Kissing a Fool

How lost must I be that you have me going back to the one thing I swore I would repress form my lips and mind entirely

Maybe it’s better to stay in a dry spill than go back to the torturous task of an art that has been so played out.

I mean it was played out when it was written out 154 times

Yet here I am trying to reiterate what has always been stated in iambic pentameter

In rhyme

In kids poems

In erotic literature

There’s just nothing new to say about the time consuming, death eating, fucking plain messed feeling up that builds up inside me when I see you, when I think about you, when you hold my hand and kiss my neck

Because it’s all been said before

It’s not new to want to rip apart every memory because so help me God even the happy ones make me feel like there’s nothing to hold on to

Because they’re an echo of doubt

They’re a sad excuse of a deranged version of a fairy tail that I can’t help but find in every book I read, every song I hear and every insignificant sentence that simply mean so much to me

Not knowing if you can read between my lines or there’s a subtext in the way you nonchalantly glace at your side when I’ve drifted off into my non-sense once again

And then there’s your confusion

Which confuses me

And confuses you

And then it’s back to me

And then I end up being completely honest about something that I don’t even know if I’m saying correctly because there tends to be a third party nagging at my brain to mix fictional feelings with uncertain truth and makes me bombard the wall you’ve build up to high because you can’t have me being right

At all

Not even about this

The irony being that you’re the one who supposedly feels so sure about himself

You can’t answer the question of what is it you want

Your coward sense of humor and chivalry surpasses your logic

And yet I’m the one who’s complicated

When I’ve managed to put aside my pride and wait for something that you want but doesn’t convince you

Knowing all the same that if the tables were turned you wouldn’t wait for me

Maybe I am crazy

Or just plainly stupid

But I guess you must have been kissing a fool

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1984

My goal of writing a post every Monday has become a complete failure. What can I say, me and deadlines just don’t mix when it comes to inspiration. I don’t know what is happening to me lately that I can’t get inspired. Maybe it’s because I feel under complete control and words can’t seem to flow through my inner core up to my hands to express the feeling of utter helplessness and fear of simply thinking. That, or I’m simply coming down with a heavy does of seniortis and I have no interest other than Netflix, and that’s not a very good source of inspiration. 

But seriously, I feel straight out of the book 1984 where even having thoughts that are remotely out of line are punished. I can’t have a conversation with someone without being careful with how I word things because I might be taped. Psychological trauma has forced me to think things and say things I wouldn’t say otherwise, to act differently. As I write this post I’m terrified that it might come back to haunt me, but I have to figure out if someone she has found my one true escape. I do realize all this sounds outlandish, straight out of a bad suspense movie, but I can’t help but feel my heart and opinions being mangled by the one person who swore would protect them. Screw healthy formation, if you want someone to follow your set opinion as to how they should act, make them fear their own existence. 

It’s become such a pull on me that I’m afraid to fall in love, because I know no one will ever be good enough, no one will ever bring back the sense of safety that she’s taken away. 

It’s no joke that as I type these words my heart races in utter anxiety that after this post I’ll be annexed from my first amendment right. 

*Chilché title bout college to be inserted promptly*

If I learned something this week it’s that college tour guides have and uncanny talent of walking backwards for extensive periods of time. I’ve been going around from campus to campus this entire week looking for the hook where I’m to spend the next four years of my life. What is my perfect fit? Is it the amazing prestigious combination of purple and white with a touch of elitism sprinkled with small town humility? Maybe it’s maroon and silver spiral of high-class hipsters who want to change the world one ridiculous prompt at a time. Or, could it be that imposingly bright combination of blue and orange whose dome is as big as the dreams and wallets of the people who end up going, but who care less about what anyone could say about them. It just might the speck of yellow and blue in the middle of a mountain with, well it has just about everything and nothing I could ever want. Could it be that my perfect hook is the world renowned twang of blue and silver who’s at the capital of honest and celebrated –often times overlooked – idiocracy*? 

If you guessed that I’m referring to Northwestern, University of Chicago, Syracuse University, Ithaca College and Georgetown then congratulations, you know a whole lot about different universities in the USA and probably went through or are going through what I am right now. Looking at these schools It got me thinking about what type of person I want to be. Obviously I want to be a journalist, a writer, someone who has a lot to do with words and little to do with anything but the construction opinions of helping to build the foundations for intellectual chaos. But, who else do I want to be? I think that’s what all this searching process actually is looking for, not an institution where your gonna sit your ass in for the next four years and get the education you need, I mean what you do with what you learn is what matters anyway. What this endless search and application process does to you is that that force you to think about what of yourself you want to develop the next years to come. That’s really a tough question to ask any 17 year old. Forget the mayor, that’s the least of your worries, where are you gonna feel home.

The only thing I have certain is that I’m going to have to become the girl that can endure snowstorms because all of the campuses I looked at will be burred under snow by mid-November. If I don’t become that girl you’ll see less of me that you already do.

As I look outside the window of this fast moving train into the wilderness of red, yellow and green (borderline hipster cliché I know) I just think about what the fuck am I to do, and the answer always seems to be that I’d look amazing in orange.

 

 

*It’s funny that my computer is trying to correct this word into democracy

 

Reality Check

There is one reason I truly hate TV and cinema: their romance stories.

