When a Heart Breaks

So I've been broken hearted before. Not really about the whole guy-dumping-me thing, since, well, I've never been dumped. I've been treated bad for a week before I broke up with a guy (but we don't count him, as I was in seventh grade and much too young to be dating, I realize now). No, most of my heart breaks were things like, well, February (which was really end-of-January). Oh, and I guess some turn downs. And pets dying. And when SP told me they didn't think I was serious, and wouldn't accept me for an apprenticeship, and when Weil's chose Tom over me...

Those kind of things. Apparently the things not frequently seen as heart-breaks in others' eyes. But as I've never really had my heart broken by someone I'd been in a relationship, I don't know if I'm qualified to make such statements.

But, in short, though I've been in heart-breaking situations that may or may not be close to the "real thing," I can't help you if you've got a broken heart.

I'll either be stuck with saying "Aw, I'm so sorry. Hugs." or something just as uselessly typical, or, if you request my special treatment, or piss me off enough, I'll tell you the truth. That I don't know what to say to make you feel better, but you should pick yourself off the damn floor and put one foot in front of the other and keep moving on. That you're doing nothing good to anyone if you don't eat/sleep/talk/smile for days or weeks or months. I'll tell you to suck it up as the world is moving on without you and you really don't want to be left behind, because that's worse than walking with a aching heart.

Except I usually try to sweeten it up. Doesn't always work.

It's hard, people. I know. Or maybe I don't. You make the decision. But when February happened, I think I suffered a great heartbreak though it wasn't over a boy I'd been dating for however long. It was over a friend I knew, shared everything with, talked about everything, defended, hugged, called "sister," wished to be seated beside in assemblies and graduation, went swimming/running/biking with, traveled to Wonderland/Niagara Falls/Toronto/To the Ice Cream Truck with, dreamed of futures together with, helped/hurt/picked up/advised/yelled at/yelled with for twelve years. That's most of my life. So while you might not think I have the qualifications to make such a statement of having been severely broken hearted, well I think I deserve some sort of certificate. Maybe it'd make me feel something better, even five months later.

And what did I do?

I kept going. I kept putting one foot in front of the other, slowly, slowly. So slowly at first I thought I wasn't going anywhere. I cried while I went. I cried and screamed and yelled, all alone. And perhaps some of you would say I'm not completely over it. And some of you would be right, I'm not. But I'm getting there, and by wallowing in your own self pity and not eating/sleeping/smiling for days on end, you're not getting anywhere.

So here's some tough love you'll get from me if you ever have the sense to ask for it;

Get up. Move on. It's going to be bloody hard, but in the end you'll have accomplished something. No one wants to hear you wailing about it and not doing anything about it. Realize you can't change the past and right now you might not even be able to reconcile, but in a while, long or short, you'll have options. Then you'll have to choose. Get ready for it, instead of wasting time.

And if sometimes you relapse into a ball of tears, well, that's okay. Because then you can always look back and see how far you've come, and you can keep on moving like the best of us.

But the whole point is that you don't give up. You keep moving, even if it's one step a day.

Class of 2010, please rise.

I am officially a graduate. You will see less use of conjunctions in this post because somehow, I have flipped my keyboard to french. I am about to try to fix this.

There we go. Anyways. I'm officially a graduate. Please, please. Hold your applause.

So it wasn't as bad as I thought it was. The speeches had some relevance to me (the ones that didn't include "Oh it will be so hard to leave HP, and we all will miss our friends we've had since grade 9 or before!"), my mom was on stage, and I won awards.

Yeah. You read that right.

I won awards. Not just one award either, two. Hence, the s in awards.

I wasn't expecting them. I'd slacked off a lot this year, burning out. When the Family Studies award was being handed out, I slumped inn my seat, thinking that I had lost my chance at that award. And then I hear my name, and though now that I think about it, there's no one else really as deserving of it, I was still surprised. They quoted how many courses I'd taken (from grade 9 Family Studies, to Food&Nutrition, to Parenting, to SAP, to Food&Nutrition Sciences) and how I had been in three food-related co-ops, helped out making peanut free products, and some other things I didn't hear because I was asking Mrs. Sheriff when I should make my way down the stairs again. It was like a brag fest, just for me, and I had no part in it.

