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.