Seven Liepa of Twenty Eleven

It's never just hanging out with him. There isn't any exact way to describe it, but we never just sit around and hang out. There's always something I learn, or realise when I'm with him. Always something more than just a friend...He can never just be that. He's almost like a teacher, but so much more brilliant.

I think back to that weekend. We were swimming and I missed him so much. I had him in my arms, but everything was gone between us. Like a barrier I couldn't break through. I remember how much I just wanted him to be mine, but how I couldn't have him. (Oh, my infinite mistakes). I would stare into his brown/green eyes, passion in my heart, regret in my glance. I don't understand how it happened; I don't think I started it. All I remember is that, suddenly, we were kissing. Everything I had wanted and it had happened. He touched his lips to mine, and in that moment, I knew that I would sacrifice everything to be his, to earn that trust. I know that he kissed me; of that I am sure. However, I wonder why he chose that moment. He's kissed me after that, but I wonder sometimes if he regrets that. Maybe he didn't mean to, but he doesn't want to stop. Yet, that really doesn't make sense. He cares about me, but it's not like he wouldn't hurt me for himself. He's far too important to put me first. (I'm not trying to make that sound rude, even though it's coming out that way; no, he is brilliant and he should put himself first). The point that I'm trying to make is that I could, literally, cry tears of joy thinking about that kiss.

"You'll wear white, and I'll wear out the words 'you're beautiful' and 'I love you'."

Then, I think about yesterday. In between A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back, he said the words, "I like you." I remember replying, "I like you too," but my heart was screaming LOVE LOVE LOVE. If I know anything about love, I think I'm in it. I know he is too, even if he won't say it to my face. I remember when out-of-the-blue he texted me and said, "I still love you." I have it saved, and I won't ever delete it. Why would I? I'm still in love with him.

He always says that I'm his, and even though I'm a feminist, I don't mind being property. Facebook can say what it wants and so can he, but everyone who understands thinks it practically a relationship.

Everything about this infuriates me! I want to rip things up, break things down, destroy and ruin. Because with every action I made, that's what I did anyways. I'm so angry! At everything dealing with that. I'm so mad at myself and my stupid choices. GOD DAMMIT, why couldn't I have a brain for just that moment?! Everything about it, him, makes me loathe him. FFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKK.

I took this picture two years ago, but it's freaking perfect for right now.


Applied for a job today. Hope all goes well with that!

'Three days
and eight days.
Timing is perfect.
Rolling hills of emotion and work,
forgiveness and laziness.'

Five Liepa of Twenty Eleven

"You can never wear those again," he said sternly as her tears fell next to her computer.
That's when it hit me. I'd broken everything that I'd ever worked for. Everything I ever dreamed like a little girl for. Every hope, every inspiration, every secret desire.
None of that can ever come.

I've been sick for the last few weeks. I stay home, sick with no literal illness, but guilt consumes me in every way possible. I tough it out to be normal, but throwing up a few times a day isn't the definition of healthy. It's not like I'm forcing myself. But I just start feeling ill, and I get this awful sensation in my stomach (like it's saying, "Look what you did, you stupid bitch, you ruined everything; I hate you so much."), and then I toss my -insert meal here-.
I deserve every ounce of sickness.

I knew a boy once who had a race car. One was red and one was blue. He loved his red racecar. He'd had it since he was quite little and it won all his races. His father brought him his blue one about a year before I met him, and he was getting to like it more and more. However, within the time frame that I knew him, his father accidentally put his new "favorite," blue race car out with the toys at a yard sale. He lost that toy. It got bought. I watched him run down the street and chase after the car, screaming and crying, wanting his blue car. Fortunately, the driver saw him running after him and stopped. I watched a small exchange with the boy and another child where he traded his car sold for a quarter for a crisp Lincoln. He came strolling home with dried tears, but a look of satisfaction that he could still have both cars. However, there was something he hadn't grasped yet. As he played more and more with his car, he stopped liking it. In fact, he noticed everything that was wrong with it. I watched him sit on the pavement outside and roll the car, pick it up and look it, and then give a hopeless look and keep playing. He knew that one wheel had a dent and didn't roll right, the inside was dusty, and one of the windows had a large scratch. More and more he took out his red car, loving it with his complete, innocent heart. I heard from another neighbor that he sold his blue car at the next yard sale their family had, graciously selling it to another child. He learned an important lesson. When you have something so good, don't try to replace it when it's still perfect. Don't fix it if it's not broken.

