Dear Boy In the Checkered Shirt,

It is a sad day when even you have failed me. 

But I've come to notice lately that no one is really who they seem. 

So don't worry. You're certainly not the only one. 

I'll miss your reliability.

It Burns

Don't get me wrong, today was certainly epic. Heck, I wore a dress and heels for once. I never wear heels. 

I felt...pretty.

Since I was feeling so on top of the world, I decided I'd finally get on that internal nagging that I am in danger of gaining weight and/or turning into a wet noodle that's too weak and wimpy to do anything. I decided to go to the gym for the first time in my life.

I am petrified of the gym.

I'm always scared there'll be some beefy Marine on the Bowflex next to me, or worse, some attractive guy from my school and I'll look so lame as I gasp and pant on the treadmill. But I told myself to just buckle down and do it. I put on some important-looking pink workout shorts, thereby asserting my supposed athleticism, switched on a hardcore playlist on my iPod for just such an occasion, and confidently trotted down the street. I inwardly sighed with relief as I saw a thirty-something guy jog sweatily down the street away from the gym. Maybe I'd be alone. I heaved my way up the small flights of stairs until I reached the metal door and tugged.

Locked.

The sign on the door patronizingly informed me that I would not be permitted to touch the inside of the gym until April 3rd. But I had not come all the way around the corner for nothing. I marched around the side of the building to be presented with a mosquito-infested corner containing a padded area and a couple pull-up bars. Most importantly, it was all but hidden from public view. Perfect. 

50 crunches, 50 lunges, 25 pushups, 10 times up the stairs, a couple ten-second, chin-level arm-hangs from the pull-up bar, 10 dips, 5 standing sit-ups, 10 more pushups, and 25 more crunches later, I had nothing left to do. It was only 6:19 and I'd come at 6:00. Have I only been here for that long?

All that was left was to run.

I hate running more than anything. I always keep waiting for that so-called 'runners high' to strike me after I finish a mile in PE. It never does. Maybe I was born without that capacity. In any case, I despise it. I always get this helpless feeling about two-thirds of the way through, as if I'm being pulled down by lead weights and I'm never going to make it. My lungs burn, my feet become concrete blocks, my legs become jelly. It's horrible. But I figured a simple trip down the street to the skate park and back couldn't be that bad. Less than a mile. Half of it was downhill. 

As if.

It didn't burn until after I'd turned around and decided on adding a simple loop around the barracks building to my route, stopped for ten seconds to say high to a friend, and continued on. By the time I rounded the barracks, all I could think, all I could feel and want and fathom, was to get home. To stop. I crossed the parking lot, clearing the sidewalks with as long, leaping strides as I could muster with my long legs. I wished I wasn't so tired-- I might've had the strength or willpower to make it look a little cooler. 

Finally, finally, I rounded the final corner and panted my way up the ever-so-slight slant that was my street. My inviting driveway, my finish line, beckoned maddeningly. My face throbbed. Everyone else seems to sweat so gracefully, their faces shining, some with a single drop running down. They look almost cool and refreshed. My face throbs. It reddens around my cheekbones and all the blood and sweat underneath my skin pulsates painfully. Makes me wonder if I have a disease or something. 

My strides collapsed into a wobbly walk as I paced the driveway. Heaving open the back door, I tapped my finger at the iPod screen, switching the music off. The heat of the kitchen was suffocating compared to the coolness outside, so I grabbed a water bottle and escaped to the backyard, where I collapsed in a lawn chair, gasping at the sky. It was a few minutes before my burning lungs, limbs, and throat would allow water. I gulped painfully and soon finished off the entire thing. My stomach groaned in protest at how fast I swigged it all down, and it churned with the remains of my chocolate ice cream of earlier. 

Chocolate ice cream was a bad choice.

At last I made it to the bathroom. Examined my pink face. Tossed open the toilet lid. Heaved and gagged  until a small bit of the ice cream was no longer inside of me. My gurgling, burning throat told me there was more that wanted out, but I refused. Shut the lid, flushed, splashed some water on my face and let it drip. 

