Wishfully False Admissions of Contradicting Thoughts.

Trending thoughts: #highwaytohell #moneyprobs #lezzieprobs #shelovesmeyeah

There are times I know what people think of me. I hear claps from an audience after a great performance. I notice looks of disapproval or discomfort when I talk freely of my liberal, homosexual lifestyle. I can see the twitching of my family’s faces when I make a decision despite their pleas for me to do the exact opposite. There are times when emotions are of the upmost outward appearance. There are times when hearts are not just worn on sleeves, but struggle to keep balance on the tip of a shirt, so close to shattering and opening the Pandora’s box of emotion which I seem to draw out of people. There are times  that I just know. And then there are times when…. I don’t know.

She makes a fool of my knowledge on a constant basis. My mind loses every bit of sense and information even if I just notice her in passing on the street. I was at her graduation, and like an over-emotional soccer mom, I stood, clapped (even though I was told not to), and let mascara run all over my perfectly powdered cheeks when she plodded across the stage, wearing her writer smile and that smidge of embarrassment which she dons in front of large crowds. I ached to be close enough to see her cheeks turn color when she blushed, as I know she did with the thousands of people staring at the stage. Sensory overload crashed my otherwise logical server, sent information up in flames, cleaned out my mind until only she was left strolling along, letting my waning brain waves crash at her feet.

But see? All these little, physical things I know about her, they all persecute my capacity to think, mock my logic, throw stones at my ideologies and theories and beliefs. I know what they do to me. The only thing I don’t know, and the only thing I wish I knew, is what goes on in her brain when she thinks of me. Her emotions are so far up inside of her sleeves, all protecting her heart, which is buried no doubt in distance, niceties, and “just friends” zones.

It’s sad, really, that the one piece of knowledge I crave is that on which I dwell. I allow this beautiful beast of a person to wreck my fortress of hard-earned facts, figures, places, dates, memories, and whatever else so happens to be so neatly stored inside of my head. So many things learned have swooshed right out my memory because my brain needs all the space it can get to store new, desired knowledge. Knowledge that will prove useless to anyone else other than me.

I realize that allowing such a process to occur is entirely selfish, but I just can’t help it. I love her, desire her, want to know her that much. My emotions have won a long drawn out battle. The logic telling me to reach out and catch my precious bulbs of information has been muzzled and locked away, guarded by The Great Fear of losing her. What’s more, is that what my brain communicates to people changes daily. Some days, I feel honest and safe enough around people who I know care, to open up and just admit to hopeless romance. Other days (and most days), I hold up a wavering sword with logic’s only unwounded hand and give an unconvincing speech about how I’m getting over such emotions, that The Great Fear has changed allegiances. That what I desired most was my precious knowledge. Ah, no such desire exists yet, I know. And they know. But I don’t dare tell the world. I wave that sword until logic collapses yet again, and is forced to surrender to sadness and the unknown.

Truth: I want her. Imperfections, perfections, her mind, her body, all of it.

Myth: I will have the guts to tell her, the willpower to constrain my fear long enough to bear my own emotions on my sleeve and allow my heart to balance on the tip of my fingers until it loses footing and hope that she catches it.

Love is cruel and impatient and jealous and reckless and dangerous.

Love is profound and yet undignified; void of all error and yet messy.

Love is pathetic attempts at selfish behavior disguised as selfless perseverance.

Love is seeing Rebecca and weeping over all that could have been.

Love is oddly charming.

Love is.

Love.

Back In Your Head- by Tegan and Sara

I Am a Little Girl-Woman: Part I

Perhaps a little autobiographical fiction will cure my terrible sadness. Here are the trending thoughts of the week: #loneliness #SUMMERISALMOSTHERE #2much2handle #imnotreadyforthisjelly

Part I:

She was mad that they had gone ahead without her last week. Who else was willing to see a show that reeked of self-indulgence and terrible timing? Yes, anger had to be the prevailing notion. (Pity, ha!) She did not believe in pity, not even for one lonely second. Though she was at a very specific point. One where she needed friends, not peers who thought she was stronger than she was. She needed someone to worry. Quite frankly, they should have all been worried.

“Shit,” her breath was short and swept up by all the bigger people in the world. They never noticed her tiny frame of a girl-woman (some time ago, puberty hiccuped her right into the “I give up on you” territory). They never noticed how she seemed to emulate an old cap that had gone Ker plunk in shape, without any hope of returning to usefulness. Too ‘fragile’ to catch a ball, too weak to carry more than two or three course books at a time. Too flimsy a voice for much more than quiet conversation and many not-taken-seriously complaints of her University arena.