Sheriff also gave me a gift on stage, which I later unwrapped to reveal a cookie jar and a crystal necklace. A lot of people were surprised by this.

And then, after all the scholastic awards, came the special ones, which included my Mom. They came to an award sponsored by the people who provide HP's cafeteria food. Well, they've got a lot of helpers there on a daily basis- people needing the hours, or needing a place to spend lunch, so I wasn't expecting much.

And then my name is called.

Anyone but the parents were probably surprised at this. Hey, so was I. The cafeteria lady who I'd only talked to a few times while ordering was all congratulatory and excited and all I could say was "Really? Really? Thank you so much! Thank you so much!" (Honestly, I repeated myself that much!) as they recited my work at Weil's and other accomplishments, much like my Family Studies award. So now I feel nostalgic, realizing that Weil's is the place that got me here, getting both of these awards, and want to go visit.

Except I can't do that. Not really. I don't feel... welcomed? No. That's not the word. Or is it? Maybe. I don't feel as if I belong. As if they want me within ten meters of the place. Perhaps I'm exaggerating. Perhaps I'm not.

But the award contained a cheque for 100$. Yeah, pretty cool.

My blurb that was said as I walked across the stage said something like "...is aspiring to become a pastry chef, horseback riding instructor, and novellist. She also plans to save the world"

A good ending, all in all.

Now, I've got work tomorrow, and I should write my sentences for my stories and go to bed. Good night.

To come full circle?

It's an easy decision. Really. It should be, anyways. If I have any sense in me, and sense is what I pride myself for having, I'd say no in a heartbeat. And I did... at first.

I got offered a job back at SP. For those of you who didn't know me pre-Living in Reverie, SP was the bakery co-op I had in grade 11. Things went downhill pretty quickly on both sides, even though I did get hired for a time. By he end of the semester, I was just counting down the days, hours, minutes until I'd be through. Second to last day, my boss couldn't even tell me that I was being let go (and had been without anyone telling me for a good month and a half) so he made my semi-supervisor do it. The reason was never named, but I bet it had something to do with one of the older girl's problems with me (long story, but I hadn't said a mean word to her, I swear), my lack of interest, and just general growing unrest. Last day- I left as if it was any other day. Everyone knew it was my last day, but no one said good luck or we'll miss you or anything.

So you can see why I wouldn't want to go back. Also, I injured my wrists at SP due to them demanding that I carry 30-40 pound buckets of custard etc. by a metal handle. And they wanted me to continue doing so as both of them were wrapped up. My wrists still haven't healed.

Even more proof, huh?

And yet, a little part of me sees this as an opportunity to get that apprenticeship I need, and perhaps they've changed. And I didn't much mind the people... some people... Two or three persons.

I don't like how they make their baked goods (90% premade and precooked and premixed). I don't like how they try to work us like dogs.

So I'm saying no. But it's still in the back of my head, you know?

The Princess and The Pea

It is late, and I've got an early morning ahead of me, but I'm not tired.

I'm about to cry, but I'm not tired.

Ever notice that when one door closes with it's own fated will, it is nearly impossible to open. But when you close a door yourself, it never really truly closes? There's always that gap, that crack of light, that tells you that you can open it again, that it's still there, and it's only one pull away.

What if that door is in the room with you for four hours? What would you do?

Tonight, I felt like a princess, and at times, like a queen. I remember a few times I ducked my head and felt like I didn't belong, or that this was all wrong. But I found strength from somewhere, from my belief that I deserved to have a good time no matter what anyone else thought. So I forced my chin to rise and my shoulders to square themselves, and continued on like any queen would.

