idyll.
5/7/12

"Man, I am so full."

She yawned, wiping away the tears that had oozed out of her eyes from the fatigue. "Yeah, me too," she said sleepily, throwing herself onto the couch. "And tired."

"Do you think they'll mind if we napped here?" he said, undoing the buttons of his shirt around his wrists, his neck, and pulling on his tie to loosen it.

"Nah," she said, peering through heavy eyelids at the cooking program on the TV.

He climbed onto the couch beside her, laying his head on her lap.

Pretty soon, they were both asleep.

"So I've heard you're from Georgia."

I looked up. "Yeah, me and --"

"Yeah, I definitely knew Leanne was. Accent."

I laughed. "Yup, well, we don't talk like dem Yanks."

"Yanks are people from New York."

I laughed again, throwing my head back to mock his cluelessness. "Yeah, sure. Basically anyone from the North, really."

"Huh." He played with the dregs of his cappuccino, clinking the spoon against the sides of the porcelain mug while looking out the window. A certain draftiness emanated from the empty space of his vast apartment, and the rain only amplified it. His face was contemplative, masked.

I stared at the side of his face for a moment, noticing how subtle the shadows were on his nose, and the curvilinear of his jawline, and the mousiness of his brown hair. Neither of us had turned on the kitchen light, so we had nestled into the darkness comfortably and admired the London skyline via coffee and The Daily Telegraph.

"Do you miss Georgia?" he asked, turned back to me.

I blinked, trying to not seem suspicious, and finally murmured a, "Mhmm."

"What was it like?"

It took me a moment to answer. "Well, it was home. It was so, like, beautiful, you know? One of the best moments of my life would be when I would roll down the window of the car in April or May, feeling the wind of my face, smelling the honeysuckle in the night air. And you would look up and see a ginormous arch of stars..." A knot in my throat had settled in.

There were a few seconds of silence as he stared past my eyes, as if imagining it. "Sounds really good."

I smiled. "I didn't think I would get homesick," I said, picking up my mug and draining the last of its contents. "But, I do."

"When are you leaving?" he asked quietly, unfolding his arms and laying them against the table. His fingers were inches from my arms, the tension of closeness raising the hair on the back of my neck.

"Tomorrow."

i've been trying to cope with this by doing objective things like studying, but it's bothering me completely out of my mind. the fact that my best friend, plus one of my other really good friends, is suffering, and that they won't let me do anything about it...

man, i can barely stand it. please, Father in Heaven, have mercy. have mercy.

MUST. RESIST. FANGIRL. TENDENCIES AAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH

 THE THINGS I CARRY

an assignment for ap language, based off of "the things they carried" by tim o'brien

by me, march 2012

I see in her eyes the radiance of a hundred million little women,
All raucously, vividly, tangibly plain.
I see on her shoulders an earthly weight of a bag stuffed with
a notebook, a binder, pencils, and a calculator,
each used to forge the blackheartedly scrupulous war of the “Educated”
the “Erudite” the “Academic” the “Scholastic.”
The moisture dripping down her cheeks now,
Contemplating, masking, hallucinating the ancient weight of
The metronome, the agenda, the wallet of earned bills,
Representing the dynamic tragedy of a life spent preparing for the same life to start.

Frisking through the depths of this weight again, she accidentally finds a
Perfume stick, left there from the day her deodorant ran out,
And she accidentally finds nightmares,
unwelcome and uncontrolled thoughts of her lips on some unlucky dreamboy’s face.
She can’t help it though; she’s only seventeen.

She carries on her shoulders a gray diminishing fading bag, in her hand a textbook,
And on her lips a shame from overbearing self-consciousness,
Down from the tattered, tearing Moochie Mooche Pink on her toenails
Up to the demons crawling across her consciousness.

The dreams are painfully general and the goals are disastrously ordinary.
The piteously common volumes of The Call of the Wild and Of Mice and Men
Bent stuffed pained in the abyss of that bookbag
Parallel the oh-so tragically cyclic life of a girl
Wasted, purgatoried
Within the walls of success, attention, popularity, and people.

I saw her try to shoulder an optimistic façade even when thoughts of uselessness and inextraordinance once again assail her for another brutal Monday.
Fiery red eyes from another concise night snatch her soul away, and the gathering lack of inspiration, not only as she writes this, but also all the time, every time, seems choking,

But the beauty of the breath, the serenity of the sunrise, the immaculately measured
amount of love needed for this soul and heart to function
Astounds her every time she
Giggles but hiccups, looks but sees
A perfectly tubercular sky made by a perfectly perfect pair of Hands.

I HAVE NOWHERE TO PUT THIS WHERE EITHER ELENA OR DANIEL CAN'T SEE SO I'M PUTTING IT HERE BUT

ELENA AND DANIEL ARE FINALLY DATING PRAISE THA LORDDDDDD
please get married one day and have beautiful hipster relient-k-obsessed children. <3

sunday, 4 march 2012

i can't even remember what day it is. but, it's not important really anymore, because...dun-dun-dun, habits are kicking in!!!

my family signed up for a membership at the ymca yesterday, and it was so much fun. at home, we only have a treadmill, and while i do do some fun things with billy blanks (side note: i love billy blanks so much that i could eat him. that much. billy blanks, you are my hero. :3), it can get boring. there are so many things to do at the y, all sorts of machines, with televisions. welcome to america!

also, they have a batting cage there, and my sister and i pitched to each other. i was really nervous that i wouldn't be as good as i used to be and embarrass myself in front of rachel (not that that would matter...heh), but none of that. it was all there like i had never stopped playing softball. :') well, maybe a little, but the ball went pretty far in my opinion...

it feels good to be a little sore.