As a promise made in the previous post. PS - thanks Kat for the title idea :)
Why didn’t anyone tell me
That women are like Christmas trees
Really only good when they’re all adorned
With round silicone curiosities
And cotton to cover up their prickly idiosyncrasies
And unruly oddities
That they inherited from consumer fables
While they stood obedient, silent
In the vacant corner of the local deli
Forced to observe, and knowing better
Than to yell when the back is already turned
So that the merchant,
Void of any guilt from the illegalities entailed,
Can approach the customer
Tilt his head in the direction of the object so pleasing to the eye
And say
“Yep, they only come in real or fake.”
Continue reading >>
Showing posts with label don't make me grow up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label don't make me grow up. Show all posts
Sunday, December 6
Monday, August 10
The greatest lie ever told
I don't like talking to self-assured adults. They complain about their dull, banal problems and like to point out how much life experience they have to back up their arguments. What I saw back in Turkmenistan this summer was especially bad. The men took up the role of stoic-diplomat-on-vacation, walking around the pool with four cell phones allotted to their four different businesses while wearing very form-fitting underwear, and the women, when they weren't busy gossiping with each each other about what shade of beige is in this year (I'm dead serious), took precious minutes teaching their kids inverted morals to ensure that they grow up to be just like their parents. They all look hard for cliches and punchlines and idioms to appear intelligent to their aristocrat friends, whose brains just as equally epitomize degradation.
The greatest lie ever told is that life has meaning and adults know what it is. The problem is that by the time you realize this, it's too late: you've already spent your best years setting materialistic goals and slaving away toward a sugary future outlined by your parents (work hard in school -> work harder in college -> land a six-digit job -> success), and now you're thirty-something and no closer to enlightenment than you were ten years ago. Then you either end up with a special type of depression known as a mid-life crisis and desperately try to gain back lost time, or you can take your frustration out on your kids by letting the lie live on.
Does life have meaning, and does anyone know what it is? A popular opinion seems to be that we're brought into the world to find happiness. The problem with that theory is that it doesn't bring you any closer to being happy or to figuring out that which will make you happy. And if there are any adults worth talking to about this business, I haven't had the pleasure of meeting them.
Continue reading >>
The greatest lie ever told is that life has meaning and adults know what it is. The problem is that by the time you realize this, it's too late: you've already spent your best years setting materialistic goals and slaving away toward a sugary future outlined by your parents (work hard in school -> work harder in college -> land a six-digit job -> success), and now you're thirty-something and no closer to enlightenment than you were ten years ago. Then you either end up with a special type of depression known as a mid-life crisis and desperately try to gain back lost time, or you can take your frustration out on your kids by letting the lie live on.
Does life have meaning, and does anyone know what it is? A popular opinion seems to be that we're brought into the world to find happiness. The problem with that theory is that it doesn't bring you any closer to being happy or to figuring out that which will make you happy. And if there are any adults worth talking to about this business, I haven't had the pleasure of meeting them.
Continue reading >>
Monday, May 11
What is and what could've been
Two poems today, both by Laura Haskins-Bookser.
Regrets
I am seventeen
and I just came home
so drunk and
so high
that I've just pissed myself
My mother is alone, asleep in her room
I rush to clean up after myself
trying to be quiet
but when I get out of the shower
my mother is standing in the hallway
Screaming at me
in a rage that I rarely saw
Beating on me with her fists
slapping me wildly
Do you want to be like your father?
Do you want to be a drunk?
I dodge out of her way
make it to my room
and remember one year earlier
I sat my parents down
Told them I thought I might have
A PROBLEM
She screamed at me that day as well
You don't need help
You just want attention
So while she is
still yelling in the hallway
I lock the door
ignoring her
and fall asleep quickly
because of my lethargic state
The next morning
the masks go back on
the superficial talk of the day begins
I think to myself
It's only Saturday
I still have another night of partying
before my weekend is over
Continue reading >>
Regrets
I am seventeen
and I just came home
so drunk and
so high
that I've just pissed myself
My mother is alone, asleep in her room
I rush to clean up after myself
trying to be quiet
but when I get out of the shower
my mother is standing in the hallway
Screaming at me
in a rage that I rarely saw
Beating on me with her fists
slapping me wildly
Do you want to be like your father?
