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.

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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.

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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.