I will not blog here anymore.
He's too short.
But he has the right color hair and eyes.
And he's from Alberta.
No, Kayla. You can't date him.
Except he's sweet and treated you like you wanted to be treated for a night.
And helped take care of your passed out friends.
And you really want to date him.
Annie and I have decided that as a failed lent thing, I shall go forty days without dating. However, we created a "just in case" list. And I can on;y date a guy if he fits it perfectly. Most of these aren't my ultimate qualities. They're just fun.
have shaggy brown hair and brown eyes
major in Environmental Studies (minor in Sciences)
be from Alberta
like The New Pornographers
be liked by Annie
have size 11 or 12 feet
love chocolate chip cookie dough icecream
love his mom
ask me to do something the next(or first) time we meet.
Good luck me.
I was too young when we met. You were supposed to be the last thing I ever experienced. I was supposed to be jaded and stubborn when we met, like thirty. You were supposed to open my eyes and teach me how to love and then leave. I was supposed to kill myself after you. Or you were to come when I was seventy, and you were seventy too. And we would have held hands on our walkers and died in our last chance at sex.
But you came too soon. I didn't know what you were when we met. I didn't know the word "love" or what being in love meant. I thought I did, but I was mistaken. I had loved, but sometimes you love more than others. A friend love is different from how you love your mom. You were not him. You were more and less and everything.
The word love is too vague for us. It implies chocolate and poetry and sex. And maybe we had that too. But we had something more than a ninety-nine cent Hershey bar. More than ten lines. More than any orgasm.
And the word love is too short for us. It is only four letters. Please excuse those lines, Margaret Atwood wrote them first. We deserved the sesquipidallian variant of love. Surely romance is seven letters and friendship is ten. Together they make seventeen. Is that too much? Not enough?
You are the main conflict in every book I will write. Every volta of each of my poems. I write about something different and it is a useless piece of writing. I don't know why.
This is every truth I covered up.
Everything I changed about myself.
This is the answer that follows the question mark in your mind.
Today I climbed up a mountain completely sober. I worked up an intense sweat, too. The climb was steep. The branches scratched my ankles and got stuck in my hair. But we got to the top and I looked down and saw all of Victoria and quite a bit of the island.
I thought, "wow, this is where I live."
And I wished every day could be this clear and this beautiful.
And I think I will make my life like this.
ps: I thought you might be proud of me.
You weren't the first to tell me, actually.
Liane told me in the hall.
But thanks for the facebook message.
We all know facebook is the most important way to keep in touch with those we care about.
More important than, say, calling.
About as important as livejournal for keeping in touch.
When you seem unable to write about anything without prolific onomatopoeia use, go to sleep.
For example: It was like wee sizzle oozy. He was all screetch and no zoom.
When your coffee intake equals the number of hours you've been awake, go to sleep.
Under no circumstances is twenty cups of coffee a day healthy.
When you forget what you're doing in the middle of doing it, go to sleep.
"Woah, what am I doing with a vacuum?"
It is okay to close your eyes while kissing someone, but the inability to reopen them after means that you need to sleep. And probably think about who you've just kissed once you've woken up.
If you find yourself sitting at the computer at 2am with three words written and the next second it is 4am and the same three words are the only thing written, or even two, or even one, go to sleep.
UVic does have a bunny problem, but if you start seeing bunnies IN your room, then you are either mental or need to sleep.
When you start muttering to yourself incoherently in a foreign language you're studying, computer codes, English jargon, historical events, or math equations, go to sleep.
If it is already light out, and you have an 8:30 class, you're probably going to fry your brain.
If you staple through your hand instead of your paper, by accident, then you need to sleep.
If you do not recognize the person in the mirror, you probably need to sleep. Or wash your dang face.
Warning: Cliche alert.
When I was little, I bruised a lot. I scraped up my knees more than anything else and my mom bandaged my wounds and when they healed, she would rip the band-aid off so I barely felt anything. And when I bandaged up my own wounds I would peel back the band-aid slowly and feel the most pain, although I felt there was less.
Things do hurt more when you drag them out.
But I've never been able to just rip the band-aid off. Not with myself. Especially not with other people.
We often confuse what we want with what is.
What is, isn't exactly what I want. (But it's the right thing to do. For most people involved.)
What do I want?
Simple answer. Complicated solution.