FUCK. Dear Andrea, please don't start things unless you can finish them.

I am unprepared for life. I feel jumpy and irrational and out of control. Last night scared some sense into me, probably, about how cautious I should be with myself. I also have confidence in myself, though. Just maybe not enough.


The song that popped into my head earlier was Digging for your Dream by the Indigo Girls, especially this part:

Every day that you get up and force your cards
Playing your story in fits and starts
Take your prospects and your pickax and you trudge down to the stream
And you bloody your hands digging for your dream

I'm trying here; that's all I know. It has to be better than nothing.

don't be hopeless

she said write. i want to write about the way your eyes sparkle and how i want to hold your hand. i want to write a story about two girls and a walk in the park and butterflies and crossword puzzles over coffee and conversation, but i don't have the words.

she said talk. i'd like to tell you how i feel with words and music and lights.

yes. say yes.

off my chest

Dear T, C, A, and anyone I may have forgotten: I can't be your emotional support this week. I'm falling apart myself. Stop asking :)

Dear P: I am not in love with you. Sorry.

Dear a different person named P and M: way to haunt my hypothetical nightmares. Someday I'll look back on all of this and know that I'm stronger.

Dear S: my speaking frankly to you is less that I want to be your friend, and more that I want you to see where I'm coming from. acting deferential to you seems to be a quick ticket to getting steamrolled. although maybe later we can be friends.

Dear alarm clock: please work.

nerves

i have to do something before i miss my chance.

surprises.

You are wrong. I agreed with you while you were standing there staring me down looking for absolution. I agreed with you for no other reason than to make you go away, because I couldn't hear well enough to argue and I couldn't stop the room from spinning regardless.

"You're not into men," you said in the same tone you'd use to say that the dog peed on the bed and that's why there's a yellow puddle. "You're not into men." Simplifying, explaining to a small child, smoothing over everything that happened. "You're not into men," as if you would know, as if you could decide for me, as if I had forgotten my lunchbag on the kitchen table and you were bringing it to school annoyed.

I am not the one that needs to be forgiven here. In fact I am very sure that your problems that became my problems have little to do with gender and a lot to do with the fact that you're a controlling ass. and i think you know that.

(I'm not into asshole men. I'm not into men who smell bad. I'm not into men who try to take over my life. I'm not into manipulative jerks.)

class of 2011

This the start of the real thing.

Nobody is going to tell me what to do or where to go. All this freedom is dizzying in its massive proportions; it's both terrifying to have so many options and exhilarating to know that almost anything is possible.

Lately, though, I'm more anxious than anything else. What if I follow my gut and it turns out to be miserable? What if I can't decide what to do? What if my stubbornness in refusing to move back home is not sticking up for myself so much as a foolish, rash, desperate decision?

I don't have to listen to anyone. But I should probably decide on someone  to take advice from.

egad

i need an older sibling right about now.

addendum: shitshitshitshitshit.