She thought of this… place as an arena, not because it lacked the human spirit required to be considered comforting, but because that same human passion fueled so many games and battles and victories aggravated by humidity and a frustrated desire to be smarter and more important than other, worldly people really believed them to be. No, ‘twas not safe to call such an environment home. Her permanent place was far greater than this slump of Southern mud in which she was forced to roll. She smelt of almost liberal views and a deep-rooted desire to be nice at all times.

But yes, worry. They were all going to get it from her this time. Her own fury decided with much intensity to catapult her voice into a baritone range. She predicted such a thunder would force them into a trembling trance of stunned awe. Oh, how she dreamt of stopping a crowd with booming commands and reverberating ideas that actually stood a chance against this… this, ignorance, which clouded so many potential brains of perfectly working order.

[How naïve our heroine is at this point in her short-fated journey. Obstacles planned her doom, gathering in a mosh pit of fantasy assault. They rubbed up against the weaker obstacles, willing their disease of animosity to catch within every particle.]

“Little girl-woman, we’ve been trying to talk to you—“

“Yes?”

“I can’t hear when you talk like that, little girl, speak up!”

“Oh, alright.”

The worry was not forthcoming. The worry—

“I’m leaving.”

Could she leave such a wonder behind? These two human replicas appeared as her only saving grace from an otherwise human-infested ghetto.

But they seemed smaller than she in her one glance back to the center arena. So this, this felt invigorating.

TBC….

These Baby Animal GIFs Will Make Your Heart Smile

Reblogged from College Candy - Gossip . Fast Fashion . Female Lifestyle . Relationships:

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These last few days have been rough for our country. With so many unfortunate events, I've found myself in a funk. The weather sucks and the news isn't getting any better. Although there is nothing anyone can do to lessen the pain many around us are feeling, it never hurts to indulge in the "little things in life."

Read more… 117 more words

And when life's getting you down, there's always this. :)

Why Life is Worth It According to Kaitlyn

It’s funny when a stranger’s smile is more welcomed and comforting than my supposed best friends’ almost nonexistent attempts to make me laugh. I am left, after I’m dressed for bed and there are no words to act as crutches, to question their motives and doubt my importance. I feel used, abandoned, and much too alone to ignore my inner intuition any longer. I’m not wanted unless I’m providing money or services (the kind rated G for GAY). And if these two aren’t willing to help Sad Kaitlyn, do they honestly deserve the Happy Kaitlyn everyone seems to like so much? There is a subtle difference between being nice to someone and being a true friend. Right now, they walk the line rather comfortably. They’ve settled into a familiar pattern of balance and safety. But every once and awhile, they trip over one single emotion and find themselves surrounded by “Best Friends Forever” vibes. This is rare and random. I want them to purposely take a stand for true friendship and realize building a relationship with the blocks of emotions they otherwise stumble over is far more beneficial to EVERYONE’S well being. I want to matter. I want to say “yes” when he asks “Are we fighting?” because that would mean I, as well as our friendship, is worth the fight. I wish I could say “yes” when he asks “Are you mad at us?” for that would imply I haven’t lost all hope and this unfulfilling disappointment I feel wouldn’t be so overbearing and painful. I have no desire to eat, in fact no desire to do much of anything that exists outside the realm of my mind. I find more pleasure conversing with acquaintances and the squirrels on my front porch. It is so heartbreaking to realize, after a much needed hour of relief, those comforting words spoken so freely from the mouths of colleagues would have meant more than there are roaches in South Carolina if these moments had come from Those Who Proclaim ‘Best Friend.’ 

He told me today, upon learning that I may actually resign from my homothexual duties, that I’d miss them. Yes, in my self discovery this past week, I have to admit that my conclusions agree with that statement. I would miss both of them almost too much to presently ponder. But I have discovered that I NEED to be with people (friendships, romantic relationships, even peers who I work with often) who would miss me as much as I would miss them. If I don’t feel as though I would be missed, chances are (and I’ve been right at least this time) I don’t really feel included, loved, and cared for either. “Funny” I’ve learned, is only a temporary charm. It wears off as soon as jokes and wit can’t relieve whatever emotion has flooded my brain and washed away the logic. And this may sound immature and cheesy, but I badly wanted them to understand that sitting across from me, watching my sobs and subsequently ignoring my desperate (I’m not proud to use this description) cry for help is NOT the correct thing to do. I did not ask them to call themselves “best friends.” And I did not ask for them to give up pre-existing relationships and friendships. I asked them to care. And they can buy me all of the coffee they would like, but until it comes from a place of sincere concern, not a sense of obligation, there could never be enough cream and sugar to make it taste good and warm my tummy.

