a very sweet boy and I don't give a crap what anyone tells me. Nothing will change my mind, because I think you're wonderful.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -`- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

And maybe it might seem creepy.. like, a little stalker-ish. But I like creepy and I don't mind stalkers too much. And, on this blog, it is purely anonymous... for now. But you will all forget me by the end of the term, which is strangely comforting.

Now, this funeral may seem like a lot... but on days like your funeral, everything can be all about you.. and none of your neighbors will even hate you for it.

I'd Rather Eat Randy

I don't know.. My cousin and I really like this video, but we might've been high.

A Letter to that Kid I used to Love.

I don't know if it's just the weather, but I start to think of you..
... and what we would've had.

I used to dream we'd elope together. When we were older, of course. To Las Vegas, yes.
I imagined being married, you and I. Painting our ceiling fans and me kissing you with paint still in our hair.

I would imagine traveling with you. We would see how many different libraries we could make out in around this planet. We would have seen how many librarians would kick us out.

And, when we would have babies, you would read to them- Harold and the Purple Crayon, The Tale of Peter Rabbit, and The Chronicles of Narnia. And I would have attempted to sew them their creepy little Halloween costumes. And you would have let them draw all over your face and neck with markers like that super cool Uncle of yours does. I know you would because I know you. Because we were in love.

But I would have known you'd be sad sometimes. But I would have made you smile. Because, I know that you'd look at my eyes and my orthodontist's work of a smile, and you can't help it. Because you know me. Because you loved me.

I wanted, someday, to bury my face into your hair. Then I could drink in the color of coffee...   without breaking the word of wisdom. Because with hair like yours, who needs coffee? With you, who needs caffeine?

I wanted to take your phone messages for you. "No, I'm sorry, he is unavailable at the moment. Can I take a message?" Why, yes, uhhu, this is his wife. Why yes, we are in love.

I wished we'd go to the zoo together. But we couldn't hold hands in that sunlight. And we couldn't have held tall, colorful balloons either. Because I'd be pushing the stroller and you'd be chasing down our boy with the wildest curls in the park. Vice Verse. We'd loose him twice just at the gorillaz exhibit alone. Which we would have expected, because he's just as wild as you.

I would have hoped to be wrapped in your pretty revolting thrifted sweater and be so warm. And feel your love. I wanted to climb under blankets and sheets and comforters and afghans and any cover we could find and be next to you, on a day much colder day than this one. I would have wished to sleep in with you. Not have sex with you or anything like that, I just wanted you holding me in the early morning and for me to feel the warmth of your body beside the warmth of mine. That's what I would have wanted.

Would have, could have...

And you probably know that I could never finish this post completely. Because you know me. Because we used to be in love.