I got my title back, officially. I can now see myself not as a hopeful, prospective, and possible fraud princess, but as a true princess of beauty, truth, and justice, worthy of anything I set my heart to.

I commanded the door to stay as shut as possible, and lived and laughed as it was.

So why am I tearing up as I type this?

Because though I know the true princess is me, not the makeup or the crown or the hair or the dress, I still know that this is the last time I will likely look like this, like a princess in every sense of the word. Tomorrow morning, when i wake up, I won't be dolled up and looking like something that stepped out of a fairy tale. I'll look like me, which suddenly isn't enough.

That, and by the time I realized who I could ask to dance, he'd left. And then I found out he came back, but the last song was Don't Stop Believing, and I didn't realize it's purpose as a slow song until it was too late. But it's okay, really, because I didn't like him like that anyways. Still, it would have been nice to dance with him, even if we're in two different bubbles.

The Little Things

It's crazy, really, how someone you never thought you'd ever be acquaintances with, let alone shaky friends, can be a better friend to you than the ones you've known and been with for years.

It's crazy, really, the difference between "Do you need a ride?" and "Do you want a ride?" can be.

Perhaps we get too comfortable with our friends. Perhaps we believe too whole-heartedly that our friends will be there no matter what happens. No matter how many times we snub them, or get frustrated with them, or ask them what they need and not what they want. We forget that the little things we did at the beginning still count half way through, and that in absence of this, everything can draw to a hurtful, or sometimes emotionless, end.

And perhaps we get too wary of our close friends too. It makes sense, doesn't it? They are so close that they can tear you apart. They can bring you down easily if you misstep. And you've got an image with them, believe it or not. You have this image that is ingrained into their mind, and do you really want to challenge that with the truth of how you now think or feel, which may be nothing like the way you thought or felt way-back-when? Do you really want to risk them hating this new, ever-changing you?

So you make acquaintances with other people you don't even think about being friends. Perhaps you're awkward when in person, or you fear that they're just there because you're friends with one of their friends. But slowly you build up this invisible bond that probably doesn't make all that much sense, and you tell them things you wouldn't say otherwise; like how your friends asked you if you needed a ride, not if you wanted one. And you correct yourself, realizing belatedly that perhaps that acquaintance doesn't understand, or you sound crazy or needy.

And then that friend, because they are really some kind of friend, says "Do you want a ride with me?"


So I responded to a post on Dreaming in the Rain asking for inspiration on writing, and to my surprise (hey, I'm doubtful of myself a lot), Kirthi posted it *happy dance*

Link here: x

Thanks Kirthi!

A Typewritten Paradise

I'm making this story from nothing. I'm creating this place from nothing but thoughts and feelings put into words. When I write about them all, I feel a warmth inside, as if I'm right there, being hugged by Ezkel, laughing with Charlotte, having my hair done by Minnie, and being watched over by Katherine.

And just like I would if I really was there, I will defend this place with my very last written world.

Because it's not just Eliza's safety, comfort, paradise.

It's my own too. Without a doubt.

Sour Keys

It's funny.

If I had ever truly listened to myself way back then, I wouldn't have fallen into this trap. I would have had a whole different senior year.

Too bad my past self was too blind to realize that the relationships she got into weren't healthy in the least, even as she complained about them non stop.

Gotta hate your younger self.

Into That Too-Dark Corner

It's hard, you know? Cause if something upsets me, I've learned to push it all away, not think about it, throw myself into anything, anything at all, but that thing.

And time and time again, whether it's homework or something less tangible, I'm crushed by the weight of it when there's nothing to throw myself into, or the deadline is suddenly here, and I've only got a few sentences of the essay finished.

Perhaps that's why I can be such a diligent worker; I've got so many secrets, so many stressors, so many pushed-away things, that I automatically just throw myself into doing everything the best, as long as I don't have to deal.

There was a time, and I can't remember when, that I wasn't like this.

Back then, I threw things.

I definitely like that way better.