Do you want to be a drunk?
I dodge out of her way
make it to my room
and remember one year earlier
I sat my parents down
Told them I thought I might have
A PROBLEM
She screamed at me that day as well
You don't need help
You just want attention
So while she is
still yelling in the hallway
I lock the door
ignoring her
and fall asleep quickly
because of my lethargic state
The next morning
the masks go back on
the superficial talk of the day begins
I think to myself
It's only Saturday
I still have another night of partying
before my weekend is over
Sleep Deprived
I slept
slept like a baby
a normal baby, that is
who doesn't survive on
three-hour blocks of sleep
I slept
without one interruption
without one peep from your crib
without any noise at all
from you
I panicked
and jumped out of bed
raced to your crib
on the other side of the room
You are not breathing
I am sure of it
I cry out
call your name
pick you up
wake you up
Oh no
I slept
slept like a baby
and could have gone back to sleep
if only I hadn't woken you
from the deep sleep you were enjoying
You scream
and I laugh and I hug you
that's the baby I know
that's the baby I love
Continue reading >>
Thursday, May 7
The car ride home
"I first fell in love when I was 14," this man had told me.
I'm not sure why;
Silence was taboo on this 20-minute drive.
He asked if I had read Gone With the Wind.
No, I told him.
"You should," he replied,
"Those kinds of stories are good for your age.
That's when I read them." And then he proceeded
To tell me about his first love.
"I dated her for two weeks.
Man, 14," he repeated.
I smiled and read the license plates of cars we passed by.
"We held hands and all of that."
I looked down at my legs
And watched the sun burn the car leather right where I sat.
I usually hate these lazy scorching May afternoons -
always more of a winter girl -
but today was different.
"And walked in the park late under the moon."
He laughed.
With his left hand on the wheel,
He left the other motionless on the side
Still unable to break the habit of his old stickshift.
"I even cried
About her. Once. But after two weeks,
I was done."
His happy nostalgic smile nicely complemented his graying hair
Which looked white under the sun.
He wasn't old or anything;
He had a 10 year old daughter
And a worrying wife
Who, like a gypsy with her ash-black hair,
Looked flawless every day
With another on the way;
Above all, she was kind.
"Her I married within a month," he told me.
"Didn't want to wait too long
And change my mind.
Again."
But there's no feeling quite as high as that first love, he said as we pulled up to a red light.
Cars crawled like ants into the intersection
With men and women and children
Behind the wheel,
Killing time and thinking
And talking and smoking and drinking.
I wondered if any of them were also remembering their teenage girlfriends.
"What about you? Have you ever been in love?
And I mean like, real, crazy,
Pull-your-hair-out love?"
As he said this, his eyes flashed
Like this love thing was the greatest ever.
I could have said "Oh, don't I know it!"
I could have told him about
The Italian pizza I bought us for takeout.
I could have said, "Funny you ask,"
And told him about the books we planned to read
And the frozen yogurt
And the stolen bikes
And, of course, his grandfather's spoon.
I could have shown him my worn-out eyes
And remembered that morning I was sleepy but happy
After a long and perfect night.
I could have said, "Don't get me started!"
And told him about the day that we parted
And the strangely rectangular shape of his head
During all those horrible things that were said
Instead of a proper goodbye.
I could have chuckled and sighed.
"Have you ever been in love?"
"No," I lied.
Continue reading >>
I'm not sure why;
Silence was taboo on this 20-minute drive.
He asked if I had read Gone With the Wind.
No, I told him.
"You should," he replied,
"Those kinds of stories are good for your age.
