Unnamed, Unknown

Lists

looksvsstares — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 03:47:55 +0000

List of Things I Don’t Know:

1. Where you’re going to end up going to school

2. How much we’ll see each other this summer

3. If I can do long distance again.

4. If you can do long distance again.

5. If I can even say goodbye.

Things I Know:

1. I love you

2. You love me

3. We’re going to get married one day.

The rest doesn’t really matter….

Things I Want:

1. You. Forever.

2. You right here right now in bed with me.

3. You. Every single morning, next to me. I don’t care if your breath smells like old eggs.

today

looksvsstares — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 04:53:40 +0000

I have decided to accept some unalterable truths about life, particularly my own.

1. No matter how perfect and fabulous and incredible your boyfriend is, he still has the ability to make mistakes. Not even mistakes. Just sometimes he won’t be there right the second you need him to be.

2. Sometimes you get things you don’t deserve. Sometimes you don’t get the things you do deserve.

3. As much as you believe and love yourself, and as much self confidence as you may have, bad hair days still happen. And you just have to deal.

4. Shooting twenty paintballs in the wrong direction is less effective than shooting one and hitting someone.

5. Pretty in Pink will end the same, horrible way, no matter how many times you watch it.

She should’ve picked Duckie.

harmonica

looksvsstares — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 03:51:53 +0000

He’s trying to sing like Bob Dylan. We all know this just simply cannot be done. Only Bob Dylan can sing like Bob Dylan, and when he does, HE doesn’t even sound good. He’s not supposed to sound nice. But may I be frank?

It’s late. I have an important exam tomorrow. He doesn’t not sound nice. We share a wall.

The harmonica was a gift from my parents three years ago. Three years and he still does not know how to play it.

He’s singing like Bob Dylan, playing the harmonica and trying to figure out the chords on his guitar. This just might be the most painful noises I have ever heard.

Oh. Music.

who?

looksvsstares — Sun, 07 Jun 2009 20:00:12 +0000

I want to be interesting. I want to have a nose piercing and dreadlocks and sparkly make-up. I want to have a voice that may not be beautiful, but it will make people stop, listen. They will call it “interesting” and buy a record, because they’ve never heard anything like it before. I want to throw away these jeans and this hoodie and wear crazy clothes i found at a thrift store.

I want to move to Chicago. Or Seattle. I want to listen to obscure music. No, not just listen. I want to live it. I want to know everything there is to know about every kind of obscure pop culture. I want to own my own record or book store, and have regulars who just dream about knowing as much as i do. I want to wake up in the morning and be someone completely different. I want the world to stop and look at me and say, “Wow. She’s incredible.” I don’t want to be sweet and pretty and smart. I want to be wild and dangerous, and for people to envy my confidence. I want to be a knockout, not a “hey, your face is normal and your hair is pretty!” I want my world to be different.

I want to change everything. But i want you there, with me, the entire time. The only reason I’m not changing my life, changing my mind and my face and my surroundings, is because I want you more than any of that. I can’t leave. I can’t change. Because I can’t be anything if you aren’t a part of it.

I wish i could have it all.

explain…

looksvsstares — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 03:42:42 +0000

That last one is something I had to write for an English class a few weeks ago, and really gave me the whole idea of maybe blogging some stuff. Maybe not events of my life (because seriously, NOT that exciting) but getting stuff I’ve written out into the open so people can read it and decide for themselves whether I’m any good or not.

In the freak event anyone reads this, let me know what you think, I’d love to hear any feedback (positive or negative)!

black and white

looksvsstares — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 03:40:08 +0000

Seven days, two hours and thirty-six minutes. That was the count. I’d been keeping track since the second he said, (or rather, he wrote, since he didn’t have the courage to say it to my face) that this “just wasn’t working.” Seven days, two hours and thirty-six minutes since the one thing I’d had going, the rock, the hope in my heart, completely bailed on me like the little coward he was, and became the mess in the back of my mind. I am extraordinarily gifted at playing it cool. Hell, we’re even “friends” as far as he’s concerned.