When everything's made to be broken

Words are flying by me. I want to halt them, even for a moment. I want to say "Wait, hold on, I've something to add!"

But I won't. I can't.

I can't say a word, because they just wouldn't understand.

And I hate it because I can't blame them. My problems are a whole other bubble, separated from theirs. They'll hear about my problem, but it doesn't effect them. Maybe if they ignore it, I'll stop trying to say it. It'll go away.

Not for me, but for them.

They just don't understand.

Years upon years.

I'm not a prime example of giving up. I wasn't the one they were supposed to say "You can't do that!"

No. They were. The other people. The true giver-uppers. The people who turned their backs so easily.

The people who figured I am not worth fighting for.


If ever there was a prime example of how much things change in a year, well, I've got it.

A year ago today, Father's day, or a year ago tomorrow to be precise, well, it was the turning point for a lot of things.

My father and I were at the peak of our resentment for each other. Since February last year when he threw me into a bedpost, we'd been avoiding each other, and when we couldn't, we exploded. And then today, a year ago, everything just crumbled, and for the second time in my life, I ran away, knowing I couldn't return for a good number of days. And he watched me as I ran, with no more than what I had on me- jeans, socks, shoes, and a ill fitting shirt I had on simply because it was the weekend and I'd done nothing all day. Perhaps, somewhere in there, was a sweater, but I can't quite remember.

It was the first weekend of the summer.

Two days after a minor explosion witnessed by one of my friends. Two nights after I'd broken up with my boyfriend, for good. The night before I planned to plead for a spot at Weil's for co-op.

So began my days as a runaway.

I admit, I had it pretty good, though. I stayed the night at M's house, watching infomercials on repeat until we fell asleep together on either side of her bed. I woke not knowing where I was for the first time. Pleading for my co-op placement was out for today.

I called Sara, whom I would have went to had it not been so late at night and that for the longest time, "Come whenever you need it" meant "Call three days beforehand, only stay for a couple of hours, and never, ever, call during breakfast, lunch, or dinner, or after 8 PM." She offered to shelter me that night.

We sneaked into my house as if we were petty criminals, baked M's birthday cake and made icing, and was out of there before the earliest time my father could ever come home. I'd picked up my cellphone, which had been taken away and left on the desk, a change of clothes, my hair brush, and as much money as I had, which wasn't much at all. Took a shower, left, with Sara helping me carry my things, hustling down the street as fast as possible until we were out of sight of my house. Safe.

I spent a lot of time at the library, as I never was comfortable in Sara's house alone. When she was at work, I walked up a block to TBL, and though I had lost my library card long ago, I used Sara's to get onto the computers when I needed, and read books when I didn't. And then, when Sara was getting off work soon, or I got too jittery to stay any longer, I went to meet up with my ex-boyfriend, or M, or I'd text the people I knew, who had quickly heard of what happened when I could finally contact them.

I refused to go home, even when my mother called me, upset and angry at the departure she helped cause. I'd had a plan, I'd come home after riding that Thursday. No sooner.

Wednesday, I'd had no place to sleep. No. That's not true. I had a place to sleep, something that the crazed ideas in my head supported, and the logical one's of my friend's refused to believe were safe. But they couldn't house me. Sara's mom said that there'd be no shelter for me anymore. M's mom said much the same. Others had heard my plight, but denied me lodgings, and before I went to a youth shelter, someone had offered me a place to crash.

Who knew it'd come at a price? Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes. Things not even my best friends at the time knew. In the morning, I sneaked out, grabbing my newly charged phone, which my lodger had a charging cord to, and set off into the early, early day, putting on a mask that wouldn't come off for quite a while.

Good things and bad things have happened since then. My friends both got into fights with their parents, trying to make me stay with them for one more night. That, everyone, is the big miracle. They still fought for me. I was still worth fighting for.

I had some of the happiest times while I was an exile from my own family.