That's when I read them." And then he proceeded
To tell me about his first love.
"I dated her for two weeks.
Man, 14," he repeated.
I smiled and read the license plates of cars we passed by.
"We held hands and all of that."
I looked down at my legs
And watched the sun burn the car leather right where I sat.
I usually hate these lazy scorching May afternoons -
always more of a winter girl -
but today was different.
"And walked in the park late under the moon."
He laughed.
With his left hand on the wheel,
He left the other motionless on the side
Still unable to break the habit of his old stickshift.
"I even cried
About her. Once. But after two weeks,
I was done."
His happy nostalgic smile nicely complemented his graying hair
Which looked white under the sun.
He wasn't old or anything;
He had a 10 year old daughter
And a worrying wife
Who, like a gypsy with her ash-black hair,
Looked flawless every day
With another on the way;
Above all, she was kind.
"Her I married within a month," he told me.
"Didn't want to wait too long
And change my mind.
Again."
But there's no feeling quite as high as that first love, he said as we pulled up to a red light.
Cars crawled like ants into the intersection
With men and women and children
Behind the wheel,
Killing time and thinking
And talking and smoking and drinking.
I wondered if any of them were also remembering their teenage girlfriends.
"What about you? Have you ever been in love?
And I mean like, real, crazy,
Pull-your-hair-out love?"
As he said this, his eyes flashed
Like this love thing was the greatest ever.
I could have said "Oh, don't I know it!"
I could have told him about
The Italian pizza I bought us for takeout.
I could have said, "Funny you ask,"
And told him about the books we planned to read
And the frozen yogurt
And the stolen bikes
And, of course, his grandfather's spoon.
I could have shown him my worn-out eyes
And remembered that morning I was sleepy but happy
After a long and perfect night.
I could have said, "Don't get me started!"
And told him about the day that we parted
And the strangely rectangular shape of his head
During all those horrible things that were said
Instead of a proper goodbye.
I could have chuckled and sighed.
"Have you ever been in love?"
"No," I lied.
Continue reading >>
Friday, March 20
A bad case of senioritis
So I just watched High School Musical 3 (YES, you read that right, now shut up before we dig inside your TiVo) and just feel so damn depressed. Vanessa Hudgens' character got accepted into Stanford's whizkids-only early orientation shindig, and she goes to freakin' East High. You know, the East High? No? Me neither.
This is not so much about Stanford as it is about the past four years of my life. I sacrificed a lot academically to have the outside-of-school experience that I did, but in the end end, was it worth it? I'm not talking about partying - I have been to maybe three parties in my life total. It's about people. There are so many things I let go, so many opportunities I turned down because my emotions told me to do so. It'll be fine, I thought. Stanford was never even on my list. My grades are passable for a school I'd actually want to go to.
And now it's four years later, and where have I ended up? On my couch in my Harker sweatpants on a Friday night, watching High School Musical. My name is Masha, and I am a lame-ass. Hells yeah to the rooftops!
It's too late to change anything. It probably isn't, and it's probably a really bad idea to let my grades drop now when overpopulated colleges can take back their acceptances at any moment, but I'm going to ignore that fact because I'm done. I'm milked to the max, pooped out, you name it. Laziness talking? Perhaps. Or perhaps instead of motivating me to pick up my game, all this college talk has been the last straw. Just in the past month, I've experienced enough physical and emotional stress to last me through college and then some.
Sometimes I wonder how different my life would have been had I paid more attention to school. I used to be a straight-A+ student in middle school, you know. How did I get to a place where a B- on a math test was celebrated? I wonder how different things would have been if I cared more.
And then I decide that they wouldn't be different at all. This is who I am, this is who I always was and would end up to be no matter who walked in and out of my life. This lazy, sweet, optimistic, cynical, overdramatic, practical, and very very vulnerable person is me. And if Stanford doesn't take me, they can just suck it.
The part that really got to me was in the end, when Troy chose Berkeley to be close to Gabriella. Why can't things be as simple as in a high school musical?
