*DISCLAIMER: This blog is 100% truth except for the parts I made up

Monday, May 14, 2012

Of Boys and Pens, Take 2

This is about karma.

 It’s about how if you decide to break into somebody’s locker and steal all of their pens, chances are that all of your favorite pens will stop working or else disappear in the near future.

Hypothetically, of course.

 This is about how when you tell awkward stories about someone, most likely one of their best friends will be nearby, listening to every word you say.  Also, if you decide that you’re too high and mighty to listen to the universe, I can almost guarantee that the next time you tell that story, you’ll turn around to discover that their other best friend has been walking behind you the entire time.

 Not like that has ever happened to me or anything.

This is to warn you that of you decide that you are sick of having nothing going on, and that you wish you had something to do other than lying around the house all day, the universe will probably completely overload you with things to do.  And if you spend all of your lazy days complaining at top volume about how bored you are with your life, your giant to-do list will probably arrive in the last 2 weeks of the term, leaving you with no time to study and even less time to sleep.

But I wouldn’t really know, because that would never happen to me.

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

I'm craving orange juice.

I'm told I need to study, because you realize that AP testing starts next week?  But I say "no, just give me a tall glass of orange juice and let me sleep for 27 more days."

My mom tells me to clean my room.  She can barely see the floor.  And also, maybe I should do my laundry once in a while and then I'll have something to wear.  "No thank you, wearing the same oversized sweatshirt for a week and a half is fine with me.  But I'll take an ice cold orange juice."

We're kind of a thing, this sweatshirt and I.

You see, I always have "such damn cold hands."  I guess I have poor circulation.  I guess my heart can't pump my blood to the ends of my fingers and the tips of my toes.  Hot, flowing blood could warm my hands better than his sandpaper palms or my ugly, old sweatshirt.

Maybe my hands would warm up and start to sweat, and all my worries and fears would run from my heart, through my bloodstream, and down to my sweaty palms.  Maybe they would all dissolve and slip out of my body.

I bet if you tasted my sweat it would taste like salt and heartache, and if I touched your skin it would turn bright white and I would leave a warm colorless handprint.  It would linger for a few seconds before it began to fade away.

Do you think you would talk to me then?  Isn't that what you want?  Isn't it?  Weren't you just talking about how all you want is to be heard?  You don't want to fry a fish; you just want someone to listen to what you're saying.  You've got something to say and goshdangit! You want to say it.

Well, kid, all I want to do is listen.  You see?  I've already heard you.  I'm already listening.

But you weren't talking to me, were you?

So I guess I'll keep on wearing this retro sweatshirt, and counting out beats in sixes, and using up the ink in my pen, because even though I'm not a poet, I've been writing poetry all along.  I may not be a musician, but I keep on singing the same old song over and over and over, and it says "everything is gonna be alright."

And maybe it will.  Even though my hands are still  freezing, there's a whole lot of hope running through my veins, right along with the hurt and the fear and the orange juice.

"J'ai besoin d'un boisson."