Now my dad and I only get in fights when we're both tired and stressed. But my friends stopped fighting. They stopped fighting for me, stopped fighting for anything. Shrugging became their typical answer. Keeping secrets quickly became our favorite pastime, and no one would ask for the truth. No one but me. And when I tried to tell people about what happened, they ignored me.

This time, these few days that started a year ago, well, they were probably the strongest displays of friendship since I can remember. How did it become that we hate each other so much now?

Typing this out, reliving it all, it makes me want to knock on their doors and say some sappy thing about how we once were, and how we can be that way again. It makes me want to dig out that friendship necklace we bought that same year to hold each of us together.

But once were and are now are two very different things. And I don't think, from how far we've come, we can ever get back to that.


I'm at a loss of what to say. I can't explain this anymore. Hate, love, sadness, happiness... it's all the same now. I'm not much closer to accepting this all. I'm no where near breathing easy. I still break down, I still want to cry. My breath still hitches in my throat, and sometimes I don't believe I'll be able to keep on breathing. As if everything will just clog up my throat. As if I've eaten three slices of watermelon, and now I'm in anaphylactic shock.

But no. To answer your unsaid question, or perhaps your question whispered in the night too distanced for me to hear, I'm no closer to asking for you back. I'm no closer to knocking on your door, or leaving a forgiveness note in your mailbox.

I did what I had to do. And you did what you had to do. I'm not sorry for anything, anything but that I let it continue on for so long. I could do better, and you could do worse.

But still, I dwell, though you have surely moved on. Because I'm a dweller, and unlike you, I cared.

No. That was harsh. You cared, but not in the way I want. You cared by shrugging your shoulders and muttering "Oh well," just as you continue to do. I cared by shouting "Oh well? This is 'Oh well!'" And you never seemed to appreciate it.

And I still agree with myself.

I love you, I miss you, I never want to see you again.

But in this small town of ours, well... It's a small world. And I know, eventually, we'll meet again.

Wind Fall

I am done with exams. I make no assumptions about grad yet, simply because I'm paranoid that something will mess up and I'll have to eat my words, which wouldn't be fun at all. But exams are over for me. I did my first and final exam today and finished just about 40 minutes ago. I thought I flunked the Multiple Choice (that would be embarrassing) but apparently I got 90%. Now it's just my essay-type answer worth 15 marks, only 3 of those are for the actual writing. And, surprise surprise, mine was at least double the length of most everyones. 5 times the length of the girl who sat beside me, though that's not a surprise to me.

So I'm a little giddy. Don't know what to do first. Read, sleep, what book to read, write, review, dance, eat?

Well, I know what I'm going to do first, actually.

Sleep. I deserve it.

Good night.

I Miss Your Love

Would you believe that sometimes, very rarely, I have to read back to what I wrote so long ago to remind myself why I hate you so much?

Would you believe that sometimes I can't see the point to all this?

Because I can't. I can't believe this, because if I do, I might just make the same mistakes over and over again. Seeing you, talking to you, laughing with you- it'd all be wrong. It'd all be a mistake.

So I sit here, splitting grass leaves right down the middle, wondering. Wishing. Disbelieving. Reminding.

Because I don't have the eyes on the back of my head that's required to be with you again.

Perks of being an Insomniac

This morning, I didn't want to get up. I've been exhausted since before this week started. I'm literally making myself sick, as when I don't sleep well, I get sick a lot more easily (compromised immune system due to lack of sleep. Which is possibly why I got really sick way back in March, I was having a month-long bout of insomnia,  which has probably turned into almost full-blown insomnia, but I have melatonin, so I'm okay).

It's 2:30 and I'm feeling pretty good, despite getting a bad mark on one of the assignments I handed in a day or two ago. I would have asked to make it up if I wasn't so exhausted. Right now I'm just trying to get through this week passing. When I saw the mark, the option of asking for a redo passed through my mind, she would have said yes, but the rest of me pushed it out saying "To hell with it. I don't have the time/energy/drive to do that. I'm tired."