Continue reading >>
This is not so much about Stanford as it is about the past four years of my life. I sacrificed a lot academically to have the outside-of-school experience that I did, but in the end end, was it worth it? I'm not talking about partying - I have been to maybe three parties in my life total. It's about people. There are so many things I let go, so many opportunities I turned down because my emotions told me to do so. It'll be fine, I thought. Stanford was never even on my list. My grades are passable for a school I'd actually want to go to.
And now it's four years later, and where have I ended up? On my couch in my Harker sweatpants on a Friday night, watching High School Musical. My name is Masha, and I am a lame-ass. Hells yeah to the rooftops!
It's too late to change anything. It probably isn't, and it's probably a really bad idea to let my grades drop now when overpopulated colleges can take back their acceptances at any moment, but I'm going to ignore that fact because I'm done. I'm milked to the max, pooped out, you name it. Laziness talking? Perhaps. Or perhaps instead of motivating me to pick up my game, all this college talk has been the last straw. Just in the past month, I've experienced enough physical and emotional stress to last me through college and then some.
Sometimes I wonder how different my life would have been had I paid more attention to school. I used to be a straight-A+ student in middle school, you know. How did I get to a place where a B- on a math test was celebrated? I wonder how different things would have been if I cared more.
And then I decide that they wouldn't be different at all. This is who I am, this is who I always was and would end up to be no matter who walked in and out of my life. This lazy, sweet, optimistic, cynical, overdramatic, practical, and very very vulnerable person is me. And if Stanford doesn't take me, they can just suck it.
The part that really got to me was in the end, when Troy chose Berkeley to be close to Gabriella. Why can't things be as simple as in a high school musical?
Continue reading >>
Sunday, March 15
559
That's the number of new emails I have, according to my Gmail inbox.
It has been 559 for quite a while. All the emails on the first page are read, and I make a point to either click on or delete new mail that finds is way into my humble chocolate cupcake account. And yet this number keeps growing. I don't understand how this is physically possible if I consciously take care of every new email. It's one of those life's unsolved mysteries, like how even when you completely untangle your iPod headphones and set them down on a table, they will have 23509343 knots when you pick them up five minutes later.
559. That's a lot of words written to me I haven't read. I don't have to click through my archives to know most of them are either from Facebook, a store I signed up at for the 10% discount, or Mr. Molin's eagle updates. A few are actually important, that I mentally check off to read later but (obviously) forget. Like college counseling stuff. It's safe to say I prioritized horribly first semester senior year, hurting not only myself in the present but possibly screwing up my future.
Today I got into New York University. It has been my first choice ever since I learned that the city of New York exists - I dreamt of catching a taxi under the fancy lights of Broadway Carrie-Bradshaw style, and being able to go to school there seemed unreal. Too perfectly amazing. Somehow, I didn't even need to know the criteria to be accepted at the University. No matter what my grades turned out to be, I knew I'd get in. I know what all you psych nerds are going to say - hindsight bias, when I say I knew something would happen after it already occurred. Well, believe it if you want, but NYU was the only school I didn't doubt.
And then something happened. A lot of things happened specifically, but this one somehow snuck right past my conscious and burned itself into my brain before I could realize what was going on. I'm not about to go into the details of how my decisions affected my moral outlook on life and myself, but in a nutshell, I'm not ready. I don't fully trust myself in one of the most exciting lively overflowing-with-opportunities cities in the world. I love New York, but it will have to wait. I'm sure a chance will present itself in the future when I'm more set on what I want in life, and when it does, I'll take it without looking back.
559 meaningless emails taking up space in my memory. I can't even find the time to clean up and get organized electronically, let alone manually or mentally or any other kind of realm of thought. I always keep a Gmail tab open; when that number changes to 560, for the two or three seconds that come between my brain processing this information and my finger moving the cursor to the email tab, I feel important. That's an understatement; I don't feel alone. And then I click the page and read the subject line to find out that Questia is offering another manage-your-stress quiz, and all my feelings of individualism evaporate. Then the number goes back to 559.