And after all that, I'm determined to make certain that I do not become a wet noodle. 

Dear Boy I'd Love To Hate,

Unfortunately, you seem to have clicked into nice-guy mode again, which weakens my defenses ever so slightly.

Even though I know those adorable Internet posts have nothing to do with me.

Even though your personality is straying further and further from the book character you once so closely resembled.

Even though our conversations have been reduced to vague greetings, and our greetings can hardly qualify as acknowledging each other's existence.

And even though I want nothing more than to sock you in the face when you brush me off.


I don't hate you. I just can't.

The Orange

I cradle the soft yet weighty fruit in my palms, analyzing it's puckered surface. I reminisce about the amount of time it's been since I have been graced with the presence of such a snack. The question remains though: where to start? As I contemplate my course of action, my fingernails indent the shape of a star around the top stem. I pull off the star, revealing the innards of the tiny stem underneath, which momentarily fascinates me, with its intricate, miniscule holes.

Then I dig in. The thick, vibrant peel is pulled tight across the soft middle and I have to squeeze my fingers underneath to tear it off gently in smooth puzzle pieces. My fingernails catch on the thin membrane underneath and juice floods my fingertips. I involuntarily jerk my fingers back and move around, finding a new spot from which to rip sections. At last it is done, the fragile, inner core unobscured and plump with juices.

By now, I realize this must be enjoyed slowly, with great deliberation. I examine the wedges, firmly held by the white remnants from underlayers of skin which I neglected to remove. I carefully roll my hands outward, splitting the wedges into two halves. I lose a couple wedges to those around me who have recognized the value of my snack. Then without hesitation, I peel off a wedge and sink my teeth into the end.

Rich, succulent juices burst forth from the fleshy pulp, and I swirl the juxtaposing flavors of sweet and tangy around my mouth. Gulping greedily, I finish off the other half of the wedge and swallow with a small sigh of delight. It is delicious. I silently thank the giver of this fruit and revel in my newfound snack. I take my time peeling off the next wedges, popping some into my mouth whole and biting chunks off of others. I split one apart, examining the spindly veins of pulp inside. Each one is tapered at both ends and contains one perfect drop of the fresh liquid. They pack together in the wedge, attached in perfect symmetry, creating a network of veins that cling to each other even as I rend them asunder and burst their thin membranes to flood my mouth with juice. I chew hungrily, enjoying each wedge in its own unique way.

Finally, there are only two left. I weigh the remainder of the fruit tenderly in my palm, realizing it can't last much longer. I carefully split the sections, tearing small slits in the skins of each. Then one is gone, and there is only a single lone survivor of what once was a plump, living, glorious work of nature. In a way, I can almost imagine its life before it found its way into my hand. How it started off as a seedling, then gradually swelled on its branch, changing in size and in color, until it was ready to be plucked, boxed, and shipped. It rested in a pile in the produce section until it was selected by my giver. It spent a few days, or maybe just hours, inside a fridge, preserving its life. And then it was mine.

Now, I take precious care, and finish slowly. When it is gone, I let the juice drip off my fingertips and onto my tongue, reveling in what was the joy of my afternoon.

The Best Day

Among other things, this is what is now causing, even now, the joy bubbling up inside me.

For once, I liked what I saw in the mirror this morning.

The comments I made in Honors Lit were said to be "well-spoken."

Lunchtime harvested the first AG-35 group on a while with dear old Bailey and Allison.

In history, someone tumblr-famous referenced a quote from an old tumblr post of mine from at least a month ago. I almost died at the prospect that humans read the musings I upchuck into cyberspace.

Despite my fears of going hungry after school, Ms. Deakins gave me an orange, which was so deliciously awe-inspiring it shall be blogged about later.

Refuge Cafe was, as always, a refuge. During an adrenaline-pumping game of 3-hit kill, I felt, as always, that maybe I wasn't as weak and lame as I so often seem.