Tired is an understatement, guys. If I wasn't an insomniac, I'd probably be bawling my eyes out right now. Midnight isn't even the max I stay up. It's the minimum.

Right now, I'm in that odd place that you get when you're so tired, your not all that tired. I'm not about to run around or go swinging, though that'd be nice, but I'm not about to drop on my bed and sleep. Don't get me wrong, if I lay down for a second, I'll be out like a light. But right now I'm just.. numb. Which is good. It's better than being the bitchy-irritable me that I was yesterday (I feel no envy for my family).

But watch as that same girl comes out once someone comes home. My cats already learned what happens when they don't stop meowing at Ammie's request. :D They're alive still, don't worry, but I haven't heard a peep (or a meow) from them since.

The Most Pathetic Thing Is...

There's something you don't understand. Since the world exploded, I've had to grasp onto anything I could. Since the world exploded, I've had to build everything from the ground up. Since the world exploded, I've been struggling to try to understand what's left.

But you didn't see the world explode, because it wasn't your world. So you don't see all this, and you don't understand it when I try to explain.

You're all I have. There's no one else.

And if I lose you, then I've got nothing.

It will be as if the world exploded all over again.

When The World Disappears From Beneath You

It's odd when you can have a conversation with someone about things that would "normally" offend them...

And then when you say something innocently half-thought out that you don't really mean, you suddenly feel like you've stepped on a landmine.

And you don't know where to step to get onto safe ground.

At Least Iced Tea Loves Me

They're fighting again. I feel as if it's my fault- if only I was a better daughter, if only I did this or that. But then again, I always think that. Then again, perhaps I'm always right.

Either way, it's depressing.

On Air

When I was younger (how young? I don't know) I'd watch these shows or read these books that made me want to do something. The something being whatever it was about. Well, I guess I still do that, but the show I'm talking about is Radio Free Roscoe.

I just watched the first episode earlier (thinking I could work through it. Nope. Forgot I need stats from the internet, which makes watching it on the computer kind of hard). Since watching RFR for the first time, I wanted to make such a radio station. Except, well, it's kind of impossible.

I like being heard, if you didn't know already. I also have a lot of opinions. And I have no problem being anonymous. I thought it was perfect. But, yeah. Not going to happen. One of those dreams that, though on the more realistic side of things (compared to my other dreams), still won't work out.

But maybe it stuck with me, because I still want to be a radio broadcaster. There's a course at Humber college, I think. Not too costly either.

Problem? I'm pretty bad with people. Even hiding behind a mic, well, I don't know. I'd still have to interview stars and such. I suck at public speaking, and sometimes, if I focus on what I'm saying too much, I mess it up. Which is why I had halting conversation all last semester- because I got self-conscious of it.

Perhaps it's just a dream not meant to come true. Or perhaps, one day, you'll hear me on your radio station.

Except you won't know it's me, of course, because I'm basically anonymous right now, and very few of you know my real name (and some of those who think they know it are wrong, because sometimes I go by other names).

It's something to ponder over, certainly.

The Semi-Annual Week O' Hell

This week is set up to suck. Not one night will I (should I) go to bed before midnight. I just kind of wish I had my friends to celebrate (ha!) it with. But then again, they'd just distract me from my purpose- get every assignment I have on this growing to-do list in my hand done. It's a lengthly list.

Insert one of my many sighs here.

But Germany beat Australia 4-0 today. I feel awesome, because Abir was rooting for Australia, and if Germany had lost, I'd never hear the end of it.

But who won't hear the end of it is Green, the goalie from England's team. I just want to hug him- it was a honest mistake, the goal. But everyone's blowing it up to be something bigger than it is. Give him a break.

Now to work for another hour on my homework so that maybe, perhaps, hopefully I will be able to go to sleep at 11 one day this week. Today is not that day, by the way.

When Everything Fades To What's Real

No matter what I said before, I honestly didn't think I'd changed.