And that's good. It's more than halfway there, but it's not quite there yet. Just like my thought process. It's about time one of those things had a constant.
Continue reading >>
It has been 559 for quite a while. All the emails on the first page are read, and I make a point to either click on or delete new mail that finds is way into my humble chocolate cupcake account. And yet this number keeps growing. I don't understand how this is physically possible if I consciously take care of every new email. It's one of those life's unsolved mysteries, like how even when you completely untangle your iPod headphones and set them down on a table, they will have 23509343 knots when you pick them up five minutes later.
559. That's a lot of words written to me I haven't read. I don't have to click through my archives to know most of them are either from Facebook, a store I signed up at for the 10% discount, or Mr. Molin's eagle updates. A few are actually important, that I mentally check off to read later but (obviously) forget. Like college counseling stuff. It's safe to say I prioritized horribly first semester senior year, hurting not only myself in the present but possibly screwing up my future.
Today I got into New York University. It has been my first choice ever since I learned that the city of New York exists - I dreamt of catching a taxi under the fancy lights of Broadway Carrie-Bradshaw style, and being able to go to school there seemed unreal. Too perfectly amazing. Somehow, I didn't even need to know the criteria to be accepted at the University. No matter what my grades turned out to be, I knew I'd get in. I know what all you psych nerds are going to say - hindsight bias, when I say I knew something would happen after it already occurred. Well, believe it if you want, but NYU was the only school I didn't doubt.
And then something happened. A lot of things happened specifically, but this one somehow snuck right past my conscious and burned itself into my brain before I could realize what was going on. I'm not about to go into the details of how my decisions affected my moral outlook on life and myself, but in a nutshell, I'm not ready. I don't fully trust myself in one of the most exciting lively overflowing-with-opportunities cities in the world. I love New York, but it will have to wait. I'm sure a chance will present itself in the future when I'm more set on what I want in life, and when it does, I'll take it without looking back.
559 meaningless emails taking up space in my memory. I can't even find the time to clean up and get organized electronically, let alone manually or mentally or any other kind of realm of thought. I always keep a Gmail tab open; when that number changes to 560, for the two or three seconds that come between my brain processing this information and my finger moving the cursor to the email tab, I feel important. That's an understatement; I don't feel alone. And then I click the page and read the subject line to find out that Questia is offering another manage-your-stress quiz, and all my feelings of individualism evaporate. Then the number goes back to 559.
And that's good. It's more than halfway there, but it's not quite there yet. Just like my thought process. It's about time one of those things had a constant.
Continue reading >>
Monday, March 9
When love is just short of enough
I will warn you from the very beginning that this post will probably end up sappy, unnecessarily dramatic, emotional, and reek of unhappy.
I'm sitting in Starbucks designing the header for my new blog for journalism class. It will be news-oriented with a weekly fictional story, but whatever about that. I'm sitting here, still shaken from last night. I can't say what happened because I'm afraid that no words in this language can accurately depict what took place. I'm afraid of wrong words. Truth is, I wish I could find the right way to express the situation at least to myself, but the part of my mind that's devoted to (over)thinking is a big fat clouded mess.
It's times like these when I wish I left the country next day. Like a one night stand, I want to keep the memory of what happened exactly the way it is without the morning-after crap. I want to sit on a plane and savor the details, mentally storing it into the favorite-moments bin, and many years later recall it with a few girlfriends over a bottle of wine. What I don't want is to be sitting in Starbucks trying to decide how to deal with the consequences, where to go from here, and whether I should keep waiting for something that kinda really won't happen.
Last night was the release. We were balancing on the tip of a dagger, and last night we fell. It was absolutely bound to happen, but then again, so was this the next day. I don't know why we drive ourselves into the same cycle. I swear, we are self-destructive. Or maybe it's just the way humans are built; maybe once we get it all, there's nothing to want anymore. If last night was so good, why is running far away all I can think about? Because I know it can only go downhill from here. This has happened too many times; I know the pattern too well.