The pummeling hit to my right cheekbone via Thor's soccer ball-throwing abilities earned me man points, a piggyback ride, and a hug from one very sweet baseball player.

Bailey and I went outside, in keeping with tradition, to the parking lot, as it poured rain. We swapped stories and spun gleefully. Afterwards, I flung open the door to the cafe, sopping wet and grinning from ear to ear.

After all that, all I have is to smile in my sleep and wonder why God chose to bestow upon me such a gift.

Oh, and also...

YOLO.

Dear Suzanne Collins,

Obviously, when you wrote The Hunger Games, you didn't take into account the people in this world who are like me. Who like happy endings. No, more than that.

Satisfying endings.

The kind where no one crucial dies, only sub-plot type characters. Something happens within that oh-so-twisted love triangle that makes it okay for the character in question to choose the lover of their(my) choosing, and the other one still ends up happy. The victory is won, the characters you think are trustworthy ARE, and the ones you never liked from the beginning reveal their true evils and die at the climax of the battle. 

Yeah, that'd be good. 

But no.

You just had to go and kill off the wrong people. Put the other half of the triangle off in some remote place where neither the characters nor I get any sense of closure. And then you leave everyone with this haunting, heavy kind of sadness that never goes away, not even in the epilogue. 

NOT EVEN THE EPILOGUE WAS SATISFYING!!!!!

And that, my dear, is called crossing the line. I had such high expectations. Granted, the ending was thrilling. But not up to par. Not by my standards. 

You don't mess with the epilogues. The epilogues of life are my saving grace. 

"Is that the light at the end of the tunnel, or just the train?"

-Owl City

A Daydream

Just had the most legit daydream ever. It involved the right amount of witty banter and dancing.

There may have been something romantic at the end of it, too. 

Sigh.

Please Care A Little

I want to be wrong.

At least about you.

I want you to look at me and say of course. Of course you'll help me out. You'll do whatever it takes to keep the thing I care about alive. That you have better things to do than wave to your adoring friends and flip your hair and complain about your parents and chuckle at all the girls who surround you.

I really, REALLY want you to have better things to do than that. 

Please find something in you that cares. Dig deep if you have to. But I know you'll regret it if you don't. At least, I hope you will. I hope you wake up one day and realize there are higher things to live for. 

I hope I helped a little with that, too. 

Dear Baseball Players,

Thanks for not bothering me while I took a much-needed nap on one of your duffel bags. (Except for a few of you that tried-successfully-to make me laugh.) Managing your team is quite fun and exciting, but every now and then a session curled up in the grass is just what I needed. I even slipped into dreamland for a while and woke up disappointed because I thought I was in my own bed and it was time to get up for school.

Tomorrow I'll be more energetic. I promise.

Come to think of it, I'll have to be to keep all of you from eating my snacks again. No wonder I wasn't bothered. 

Until then,

Abby

Another Way to Be Different

A Moment of Awesome

I just tried on the only pencil skirt I own, a black satin number I wore for the Christmas Eve service.

And you'll never guess.

It's not the breath-stealing tight it was then.

In fact, it's looser.

Fist-pumping status right there.

The Ultimate Prize

Joy.

Such an infinite, wonderful thing.

And it's even better. Because I hold a small role in creating some of it in recent days. I am a proverbial stockholder in the profits of what I believe will be a wonderous, beautiful thing. 

It's exciting. 

And after a night of the usual joyful romping at Common Ground, I am, as always newly energized and equipped to radiate said joy to...to...

who knows?

And yet, part of me must hold this joy in. Guard it. Keep it hidden away where only a precious few will know the full extent of it. Even now, I wonder if I've said too much. 

Because the heart is the wellspring of life. And that's a precious thing to have.  

And so I offer a challenge to anyone who may wonder or care.

Who is worthy? 

Who is willing to fight, to climb to the top of this magnificent tree and claim the glorious prize? It's not just there for anyone to take and sample. It's something that must be strategized, pondered over and finally conquered. Which finally begs the ultimate question:

Am I worth it?