These realizations deeply sadden me. I have the urge to hug them both tight and press all of my love into their lacking hearts, and the desire to punch them both until their physical pain matches exactly what I feel on the inside. These feelings happen all at once and both require the shield of silence. I do not say much because I know that punching people with my words is no better than breaking someone’s nose. No matter the composition, fists will not bring harmony to these terrible feelings I have. I sincerely hope that if I think about this long enough, feelings will dissipate into logic’s dominant spell. If feelings cause internal battles with near mortal injuries, my only wish is that logic will promote peace and happiness. 

The fear? That my logical conclusion will be oddly void of the eccentric charm of best friends to whom I’ve grown accustomed. And that I will be left in a ghost town battlefield licking my wounds and limping alone into a new destiny. 

However this ends, it will shape my ideology, mold me into a different human, someone new, fresh, exciting. For better or for worse, I will have changed. And if change is necessary for life and earthly joy, then I have become a necessary part of why things have to come to be at this very point in time. Bigger picture moments and a nervous contentedness such as this makes the pain of potentially losing friends entirely worth it. 

Cheers to the two who have, whether they are a continued component of my wandering whimsies, or a piece of buried treasure I leave for the next brave soul, made me different, colored the blank pages of my nineteenth year with laughter, knowledge, and wisdom, and given me, however temporary, a sense of purpose and direction. 

To Mason and William. 

To Change. 

<3

Sometimes, I Feel Like a Motherless Child

trending thoughts: #christmaslights #puppylove #FOOD #lesmiserables

I held my love a few nights ago in my arms, except that I did not really hold my love.

To me, this experience was almost “out of body.” One the one hand, I was the calmest I’ve ever been; he has the ability to wash every single worry out of my brain, just by simply looking at me, or having physical contact with me, and sometimes, just by being in the same room as me. I have to blink just to remember my name. But on the other hand, I felt nothing but emptiness and sadness, as I realized, rather abruptly and intensely, the feelings I held so close to my heart were not reciprocated.

He was sleeping peacefully and I could have been his mother for all he knew. It was not the person doing the holding, but rather the holding itself that seemed to comfort him.

The more I realized this, the more I felt like peanut butter and jelly. Like peanut butter, I wanted to pull him closer, keep our “snuggling sandwich” all together. But I also desperately wanted to be the jelly; I wanted to slide off of him and make it difficult for our sandwich to stay together and neat. I wanted to make a mess.

Mess. Making a mess. I suppose if I were the one to destroy our (very one-sided) relationship, he would be in the clear as far as blame was concerned. And then the only person I’d be hurting is myself. Do I honestly de-value myself that much? Maybe I’m so scared of the alternative to my situation (not being in love with him) that I refuse to let anything out of my grasp of control.  

I guess, though, what I’d like to say above all, is that I’m hopelessly (in the truest sense of the word) in love with someone who will never see me as more than an entertainer who is better at entertaining him than most other entertainers he knows. This hopeless love is emotionally toxic, physically draining, and cyclic in nature making it next to impossible to let go.

I just want to think of him as a friend again. I want to look at his face, and, instead of getting caught up with his perfectly beautiful eyelashes and how they frame his perfectly beautiful eyes on his perfectly beautiful face, I want to be able to take a step back and see a complete human being who’s features are no more beautiful to me than a box of Oreos.

Today, guys, I have officially been defeated by desire.

Tomorrow, well, I hope tomorrow will be a smaller defeat.

Who knows? Maybe next week my defeats will turn into victories.

Yes, to win at something as aweing as love. Wouldn’t that be nice?  

The De-Caffeinated Cure

trending thoughts: #schoolwork #english #humanity #presidency

I’ve loved.

I loved and lost.

I’ve never loved and not lost, but I’m working on it.

So far, my love story has been one gigantic whirlwind of fantasy, impossibility, and stupidity in the chaotic storm of my life. I fall, yes, and I always manage to climb up to the edge of my black hole of feelings, but like a complete and total dumbass who lacks the common sense to take steps forward, I sit on the edge, and contemplate love just long enough to fall back down. Every. Single. Effing. Time.