There's something missing. I can't drive the feeling away that this is not how things should go - that if you want to be with someone, you wouldn't get tired of their company. And it's not only him. As much as I listen for the text-message beep on my phone, I want solitude. It's hard to want everything and nothing at the same time.
And then there's that feeling of the inevitable: we should just give it up because it's not going to work. We're not right. We don't fit like puzzle pieces, don't complete each other's half-empty glasses. We both know damn well that we're going on completely different paths in life, and it's only a matter of three or so months before those paths divide forever. Then why bother? Why make goodbye harder?
I can't do this to myself, again. I just can't.
Continue reading >>
I'm sitting in Starbucks designing the header for my new blog for journalism class. It will be news-oriented with a weekly fictional story, but whatever about that. I'm sitting here, still shaken from last night. I can't say what happened because I'm afraid that no words in this language can accurately depict what took place. I'm afraid of wrong words. Truth is, I wish I could find the right way to express the situation at least to myself, but the part of my mind that's devoted to (over)thinking is a big fat clouded mess.
It's times like these when I wish I left the country next day. Like a one night stand, I want to keep the memory of what happened exactly the way it is without the morning-after crap. I want to sit on a plane and savor the details, mentally storing it into the favorite-moments bin, and many years later recall it with a few girlfriends over a bottle of wine. What I don't want is to be sitting in Starbucks trying to decide how to deal with the consequences, where to go from here, and whether I should keep waiting for something that kinda really won't happen.
Last night was the release. We were balancing on the tip of a dagger, and last night we fell. It was absolutely bound to happen, but then again, so was this the next day. I don't know why we drive ourselves into the same cycle. I swear, we are self-destructive. Or maybe it's just the way humans are built; maybe once we get it all, there's nothing to want anymore. If last night was so good, why is running far away all I can think about? Because I know it can only go downhill from here. This has happened too many times; I know the pattern too well.
There's something missing. I can't drive the feeling away that this is not how things should go - that if you want to be with someone, you wouldn't get tired of their company. And it's not only him. As much as I listen for the text-message beep on my phone, I want solitude. It's hard to want everything and nothing at the same time.
And then there's that feeling of the inevitable: we should just give it up because it's not going to work. We're not right. We don't fit like puzzle pieces, don't complete each other's half-empty glasses. We both know damn well that we're going on completely different paths in life, and it's only a matter of three or so months before those paths divide forever. Then why bother? Why make goodbye harder?
I can't do this to myself, again. I just can't.
"You know something?"
"Hmm?"
"Every time we're at this point, when things are this good, we think - nothing could go wrong. But it always does."
"I know. I forgot how good it felt to just lie here."
"But why? Why do things always have to go wrong?"
"I think it's because we say it every time. We say, what could possibly go wrong from here? We're jinxing it."
"Mmm."
"It's a vicious cycle."
"But you know what? Screw it. Even if it gets worse, I don't mind as long as we end up back here eventually."
"Yeah. Me neither."
Continue reading >>
Thursday, February 19
There are reasons we don't say "just adulting"
In honor of it being Crank boys-are-stupid music really loudly day, here is my Boys are stupid playlist from an old iPod:
Despite being every obnoxious pea-size-brained tween girl's dream playlist, these songs from my good immature years really did make me feel better. Who am I kidding? - I'd pick up a hairbrush and rock out to "It's us against the world" any day I'm alone with the windows locked shut and the blinds flipped closed. There are times to man up and take responsibility like a 17-year-old should do, but then there are times to just be a girl. A girl with a scrunchie in her unruly ponytail and ankle socks thick enough for a December night in Tahoe and 99 cent lipgloss from Wallgreens that tastes like blueberry. And as we grow older, opportunities for those times only grew fewer. I would like to see my roommate's face if I turn on "I Must Not Chase the Boys" (yes, still by the infamous Play) and start humming nonchalantly.
