Miscellania

"I'm not who I used to be," For the first time, this thought doesn't scare me. Hanging upside down with my head off the bed, matted, unbrushed hair masked by a headband swinging like thousands of strand like pendulums. Composition notebooks, uncapped pens, received letters, sprawled in a circle surrounding me. Sitting indian style, I engross myself in writing to some of my dearest friends, speaking of school, holidays, and hopefulness. I've never been so curious and so self-assured. I'm happy just trying, even if goals simply remain just that. You can trust me with secrets.

everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle. I'm on Thanksgiving break. I have no plans, no goals, and no to do lists yet. I'll work on it. I want Christmas. I finished sex, drugs, and cocoa puffs. I might do a review. I don't know though. Sigh igh igh. Been thinking too much, been feeling left out a lot. I don't know. Everyone ignores what they see.

Maybe I don't exactly fit into any one group of kids, but maybe I don't want to. Maybe none of the work I do really matters in the grand scheme of things, but maybe I still do it because I like the sense of accomplishment, even if I'm the only one aware of my accomplishments. Maybe I'm not an Olsen twin. Maybe I talk to much at the wrong times, and never know what to say when I wished I did. Maybe I can't vote, can't drive, and can't tell you my backpack weighs under the accepted limit for freshman backpacks. Maybe I'm completely satisfied that I'm not "bohemian", "indie", or "scene". Maybe I'm just completely satisfied with spending my nights writing earth science notes. So what?

When we spoke for the first time, I lied when I told you I was doing good. When she 'checked up' on me I lied when I told her things were as they should be. When I slept in your shirt. I lied when I told myself it was just because it was comfortable.

When I saw you in the hallway, I almost projectile vomited on the kid I was standing with, who was probably too busy getting down with the sickness to even notice the sudden stiffness in my body language. I can never take back what happened between us, or the mistakes that I have made. You don't even remember me.

I was listening to ave maria as you described yourself as my love, and we spoke in synonyms about my eating disorder.

We danced around your kitchen to Michael Buble' and you made us heaps of pancakes. I felt right at home in the house where we shared our childhoods.