I was pondering why God made humans imperfect today. I don't think it's any of those theories about Him not being perfect or because He wanted humanity to suffer. No, He wanted us to be worthy. He created us with imperfection to see if we deserved to be in Heaven. Would we fight against humanities struggles, with inspiration from the Heavenly Father and Jesus, or would we fall to our temptations and imperfections?

I am human. I make mistakes. The Lord will forgive my sins if I am truly sorry. Unlike Claudius, I am truly sorry. In every way I have hurt those around me. I do not care for my own pain. I would walk through a thousand fires to help those in pain. I would do it for him. For my love.

'Breath of Satan on my skin,
kisses of angels in my hair.
Belittlement of the world
but blessings from Hope brings me alive.
Nothing changes,
only the world of invisiblity.'

Two Liepa of Twenty Eleven

I've been growing this urge to go shopping. I think it's mainly because I've recently come into some money, but I really do want to shop and buy clothes, because I haven't really bought anything in forever. (Okay, a few weeks ago I bought some shirts, a pair of shorts, and some socks, but it isn't filling my shopping desire).

Honestly, it should have. So maybe it's not actually a desire to shop, but maybe a desire to have someone want to go shopping with me. Well, no, that's not it either, I'm sure I could get some people to go. Oh...now I get it.

My desire to go shopping is actually a subliminal desire to have real friends. Recently, I've realised that I don't have friends, and I haven't for a while now. I mean, sure, these people I've gotten to know for the last semester of my life are important to me, and I call them my friends, but they aren't my real friends. I can't talk to them out-of-the-blue or invite them to parties I might host (like I'd ever host a party). They were just people I trusted and wanted to be my friends, but never really got there. Especially now, where all I am is what they hear, I've never been asked about what happened. Now I really know they aren't my friends.

But it's not just that. I haven't had a friend I could go shopping with in months. No, shopping is not aimlessly wandering around the mall saying, "where should we go?" "I don't care." It was one of the few things my sister and I really did together before she left. We would go everywhere. Charlotte Russe, Forever 21, Hot Topic, Pac Sun, everywhere. We tried on clothes, bought things, and shopped until we ran out of money. We pitied each other when things didn't come in our sizes and rejoiced when we found the perfect accessories. I even remember those long moments where I would ponder if I had anything that would match what I was trying to buy. But I don't have that anymore. Guys can say what they want about shopping and that they'd come along, but truthfully, I know they aren't interested in going out like that. They just want to spend time together, and that's not what shopping is about.

Shopping is about cute clothes.

That's why I'm so sad. It's really more like self-hatred, but it all feels the same. I've let go of the friends I could have kept up with, the females, that might have shopped with me...Wait, did I ever have any? The last time I remember shopping with a friend was when I was still friends with whining, complaining, bitch girl (and to tell you the truth, I never liked shopping with her anyways). Before that, it must've been one of my first best friends and before that, this girl who was my friend before I ratted her out for cheating. That was in eighth grade...four years ago. I haven't had real friends to shop with in, at least, six months.

This is why I miss her so much. That girl that moved away to California. We call each other, talk and laugh, like nothing ever changed. (We miss each other a lot more though). I bet you if I found a way to California, I could pick her up and we'd just go shopping. It would just happen, and we'd enjoy it.

I wish I still had friends like that; I guess it's time to start over.

'Broken plastic spoons over chatter,
the red sheets curled around your waist.
That touch of waiting and warm skin,
with pastel stickers from childhood.

You are the friends you keep,
and without them,
you are no one.'