Continue reading >>
- Don't Tell Me - Avril Lavigne
- Everything I'm Not - the Veronicas
- F You Right Back - Frankee
- Us Against The World - Play (old iPod. Promise.)
- Irreplaceable - Beyonce
- It's OK - Atomic Kitten
- Leave (Get Out) - JoJo
- Show Stopper - Danity Kane (this is actually a song about cars)
- Since U Been Gone - Kelly Clarkson
- Remember To Forget - Play (okay I have no idea how these get in here, I swear)
- Walk Away - Kelly Clarkson (but I must admit, Play's got mad voicing skills)
- Don't Cha - Pussycat Dolls
- Single - Natasha Beddingfield
- L.O.V.E. - Ashlee Simpson (and here I thought it was Nat King Cole's Parent Trap version)
- Alone - Avril Lavigne
- Losing Grip - Avril Lavigne (she's got a theme going on)
- Survivor - Destiny's Child
Despite being every obnoxious pea-size-brained tween girl's dream playlist, these songs from my good immature years really did make me feel better. Who am I kidding? - I'd pick up a hairbrush and rock out to "It's us against the world" any day I'm alone with the windows locked shut and the blinds flipped closed. There are times to man up and take responsibility like a 17-year-old should do, but then there are times to just be a girl. A girl with a scrunchie in her unruly ponytail and ankle socks thick enough for a December night in Tahoe and 99 cent lipgloss from Wallgreens that tastes like blueberry. And as we grow older, opportunities for those times only grew fewer. I would like to see my roommate's face if I turn on "I Must Not Chase the Boys" (yes, still by the infamous Play) and start humming nonchalantly.
So here's to celebrating not only being single, but still being able to call myself a kid. And yet here we are, trying so hard to grow up.
Tuesday, February 10
On the other side
This phrase may have been said a hundred times. In the end, you start thinking about the beginning. Or, at least I say it often. The ironic part is that nothing is really the end - every episode in life smoothly flows into the next one, there's no stop and go like when you finish a book or turn off a movie. Every time I think it's the end, the story continues. Whether it brings in new people or finds a way to prolong itself with the old ones, the sequence of life never stops for a breather. So I won't say it this time. It's not the end.
It is, however, the end of a cycle. February 9, 2008, exactly one year ago yesterday. So I guess when you make a full round, it's hard not to think about where you were at its beginning. Where was I? - in the parking lot by his car, having just given a white teddy bear and a Visa gift card.
"I don't deserve it," he said. Sure as hell he didn't. But there was no use bringing up the obvious, the cliched, the stale, the exposed, especially on his birthday. Mentally, I was in a completely different place as well. I wrote a poem at the end of 10th grade that started out with
The chick flicks and the cookie dough,
We swung around on swings;
Were were naive - we didn't know
What sophomore year would bring.
I thought that by then, I was completely past the innocent stage of naivety. All time had to do was slap me in the face and show me the meaning of experience, because that's what decides where you are on the maturity spectrum regardless of your age. As sophomore year drew to a close, I thought I had all the experience my uninhibited fifteen-year-old brain could hold. Yeah, I was a smartass. Now, although I can officially say I've tackled (as close as a minor can get to) real-life problems, I still have maybe a tenth of the experience I need to be making generalizations about life. So I'll refrain from that.
All I can say is that it's been a year, and it's both funny and sad to look at myself back then. Hell, it's sad to look at myself now - I've changed, but has it really been for the better? I like to believe so. I never think about what would have happened if I did something differently because I don't like to progress backwards - if it weren't for my bad decisions, I wouldn't know the things I know now.
Another phrase I like is that time erases all the bad things. I don't know if it's actually true, but there will always be things I can't forget. Not everyone gets a blank slate. Because, as they very correctly pointed out, some people don't deserve it.
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