"sometimes, it's nice to hold hands." -you

Everything is too confusing and I don't know how to talk about it.  Why is everything so difficult?  I tried writing a letter.  It didn't pan out, exactly.  It went a little something like this:


Dear You,


So.  Well.  Here it goes.  Sometimes, I have these super fun things called emotions (I know you hate them too, but they exist.  Like flies. Or mayonnaise.), but they're not always super fun.  convenient, per say.  Sometimes, I feel really terrible about myself uncomfortable and sort of sad when... 


 ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I hate the world


And so the "letter" ends.
Why did I ever think I knew how to speak English?  Ever?

ack

I have been convincing myself that I have "the consumption!", more commonly known today as tuberculosis.  I'm not sure why I have been so fascinated with it, because it's a very serious and deadly disease that I'm pretty sure most people don't really get nowadays in the United States.  I pretend to cough up blood, and then in a strangled, hoarse, and very dramatic voice, I lean on someone's shoulder and wheeze, "'Tis only the consumption, child! I shall be moving on soon, don't worry about me!" Then I clutch my chest and cough some more.  For some reason, nobody else thinks it's funny.  I need a job or something.

winter

In the winter you can see where all the dogs piss, you cry when the wind blows, because it snatches the tears out of your ducts without a please or thank you.  When you have to take the bus after your day, it gets dark, and you walk home in the cold, in the dark.  You lost your keys at your boyfriend's house in a moment of foolishness when you took them out of your pocket and threw them on the basement floor.  They were poking you.  Other things seemed more important at the time.  You tried looking for them, but they disappeared into the abyss of things that aren't where you were sure you left them.  Now you have to rely on someone to let you into the house, or you break in through that secret way in the back, and your bike lock is useless, because the key is gone.  Sometimes when you go through the back, you see a rabbit in the yard, or at least where the yard is supposed to be, under all of the snow.  You can see where the rabbits hop and poop and eat the rose hips from the rosebush in the front of your house too.  When you get inside it is warm and there is a dim lamp, and christmas tree lights on the wall.  The living room is filled with yellow light.    

if science were magic...

Have I ever talked about how much I want to travel?  I want to see the world, to smell new smells that my brain hasn't even conceived of.  Not necessarily bad smells. Good smells, like rain, or curry.  You know what I mean.

I think I've heard somewhere that smell is the closest link to memory.  What if you have a moment that you want to remember forever, but instead of a photo album, you had a...SCENT ALBUM! Wouldn't that be so cool?  You could take the smelly (not necessarily in a bad way, I must reiterate) things that are around you during, say, your wedding, or the birth of your child (on second thought, maybe not the child one,) and somehow store them, writing down the date of the occasion. Or maybe you record the smells on the day you meet the most important people in your life, but of course, you would have no idea if he or she was going to end up being important or not.  So what you could do is catalogue the smells surrounding your meetings with everyone you meet, and discard the ones that don't end up mattering in the long run! 

I have the strangest ideas.  I may need to be stopped. 

it's all good

Math homework, pandora, warm socks. Denied from a college, accepted to others. I can't remember how to factor a cubic polynomial, but I'm still fuzzy on why I have to in the first place? I'm supposedly finding the point where the tangent of a curve meets the curve again (because it's a cubic function, so it's like you flipped half of a parabola upside down). I understand the problem conceptually until the middle of it, when the example in the book factors the equation of the original function to somehow find the point...anyway. I don't want to go to school on Monday. Yuck.

Sorry kids, but I think I have stopped thinking. Which sort of affects writing.

Why has flamenco music come up on my pandora? Also, did you know that there is a genre called Gypsy Punk? For realsies. Then again, there is Wizard Rock, so why not?

superhero

I haven't written in a while.  I don't think I've had the time really.  I'm all done with applying to colleges though, so that should help a bit, right?  


For one of my college essays, I wrote about how I want to save the world.  I hope that they understand that I do not suffer from delusions of grandeur, but that I just have this feeling that if I could solve everybody's problems, everything would be better.  I've started to do this thing where I ask a person whether he/she has any problems that need solving, and if he/she needs any advice.  I say it like I'm joking, but I'm really not.  My hope is that if I present the question as a joke, somebody will answer with another joke, and that within their joke lies the truth; the problem that needs to be taken care of.  I hope that I have the answers.  Even if I don't, I can make it sound like I do.  Later I'll confess that I don't actually know how to fix what is wrong, that I can't save the world yet, that I need some more time.  I will be disappointed.  The save-ee will be disappointed too, but not as much as I will be, because he/she never really expected me to be able to save them in the first place.  I will move on to the next person.  They will tell me that they do not have any problems.  I will accept their lie without questioning it, understanding that maybe people don't want to talk about their problems to some weird, falsely-cheery, seventeen year old girl who acts like she cares.  (The truth is, she actually does care, but it often  seems like she's pretending.)

solitary solitaire

I really like Solitaire, especially on the computer.  Sometimes I think I am addicted to it, because I could play it for hours if I had the opportunity.  There’s just something about everything having a place, being put into order, that I really like. A red four always goes on top of a black five.  If you win, all of the cards are piled neatly, sorted by suit, and are in numerical order. The cards dance and explode into confetti.  It’s the only thing I can organize, one of the things where the rules always apply, where I can sort of zone out and win approximately twenty-three percent of the time, according to the computer. It's not glamorous or cool, even though I changed the background to have pretty leaves, but it's okay.