Ugh. Friends. I despise the word. It sends goose bumps down my arm and fills my mouth with a taste that could only be comparable to morning breath, as my heart shudders with discontent and that empty longing of pure loneliness. There’s certainty for you, I know I will always be his friend and I know we are such good friends that clearly the break-up can’t come between us, and I know that I have other friends who have been right there to pick me up ever since he dropped me, seven days, two hours and thirty seven minutes ago.

I make a great friend. It’s a delicate combination of things. There’s my sense of humor, my deep understanding, my love of making people feel happy when they’re sad, and my ability to adapt to uncomfortable situations, be they football games or figure skating competitions. Oh, I have no doubt in my mind that I make a superb friend, so much so that certain cowardly, evil people are, “concerned about this going much further, because it might ruin the friendship.”

I’ve been the friend a million times before, and it really wouldn’t bother me so much if it weren’t for her. The more beautiful, more desirable, more wanted her. She was always his number one, and I should’ve known, all along. Never mind that she’d already stomped all over his heart and ruined his entire summer (cheating can really destroy a person from the inside out), no, that doesn’t matter, she’s still his one and only. There’s another point on which I am certain: she is his dream, his one desire, and his reason for being. I was a pit stop along the way, a gas station on the road trip to his metaphorical fucking Disney Land. I hope they’re happy together. I hope that when he finds out what she really is and breaks his heart all over again, that he knows he can come crawling back to me.

Thank God I’m such a good friend.

Of nothing else, I am certain. I don’t know why he said he liked me in the first place, I don’t understand why he didn’t break it off, I cannot comprehend why in God’s name he made ME ask HIM if he ever liked me to begin with, but I know that despite it all, despite the fact that my heart is beating but not feeling, that I am moving but not living, I will be an amazing friend to that piece of shit.

There may not be certainty, but there was this. There may not be pride or honor or happiness or glory or fame, but I still had this – the ivory keys laid out in front of me, begging to be pushed, just asking for it. Black, white, black, white, I craved the simplicity, wished with all of my being that it would be reflected in my mind, that somehow the broken fragments of ideas and thoughts and feelings would magically form into a coherent pattern, black and white, organized in tones and semi-tones, cascading up and down.

It doesn’t matter that he used to play, it doesn’t matter that it was something we actually (heaven forbid!) enjoyed doing together, nothing matters. Nothing except the sounds those keys make when I lay my fingers down just right, when my voice comes out and it maybe doesn’t soar, but it certainly floats and sings and follows my lead. I may not be able to control him, or myself, or the way my heart is sinking, but I can control the sounds this mystical instrument makes, and I can control the sound of my voice, going up and down and maybe even left or right. I am in control, and it is positively exhilarating.

I sing out the pain, I pound out the anguish, I control and break and rip and destroy every single feeling he made me feel, every single broken heart I’ve ever endured. All of a sudden, it’s bigger than just him and me. Now the pain is going way back to every sore, every time I’ve just been a score, a notch on a bedpost, a mark on a wall or a name on a list. The sounds are ripped from the keys, from me, I can’t tell the difference anymore. Am I rocking or is the piano shaking? Am I singing or is the microphone reverberating? Does it even matter?

I stop; pause momentarily, to respond to my mother. Yes, I would like to have dinner. Yes I will help you hang the painting. Yes, I’m fine. Why thank you, I thought my voice sounded nice as well. We make small talk, she looks at me with that look that only mothers can give: belief, concern, worry, and love all in one. The look alone almost brings me to tears. There’s some more certainty for you: my mother will be there. She doesn’t understand what happened or why I ever liked him in the first place or why I’m upset, but she doesn’t need to. She’s still there, waiting to pick up my pieces, waiting to collect my broken heart.

There’s no holding it back anymore. I tell her the whole ordeal, about him and how he left me for that beautiful wretch, how he didn’t even have the courage to say anything about it to my face and how the entire breakup happened entirely online, which is essentially the least classy way it could have possibly gone down. She hugs me while I cry, and I feel that vibe of comfort and content and love, if only for a second. She leaves to finish dinner.

I sit down. I shut up. I play. Black and white.