Morning of One Liepa of Twenty Eleven

"She is sad about something. It doesn't matter what it is. The world is dark and dismal, and there's no hope that anything will change. Life is real, Life is earnest, Life is serious, Life is monotonous-and Life is certainly negative. She's a Taurus girl, indulging herself in a rare, but ever-so-deep and blue, binge of futility.
"Along comes a Libra man. He sits quietly next to her, takes her hand gently in his own, and looks at her softly, in silence, after offering her his large, clean handkerchief. She continues to frown, in abject misery. Men! Men are part of what's wrong with everything. And here's another one of them, trying to feed her a line so he can seduce her. But wait. This one isn't saying a word. He's just sitting there near her, very near.....peacefully pouring calm all over her, like olive oil-and gazing at her with....is it adoration? Whatever it is, it's romantic. Then, after a long while, he speaks.
"'Never mind, darling. You'll feel better tomorrow.' His voice is like creamy-smooth caramel candy-and oh, how she loves creamy-smooth caramel candy! (So does he, although it's very bad for both of them.) But even this doesn't cheer her. No. Life is real, Life is dull, Life is a great big nothing. Life is a put-on and a put-down. Both.
"'No, I won't feel better tomorrow. I won't. I won't. I won't.'
"Libra speaks again, still sweetly. 'You're so beautiful when you're sad. Tears make your eyes sparkle like green emeralds. If it didn't break my heart to know you're unhappy, I'd like to see tears in them all the time. Let's see how they look when you laugh.'
"Life is real. Life is-well, Life is getting more interesting. But-'No, I can't laugh. I want to, but I can't. I simply can't.'
"'You must. Darling, if you believe long enough, and deeply enough, all good things will come to pass. Not a single dream you ever dreamed will fail to come true, if you keep your emotional balance and look at the bright side.' Now, he smiles. A Libra smile is a deadly weapon that should be outlawed, so Libra men could never use it to take advantage of poor Taurus girls, who melt into squidgy fudge ripples when they're shown affection-and are truly appreciated. But so far, they haven't been outlawed. So...he smiles.
"'Tomorrow will be better. It really will. You'll see.'
"'No, it won't. I want it to be better, but I just know it won't.'
"Then he kisses her. It will."

Goodman, Linda. Love Signs: A New Approach to the Human Heart. 1978, New York City, New York. Ballantine Books.
Best horoscope story ever? I think so. -squee-

Even though I hate her, Rihanna's got me wondering...if she's actually into S&M. I mean, people can sing songs about anything (a perfect example being another one of her songs where she gets chained to a bed and lit on fire), but they don't actually do them. I'm not sure if it's just how taboo the concepts of sadism and masochism are that it shocks me into thinking, 'well, maybe...' or if it's so "out there" that it's possible she actually feels that way. I mean, come on, people, she's a complete whore and there's nothing wrong with having personal fetishes, why not? It just makes me wonder sometimes...If I ever meet Chris Brown, I'll just have to ask. Maybe that's why he hit her so much. "I may be bad, but I'm perfectly good at it."

I cried the other night out of fear. I don't think I have ever cried from pure fear before. It was funny because it's one of those "defining" moments, and I remember it quite clearly...I was lying on my left side, facing East, with the phone between my ear and the floor. My legs were rubbing against my rough, maroon carpet and I was listening to his voice stream through my awful mobile signal. He told me about how college would be. How I would get taken advantage of, and how people would hold me down and I couldn't get away. That there would be no respect. That these people would place themselves everywhere they could get, even places I didn't want. It was then that I realised that I was walking into a world I couldn't control, that wouldn't respect me, and that I would be just another girl in the crowd. It scared me. I sobbed softly as we finished the call. I lay on the floor for another hour, trying to block out the horrid visions of what I was willingly walking into. The thing is: I don't plan on getting drunk there, or partying there, or taking drugs, or really anything that would make me more vulnerable than a girl already is. Yet, the thought that no matter what I do, some man will always be stronger than me is completely...infuriating, really. The thought that a man would get say on my life and choices is disgusting. I spit on the thought. It's grimy and low. Men will never have say that like that. Not if I can help it. And on God, I swear, I will try my damnedest.

Willows whisper through the sky,
"what is a life built on a lie?"
And trouble comes throughout the talk,
of truth and cake and old school chalk.
"Where truth is not necessity,
we live out lives of true pity."
The woods nod and give consent,
a life without truth,
is a life ... with a dent.'

Morning of Twenty-Six of Birželis of Twenty Eleven

The phrase "no regrets, just love" has never been fitting for my life, and still isn't now. In fact, it's probably the exact opposite. I regret a lot of things, including that moment where I threw it all away. Furthermore, I don't love. There wasn't love involved here. Has there ever been? It must have been just a crush.

I think that moment was long ago. I think it was that moment when I looked into his eyes and wanted him to be mine. More than just to hold, but to have him be something in my life that represented something. It's that feeling that has been hard to let go of.