I mean, I knew something broke inside me. I heard it go snap. I just figured that it wasn't a big snap. I figured that it was a small snap, and maybe not even a snap of what I thought it was.

But I know where it came from. It came from the little part of me that trusted too much.

I still trust too much.

No. Scratch that. I don't even have a scale of how much I trust, it's so out of wack right now, and it has been for a long while, I guess.

I had thought I could never trust again. I insisted I couldn't- because then if I couldn't, I wouldn't get hurt. And if I couldn't trust, maybe my fairytale would come sooner. I had made it out to be broken, irreparable.

But somewhere, I was afraid that I hadn't changed at all. That I still trusted too much.

But I see these changes. These differences. When I go to say something, when I go to tell something, I pause. I pause and pull away. I pause, pull away, and then wonder why.

I pause, pull away, wonder why, and realize it's because something did snap. Something changed. And I no longer trust as I did before.

Something I hardly believed when I first wrote it many months ago. Now I know. Now I know I'm telling the truth, because it resonates with me. And I'll make no assumptions on how much I trust now, but I know I shy away from making new best friends. In case everything falls apart again.

Perhaps it's not that I don't trust other people, perhaps it's that I can't trust myself. But that doesn't make sense either right now.

I'm a conundrum.

Iceland, Thailand, India and Venice.

I know no one thinks I'll be something great.

I know that when I say I'm going to live in Iceland, or Thailand, or India, or Venice, that everyone rolls their eyes to the sky and says "Here Amm goes, thinking big and impossible things, trying to get a rise out of us, cause I know she'd never do it."

I know. In the closed space of my room, I whisper "I know,"

But I also know that it will happen.

I know I'll move to Iceland, or Thailand, or India, or Venice, or all of them. I know I will. Because I've got the determination to do it. And because it's no big thing in my head, like it seems to be for all of you. To say I'll move to Venice and ride the canals on gondolas, that's not something impossible. Not to me.

So while I whisper "I know," to what I know you're all thinking, I'm also whispering "I know," to what I'm thinking.

I know you're thinking it's impossible.

Also, I know that I'll do what I'm thinking. Despite it being "impossible."

Just so you know.

Wishing For Rock Bottom

It's hard realizing that if you fall any farther, no one will be there to catch you.

It's harder to realize that though you change the people, you change your thinking, and you change your smile, you're still always in such a situation.

The only secure place is when you've hit rock bottom.

Ah. Parallel Dimensions, you comfort me.

On second/third/fourth thought, I'm not too sad now. Why? Because I thought of this:

If I'm living this life with the choices I made, then some parallel dimension, another me is living it out in another way, probably one of the ways I really wonder about. Now times that by millions, and you've got a lot of scenarios there. I just feel sorry for the other-mes who made crappy decisions.

Will I be witty? Will I be pretty?

I think the worst question to ask is What would you be like if you'd only done/not done ___...

You never have an answer, you never will, and yet it's impossible to say "Well, there's no answer to that," and turn away. You can tell others that, but not yourself. It just doesn't work.

What would I be like if I had joined cheerleading with Michelle years ago?

What would I be like if I knew what I knew now?

What would I be like if I'd learned how not to hold grudges?

I don't know the answers to any of these questions, and so many more. And it kind of saddens me. *sigh*

Insanity May Be Environmental

If anyone asks where I am, tell them I've gone insane. They'll understand.

When Sparkles Light The Sky

I picked up my pajama pants to see sparkles fall everywhere. I know where they came from (my new sparkly shirt), but I like to believe there's a little bit of magic in every day.

Come find me

Most of the time, I hate you with enough passion to wish you death.

But sometimes, I don't hate you at all. I almost feel that if you walked by me in the hall or on the street, I might just smile and wave.

And I know, I know, I know neither of these are true. I'm stuck in some shady gray area, sifting through the fog to see exactly where I am.

The Past stays IN THE PAST, please and thankyou

Anyone who knows me knows I like things to stay where they are. Mainly: The past stays in the past.