It aggravates me how those talented writers from hell come up with the most perfect story lines and scripts, and leave girls like me with preconceived ideas about a type of love that can only be found in fiction. The reality of it is, romance in dead and so are those extravagant acts of love that came along with it. Now a days, if a guy decided to order take out after sex is a romantic act that’s supposed to woo us away; and the idea of a guy chasing down a plane with a motorcycle and asking the love of his life to marry him is so far fetched that only a teen drama writer could think it up (I actually feel pathetic wishing it would happen to me).

The reality of everything is, that if you fall in love everything will blow to pieces. If you’re not in the relationship with the person, you’ll always be waiting for it to be like the movies. That big realization that your supposed to be together, which usually happens when one or the other is about to leave town, or marry someone, or die. Then, miraculously the other person makes it in time and no one leaves town, they marry each other, and no one dies. If you are together, then the girl will always be waiting for those big affectionate details that we all read about; she will be highly disappointed to realize that those big affectionate details will never happen because well, all great romances are written by women, and men have no sense of what actual wooing is.

I hate it when my mind goes all pessimistic on love – I love love – It’s just that I’m tired of thinking that it’s like the movies and books and shows I see. Even if two people are perfect for each other, that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen (and no amount of chocolate or alcohol can fix that, trust me). Even if things seem like their “meant to be” and everything feels perfect, doesn’t mean that it’s going to happen. And even if you can actually imagine being with the person, it doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.

Sometimes I wish I could write my own love stories and watch them come true before my eyes, words aren’t that powerful I guess.

Death of 2014

You know how they say life flashes before your eyes right before death? Well today my life in school flashed before by eyes when I walked in as a senior. I really do hope that this does not mean that senior year will be the death of me.

Maybe, it’s the death of my life as just a child, now I’m stepping up to being a child with just a bit more on her plate. Maybe it’s the death of my indecision, considering I have to have a decision on pretty much my life in about a month. Or maybe, it’s just the death of me because I’m pretty much going to drown in all the work I’m going to have.

Or maybe I should just murder all my horrible thoughts right here and look at my next year in a positive manner!

Yeah well, maybe not.

Fear makes me think of the worse, so when the worse doesn’t happen, I’m happy with what I get. Just a little fun fact about me and my self-content trick.

All I know is, I’m a senior today, in three months I’m 18, in 4 my applications will be sent, in about 5 or 6 I’ll know where I’m going to college and after that well

Welcome to the resurrection

I’ll be just fine

So summer is pretty much over, and that’s a bust. And yes, yes I know I haven’t posted a single thing all summer, I’ve been busy that’s all.

With what exactly you might wonder?

Well, actually having a life for once without having my every move I make be handled with the greatest care by my loving mother.

I actually got to date someone! I hadn’t been on a date since my breakup last summer, and it reminded me why I don’t date in the first place.

It also confirmed that there are some men out there who don’t only want to get physical, or just won’t at all; who would actually want them is beyond me, but that’s just my opinion. Don’t get me wrong, the guy was sweet and cared for me, but I think by the end of our not so steamy month together, I almost went into a diabetic coma.

What can I say, I don’t do sweet cliches and I do think the physical component is somewhat important. Ok, maybe very important.

Look at me I’m even sounding like a guy now.

The highlight of my summer though, I would have to say was actually two things. One, writing my ass of in class (yes I took classes in the summer, judge me) and realizing that, when I graduate, I’m gonna be just fine shipping myself to college. I might even be happier than what I am now.

To be honest I miss my tiny dorm room – even though it was the size of my bathroom – and all the conversation that went on in it. They went from mindless babber to actual moral decisions.

You see, a friend of mine broke up with his girlfriend because he fell for one of the girls at my dorm. She put up a fight, and we she finally gave in, when he finally got her, he cheated. I honestly think I’ve never had such a deep discussion with a guy in my bed and not have it turn into something else.

Another conversation happened one night at about two am. It was with one of the girls in my suite. She was heartbroken because her boyfriend had just decided to breakup with her, and the only person she knew she could talk to was me. I was touched at the thought that this girl I’ve known for only two weeks could trust me with such personal issues.

I became close to people – really close – for the first time in a long time. I guess living with the same crowd for a month does that.

That experience I truly believe can only happen in dorms and college, when we are all flung into each other and pretty much need to build those relationships ASAP.

I got to meet people along with their ideas and complex views on such simple things, that helped me open my own opinions towards things I never really thought about.

I got to meet the city of Boston, and probably where I’ll be living right after high school, which is coming to an end on June 7, 2014.

Hi. My name is Hopeless, and I am a Wordaholic

You know that feeling when you want to write,

But you have nothing to write about

So you end up writing about not having anything to write about?

 

 

I must have about 1000 scraps of paper

With that exact same idea

Of just filling up lines with senseless talk

Just because I have the urge of seeing a page filled with ink.

 

It’s become an addiction

Playing with words,

Snorting up vowels,

And smoking metaphors

To get high on explanations of the unexplainable

 

Because the feeling of getting lost in words,

Traveling into another dimension

Up above your sense or normalcy

Is just about the same buzz you get from the sting of liquor

It’s the same memory erasing effect

That leave you dry

And leaves you satisfied

Under the migraine

 

I am an alcoholic druggie who’s addicted to rhythm

Who will never go back

Because without my pen

Without my words

I feel the shakes and aches

Of the pain that slowly creeps back

Tickling my spine

And taunting my lips