sorry, Gabe, if you read those posts. if you did, please come and talk to me.

REMEMBER WHEN I ACTUALLY PUT EFFORT INTO MY BLOG?

freaking one o' clock in the morning. i have no idea how long this will take, but i'm going to get this done. i swear on my life. i just seriously need a break. i physically feel my body like making little cries of pain and fatigue. is that, like, even possible?

SUMMER PLEASE JUST COME ALREADY.

Ode to My Ugly Dress in the Cinderella Musical

A gaiety, a frolic, and a mad charge of twinkling eyes
Speed up the steps to the costume room to find a perfect dress
Try on a few, none really fit
Until one fits beautifully perfect, and its perfection reeks madness
Screw everything, dumb 1980's! What made you think this looked pretty?
A sparkly shirt thing, atop a satiny gown
Gosh, what a screw up, this dumb prom-wannabe.
The perfect size, the wrong color
The wrong style, and the wrong sentiment
If I could, I would rip it into two, just to spite the designer.

Designer: ew. seriously, what the heck.

FREEWRITE! - because sleep is for the weak. one o' clock currently, and i have to get up at six.
is it going to happen?

I couldn't stop crying. Not because the cut on my knee was searingly painful, or was the blood making me weak with fear, but because the attention I was receiving was probably the best birthday gift I have ever had.

"Don't move, I got my brother!" Jaimy yelled as he came sprinting, frail and fragile arms pumping like pistons as he sprinted over the grass. His breath was shallow as he reached us, doubling over on his knees and panting like a dog.

I continued to squeeze out a few tears to make sure he was still looking at me. Even though he always said seven was too old to cry, he didn't say anything while I was actually doing it. So I belt it out. He never should have pushed me over anyway.

"Do you need a Band-Aid?" my older brother said as he crouched over my knee, the blood finally beginning to clot, leaving an oozing gash that, along with blood, was pumping out a clear liquid down my legs that made Jaimy wrinkle his nose in disgust. My lower lip quivered as I mumbled out a yes, and my big brother just tried to calm me as we waited for Rosie to explode out the front door with a whole suitcase filled with Band-Aids and popsicles: the universal remedy.

"Hey, you wanna hear a joke?" Jaimy said after a while, squinting in the three-o'-clock sunlight.

I nodded, hoping my silence would seem innocent and weak. As long as he talked to me. Oh, just to be near him...

"What did the dog say when he sat on some sandpaper?" He paused, then made an imitation of his golden retriever, Maxie, lolled out his tongue, and barked out a, "Rough!"

My older brother cracked up so intensely that a grenade of spittle landed in my hair before he fell over onto his side, shaking from hysteria. I didn't even realize my hair had become slightly more damp from his saliva samples until after Jaimy pointed it out, after Rosie had carefully caressed a large Spider-Man Band-Aid on my cut and a cherry flavored ice pop was firmly wedged between my lips.

I finally saw Fight Club.

And you know what? I have come to the conclusion that I am freaking tired of all the bullcrap that is forced down our throats. People telling us what to wear, what to buy, how to look so we’ll be happy. Billboards squeezing us to tell us this resort is the best, these shoes are better. I DON’T CARE. I HAVE A LIFE THAT WAS GIVEN TO ME. I LIVE HOW I WANT.

Freaking screw all of that.

Mixed with Taoism (surprisingly), which has been inspiring me the past couple of weeks because of a book we’ve been reading in class, I really get miserable when people complain about how lonely they are and how they aren’t happy. I am not a yuppie. But when you just clear your head for just a second, doesn’t that peace feel reassuring enough? You control your feelings. I swear it.

So stop sitting around your house and moping about how you’re so sad. Go out and just freaking do something. You’ve been given a body. Create. Compose. Write about your experiences. Take a walk. Paint a picture. Make up an imaginary friend you can throw punches with. Just stop being so consumerist. If you aren’t going to make yourself, then nobody is going to do it for you. Stop trying to be in control, because face it, you don’t control the big picture. You control this living, breathing, beating masterpiece that someone else doesn’t have anymore.