I was an idiot in the past. So were we all. And I made idiotic mistakes. And people around me did too. So I'd like to leave both the people and all of our mistakes safely in the past.

Life doesn't like me enough to do that. So I'm often bombarded with past misdeeds and mis-persons. And I will blatantly run away screaming (I did that once.)

But yesterday, in a bout of shower-inspiration, I contacted one of my old old friends who I've not talked to in years. Years upon years. And I'm pretty sure that we left each other on a low note. And, with my motto being as it is, when she asked me to become her friend on Facebook, I declined speedily. Past stays in the past.

But yes, yesterday I contacted her asking to become a "friend."

Now I'm trying to keep up a conversation we both probably don't want to keep anymore. We've both stated we're two different people, and the short-lived happily-ever-after ending for us I had imagined in the shower was probably just me getting high off of blessedly hot steam (is that even possible?)

Shoot. Me. Now.

The Path You Take

Everyone's told me, at one point or another, that there was another way to do things. Another way to end things. Sometimes there were multiple "Ways You Could/Should/Would Have Done It"s. It all got pretty tiring, pretty quick.

What did they expect me to do? Go back in time? Undo everything I've done with false apologies, only to end it all "The Right Way," which often differed between people I talked to?

Besides, this was the only way. Or, for the correctness of it all, it was the only way that worked for me.

Yeah. I could have "slowly become distant and uncontactable..." If that somehow worked around riding together, and then soon part-boarding horses together, and dealing with the times that they'd bug me about missing out on such-and-such thing, which I'll tell you now, I can't handle that great.

Yeah. I'm not a person who can hold in everything I'm feeling for months on end. The fact that I held onto everything for so long- I can't even count the months- is a surprise even for me. My hands slipped from the rope I was hanging onto frequently, and I can remember the days I couldn't hold on as tightly as before.

Then it all snapped. With a push from the other side, we all came tumbling down. And when we tried to climb up once again, and I led the pact of together. Then the person I never thought would do such a thing hit, bit, and burned my hands, until I was forced to let go.

And everyone says I had other ways to go.

Perhaps. But this is how it turned out. And though some days I think I should have tried harder, or wish I'd done it all differently, this is how it happened. I can't change it, and most of the time I don't want it changed. But I wish people would stop thinking they know better and thinking they'd do better than me in my life. And that's a wish I'm not about to take back.

The Old-Fashioned Me is there Somewhere

Perhaps I'm a little old-fashioned.

But I really think there's some things that shouldn't be said in polite/mixed/new company. These things have a place in intimate gatherings of close friends, or at sleep overs when you turn out the light and discuss the world's wonders, and less wonderful things.

Not to say all topics that would be considered unacceptable a hundred years ago are off limits. Just a certain few.

Thanks. Really.

I didn't think so.

I don't blame you for forcibly drifting away, because who was I to plead you otherwise? I don't hate you because you believed them over me, for they were always the innocent ones outside, and I was the one who told the truth. I don't mind that you pass on their hurtful (and false) words, because who can resist the rumor mill? I don't care that you are wary of me in the hallways, because how are you supposed to know that I'm not all they say I am.

No. Scratch all that. I do blame, hate, mind and care. Why? Because you should have known- you should have known to think. To question. To ask "Would Amm do such a thing?" and "Do these people have a reason to spread false words about Amm?"

You should have stuck with "innocent until proven guilty" as your safe phrase.

Instead, you accepted everything at face value, except for me.

Except for the one story that wasn't more fiction than memoir. The one person who turned face value into soul value.

So you can understand why I blame, hate, mind and care, can't you?

Can't you??

Just because you won't say it, doesn't mean you don't think it

Some people would call me mean, cruel, bad.

I have to argue though. I'm not a murderer, I'm not a pedophile, I'm not about to physically hurt someone or something. I don't go around purposely trying to ruin lives.

I am simply human, and I've got more courage than the normal person to say the truth about what I feel.