The One and Lonely

And it's quite alright to be the one and only

but today I feel like 

the one and lonely

The Unprepared Quiet

Today I got to go home on the regular bus for the first time in a while.

I'd forgotten what it was like to go home right after school. I wasn't prepared.

But I settled into a seat on the left side vaguely near the back, blurred into the scenery of the seats. I snuggled up next to the window, my arm on my backpack. It was strangely warm and comfortable.

And I imagined all sorts of things.

I stared at the cement fenceposts whipping past, like paper dolls or sashaying ballet dancers.

I traced a capital letter 'N' over and over in my mind, because I liked the way it felt there.

I realized the piano riff on the current NeedToBreathe song, which was repeating like a skipping record player in my brain, reminded me of one in a George Thorogood song.

I imagined the small purple flowers dotting the grass outside were twice their size and blanketing a sunny field, which I rested in as the breeze moved the grass like a stormy ocean.

I wondered why all the sad songs on my ipod were making me think of happy summer days, and the cheerful songs made me want to cry.

I never took my eyes from the windows, yet I knew that Marissa Mclendon and Collin Peck were in the seat across from me. Michael Elliot was in front of them. In front of him was Lisa Reynolds and Justin Sotinco, both of whose looks made them look like either cousins or an attractive couple.

I noticed everything. But I didn't say anything.

The incessant babbling of those around me seemed to soften into a lulling murmur that sent my worries into a slumber. My tired muscles settled into their comfortable positions, and my blood moved slowly through me.

I remembered one night while laying in bed, and when I got very still and quiet, I could feel my heartbeat in my fingertips. Then in my hands, and even all the way down in my toes.

Everything got very still.

I was completely peaceful.

The stopping of the bus at the first stop jolted the edges of the dreamlike state a little, but I hung on.

Finally, my corner approached. The warmth faded as I slipped out of my seat and into the aisle. 

I stepped outside and a chilly gust sent my bangs to the wrong side of my forehead. "I'll Follow You Into  The Dark" faded and Britt Nicole came pounding into my ears.

The quiet had ended.

But some part of me, thin as a whisper, was left behind in that seat. 

We Have No Maid

This made me laugh so hard when I first saw it. My favorite part is the dad ripping the newspaper in half while his face stays the same. XD

My One and Only

For all you readers.....

Hah. That's a lie. Scratch that.

For Olivia and Coree, you two lucky readers, I will be reverting back to this as my only outlet for my creative passion out into the cyber world. My tumblr will be deleted shortly, by decree of the parents, no thanks to those weirdos I thought were wholesome people who posted gross vulgar, mostly-naked stuff on there. Ick. 

Can't we all just be godly?????

Sigh. 

So Coree, as to your frustrations about your blogger buddies turning to the dark side (Tumblr), have no fear. I am back, and our blogger bond has been reforged. 

And Liv, you no longer have to stress about keeping up with 21st century technology, a task I also find daunting. We are back. Your fellow blogger has come home to safety. 

It feels good. 

Grrrr

One day I'll meet someone. Maybe even more than one someone. Maybe even a whole group of someones.

And they'll always be there. I'll never have to say goodbye.

In fact, there might even be one special one that I fall in love with, who actually falls in love with me too. At the same time. 

How accurately incredible does that sound?

In fact, what if they mention, or at least think of me every time the words love or friendship come to mind. I'm always there as one of the first in line in their brains. I don't even have to be first. But it'd be great to just be THERE.

These someones would never brush me off with the words, "Oh, come on...." and trail off with a bunch of empty sounding promises about how I'm valued, when the unfinished conclusion is that I'm just not THAT valued.

For once, I want to be important to someone. Not just there. I mean, really, REALLY important.

Is that too much to ask? Because lately everyone else seems to be really important to each other. 

Oh, come on. Sure, I'm important.

I'm just not THAT important.