Tonight I said the word disappointed. I meant it in it's easiest interpreted form, self-disappointment with a touch of regret. Everyone knows that feeling of 'I know I messed up and hurt people around me.' However, my disappointment stretches beyond that. My regret goes to even saying that I miss him and that he'll be hard to get over. Everything I do reminds me of him: songs, computers, my friends, and so much more. I think I keep doing things that remind me of him because maybe I'll get over him faster. That's what has to happen here, I suppose. I stop talking to him, I get over him, and I get the broken amount of trust, I deserve, back.

I wish it were so simple. Even though I am going to do everything to earn back that sacred trust, to have him kiss me again someday, it still hurts. I go home and cry sometimes thinking about him. The worst part is that I know he's hurting too. Sometimes I wonder why I hurt him and myself, but I know it's for the best. I hope it's for the best. (I will doubt myself until things are resolved). It was a bad concept and a bad thing.

But I miss him. -I bite my lip and look away, hoping to deny everything so far-

On a more normal note, I found a flash drive that my older computer (with all of my iTunes music) recognizes. So, I spent a couple hours yesterday, I suppose it is, transferring files from one computer to the one I've been using. (I guess it'll change with this computer I got yesterday!) :D
So, Jason Mraz...I forgot how AMAZING his music was. Right now "Live High" is stuck in my head. I heard it on the way home.

I am grateful for the chances I've received, the friends who care for me, and the family that wants the best for me and trusts me.

'Estridol and night hours.
Early mornings with medication.
Clash, with the morning songs of the birds,
come the annoyed sounds of humanity,
as we despise what makes us great,
instead of
embracing
it.

Drawers with secrets hidden away,
blood dripping down a broken heart.
Only matching the
clearer, salt solution
down her philtrum.'

Twenty-Two of Birželis of Twenty Eleven

There are no words to express a broken heart. People use poetry, how long they cried, metaphors, comparisons to novels, and more. But I am not a stereotype. I refuse to say that it was a tragedy like "Romeo and Juliet," or that it was like having a heart collapse and you couldn't go on. Nope. I'm not retarded. All I can say is that I'm sad. I managed to be an adult, to hold it together until the end and be able to laugh and have hope for a friendship. I cried, yes, there was no doubt that it would happen; I cannot hold tears when it comes to him. But, I convinced myself to go to sleep and that if it was worth it, I could cry in the morning.

Yet. This is not what I want to say. All I want to say is that I want him back. I realised that as he was letting me go, I was ready to give it all up- to let everything go for him. But that's not what he wanted. He was tired of me and my friends, and it would be better for his life. I agreed with him, if he thinks it's better for his life, then he should do it. Even if it's not better for mine.

So, yeah, I'm hurt. Could anyone say I wasn't going to be? But no, unlike Bella from Twilight (hate acknowledging that as an actual book), I will not fall and sit around for months on end, waiting for him to come back. I will, following my construction road metaphor, pick myself up and brush the dirt of my outfit. Sure, I'll never be the same; there will always be some dirt in my hair. The point is that no matter what happens, I'll be okay. That's how humanity works-we move on and recover from downfalls.

So, goodbye. I guess. I hope our friendship can persist.

'Hedwig sings an ominous song,
covering the world in her fears.
Her death is tragic,
but recoverable.
Where does the Dark Lord go
to sing his way to history?'

Afternotes:
WBC (Westboro Baptist Church) wants to protest Jackass' infamous hero Ryan Dunn's funeral. Protest here:

Fourteen Birželis of Twenty Eleven

I haven't really been sure what to say. These past two weeks have probably been the oddest in my entire life.

I'm sure it's no consolation, but I was ready. I can't believe it either. After all these posts, all those words, every moment, and I was ready to walk away. Phone in hand, with my feet up against the laundry machine, I said those awful words: "I think we should take a break." Oh, no, I didn't really think that. I never did.

Necessity.

Or, was it?

I've been pondering this for the last twenty-five (or so) hours and I'm not really sure what to think of it. I guess as statements go it was a Freudian slip; maybe it was just guilt talking. It could have been pressure.

But that's not the point. I went, basically, no where. I cried a lot, and then I didn't cry at all. Ran two and a quarter miles, burned some calories, stayed together with my boyfriend.

I'm not ready to blog about this yet.
I want a Lenovo ThinkPad Edge 15 (0301.jdu) or a Lenovo ThinkPad L420 or L520.

'No italics on Facebook
or was it orange tags?
January fifth conflicting Recker.
Who's tired of bonzai and the Five-O
Where BC isn't before Christ?
I'm tired of rocking
back and forth.'