(side note: falling for your best friends when your sexuality is a minority NEVER works out unless you’re ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN their sexuality is compatible with yours)

The black hole count thus far: 3.

“#1″ Was the stupid decision. Not because she wasn’t worthy of my love or vice versa, but because she was my absolute best friend. I fell for her like someone who realizes, on the fiftieth time they’ve worn a pair of jeans, that those pants are their absolute favorite. I had “worn” her for about two years when I came to this conclusion. I looked at her one day, seeing an expression I’d never seen before on her lovely face, and it hit me in a pleasant sort of way that she was my favorite. I always chose her over the other “pairs of pants” in my closet, and I could never quite put my finger on why. It seemed to me that she fit just right. And like any trusty pair of pants, she never let me down. I loved her, but I lost her to a guy. All’s well now, but I wish someone had told me that falling for my best friend would end up badly. I had to give up my love for her around the time my favorite pair of pants went to Goodwill.

“#2″ was the decision based solely on fantasy. Upon meeting my roommate for the first time, I was enthralled, but very doubtful. She was quiet, conservative, responsible, basically anything that I wasn’t. From the moment she hung her crucifix over her bed, I was apprehensive and withdrawn. But not long after this “bud of a rose” moved in with me, she began to blossom. It was a slow, gradual, very measured blooming, but a blooming nonetheless. The more we talked, the more I forgot about the impending black hole on who’s edge I sat so close. And when her bud finally became a full-on rose, the most beautiful and cherished rose I’ll ever remember, I lost sight of the black hole completely. So completely, that I fell right into it without realizing how far I’d gone. The more I looked at this rose, imagining myself with someone so pure and naturally beautiful, the more I saw a version of me that I desperately wanted to be. In these dreams, I was loving and mature and everything she wanted else in a person. I was in love with the idea of our splendid and uncomplicated bliss. The problem with allusions? They aren’t reality. And I didn’t stand a chance falling for a fantasy as grandiose as this one. My life would never be uncomplicated and mature. I was (still am) wild, unpredictable, and almost  more trouble than it’s worth.

“#3″ was the impossible decision. (Just out of curiosity, what would someone call a girl (me) who falls for a gender-queer/non-conforming person that can’t choose a sexuality? Please do find an appropriate identifier, and I’d be happy to popularize it.) And I guess since laying out exactly where this is going, it’s easy to see why this love story was so incredibly terrible and magical all at once. I fell for them (since we cannot use gender specific pronouns) instantly. It was like perusing a Coach boutique, and eying “that one” exquisite bag for the first time. Those moments are instantaneous and gratifying and exciting. Like my purse shopping, discovering them was a completely instantaneously gratifying moment. I wanted to buy them right then and there. They were the kind of purse for which I would give up my grocery money. So I did. But like all new and shiny things, time erodes the glitter of fresh excitement, and in its place I found myself expecting a reciprocating feeling from this person, much like one would expect a purse to magically get more beautiful upon seeing it for the hundredth time. But much like my trusty old pair of pants that went to Goodwill, and the withered rose whose petals are long gone, this purse was doomed to life in the back of my closet, much like my love for this person will remain in the back of my heart.

So how to fix such a problem as mine? Wean myself off of such an addicting habit. Instead of climbing out of my hole of feelings and expecting to fall again, I’m going to spend my time fighting the urge to succumb to silly fantasies and stupid decisions. I’m going to step as far away from the hole as I can get. I’m going to pick someone who doesn’t make me fall, and instead, offers to catch me before I lose my footing. I’m going to give up the “caffeine” in my love potion and replace it with something that doesn’t stunt my growth as a mature, loving person.

The first step is admitting I have a problem, right? At least I have that down….

Cheers to de-caffeinated romantic concoctions, whimsies that come in the form of reality, and to climbing up, not falling down.

Sock water

Reblogged from Mustard Seed Budget:

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They call it sock water. The idea is that the Guatemalans make coffee so weak that it approximates the post-laundry runoff.

I like STRONG coffee, you know, the kind that approximates black ink. When I sip a cup, I want it to feel like

heavyweight punch. My body pulsates, my mind sharpens, the spoon dissolves, the aroma causes furniture to levitate.

Read more… 121 more words

I know, I know, I'm getting religious. But it's my blog. And I love the higher being I'm convinced created us. Whether that be God, or Buddha, or Zeus, I will never be able to tell you. But seriously, though. Relating coffee to prayer? That's one way to pump up my Christian enthusiasm!