It's been a while.

And for that, I apologize. I just haven't had much to say. But recently I've been wanting to become a legitimate blogger. Someone who gets real followers, someone who writes in this thing every day. I feel like that would help me become a real writer.

I have this picture in my head of what a real writer looks like. A real writer drinks multiple cups of coffee or tea every day. A real writer has a glass of wine with dinner. A real writer has a desk. A real writer wears these incredibly chic clothes that she's bought from the thrift shop, or consignment stores - she rarely buys anything new. A real writer has books strewn everywhere, each and every one of them with a worn down spine from overuse. A real writer has stacks upon stacks of notebooks filled with random scribblings and ideas, and most of them are tiny nuggets of gold that could be turned into something valuable if cultivated. A real writer is thin, because she lives from paycheck to paycheck, and is constantly running around looking for another job to help make the ends meet. A real writer has long hair that is usually up in a bun or ponytail, but reaches halfway down her back on the odd occasion she lets it down.

None of these things are true for me. I have this picture in my head of what I should look like, how I should act, what would make me a real writer, and I can't live up to it. Instead, I am me.

Okay, this has gotten insanely off-topic. Maybe I'll post something real later. I just feel bad that I've been neglecting this blog for my Tumblr, which isn't really a ~blog because all I do is reblog other people's posts, for the most part. I doubt if I posted any writing there I would get any response. Mostly because you can't comment on things there... Though people can comment here, and don't, so I don't know what I'm talking about. Excuse me while I go try and wrap up my crazy.

            I want to live in a cute apartment in New York City that’s decorated with fascinating knickknacks and furniture that doesn’t go together but fits and works. I want to be thinner and taller, a size four and five six. I want to have wavy hair that comes down my back just far enough that I can put it up into a messy bun and look artistic. I want to wear these clothes that shouldn’t go together either, but just like my furniture, they work. I want to be known as that writer girl, the one who’s always carrying a notebook or a laptop, always scribbling or typing away at something. I want to laugh with friends and drink crappy red wine with our pizza and French fries while we get into debates about anything and everything. I want to have a dog that jumps up every time I come into the room, who attacks my legs with glee when I come home from work. I want to have a job that I love going to every single day, I want to have coworkers that I go out with for drinks sometimes. I want to wear big sunglasses and not look like a bug, I want to be drinking coffee every morning and be unable to function without it. I want my teeth to be straight and white, cute little rows of white Chiclets in my mouth. I want to have men staring after me as I walk by, only to look away when I catch their eyes and smile. I want to strut down the streets with my head held high, knowing that I am a sight to behold and anyone looking at me is doing so out of admiration, not disgust. I want to have a blog that everyone loves and talks about. I want to be free of my family; I want to be happy; I want to be loved. I want to go home at night and curl up with my dog and a good book. I want a roommate that I love, who challenges me to do my best and vice versa. I want to learn how to cook exotic dishes and not-so-exotic dishes. I want to be part of a community of writers, who sit down together and discuss their stories and their characters and everything else. I want to be writing every day. I want to have a box full of journal pages that I’ve printed out, to save for a rainy day when I’m wondering what exactly I was thinking when I was sixteen, seventeen, and so on. I want to have artistic talent, instead of just creativity. I want to be a character in a book, complete with my own special happy ending and guy of my dreams. I want to live this life that I’m thinking of, the life that I’m trying so desperately hard to describe, but can’t seem to grasp the words for. 

just hung up on one of the many ridiculously rude doctors in the pain service.

i'm going to pretend

that i feel absolutely nothing about you.
and hope beyond all hope, and wish beyond reasonable wishes,
that sooner, rather than later,
my make-believe game becomes my reality.

There is something about being in the hospital and on pain medication that makes me want/need to cry for ever and ever. The first day was fine. Yesterday was fine. But today, I just am going crazy. Every time someone comes in to talk to me, I get pissed off. Especially when they're friggen idiots or anesthesiologists who don't know what they're doing. 

I can't keep my eyes open, and it's insane. I really don't like it. I keep falling half asleep, than jolting myself up. I've got a nice roommate though. Her name is Amanda, and she's twenty-two. We have the same taste in movies, and so we're watching Another Cinderella Story together. It's incredibly hard to type right now, because I keep closing my eyes and like falling asleep. every. second.

I'm going to go now. I fell asleep writing this, and then got up and got a cupcake with a nurse. (One of my oldies that I love more than anything - Kerry.) And now, I don't really know what I'm going to do. But I'm going to do something. :) I'm feeling a shitton better now - not nearly as cranky. 

Thanksgiving 2010

I'm putting together a thankful list. It won't be artsy, most likely, and it'll be cheesy, but it's coming from the heart, so... shove off.

• Kelsey DeBettencourt - She was a good friend of mine in elementary school, and we got really close over the summer. Even though we don't get to see each other nearly enough during the school year because we go to separate schools, she still makes the top of my list. I love you so much, Kels, and I'm so proud and happy to be able to call you my best friend again. 
• My health - My body may be doing some crazy ass things right now that don't make me happy, but I'm still here, and I'm still able to live at home. My liver biopsy results came back, and the growths on my liver are benign, and basically the best things they could be for growths on a liver :P 
• My school buddies - I don't really want to put all the names here, but just know that I really do appreciate everything you guys do for me. We might not be the best of friends, but I love being able to sit with you in school and just bitch about everyone else. 
• The fact that I'll be in college next year - I can't wait to be out of my house and on my own, without my crazy ass family who drive me insane. (And not in the normal teenager way, in the actual I can't stand them way) 
• The talent that I have - As much as I might put myself down, I am a great writer. And that's something that will always be with me, and I refuse to take it for granted. 
• The adults in my life who are always there for me - There aren't many of them, but they let me complain to them, and treat me like an equal instead of some whiny little kid, and it means a lot to me. 
• Kevin and Haley - Even though we seem to be falling apart and losing each other, I still love you guys, and I'm so happy that I know you. You're lovely. 
• JESSIE NEGROTTI - My CPSSWCCS. I'm so glad that we're getting back to the way we were. I've missed you so much, and our friendship means the world to me. You always make me feel better when I'm upset, and I'm sorry if I've been monopolizing our conversations with my life lately. I promise to be better. 
• The fall - It's my favorite. 'Nuff said.

There are so many more things and people that I could put on here, but I'm going to stop for now. I'll probably end up doing a really cheesy and long one in my notebook later. 

I am not an easy person to get along with. I am not an easy person to like, or be friends with. I know this about myself, and I'm not going to try and deny it, or make excuses. I'm needy; I have a tendency to always be "fine" until everything boils over and I call you sobbing. I am extremely stubborn, and I like to be locked into plans. I'm good at listening, but have a tendency to talk about myself too much - and not even important stuff, just inconsequential fluff. I sometimes expect people to read my mind and do what I want/need without having to voice it, and then get angry when that doesn't happen. I call people idiots too much, especially when they do something I don't like. And I don't like a lot of things that people do. There are so many more that I could list, but I won't.

But I'm not going to change. I tried that; it doesn't work. I become someone I don't even know - I barely know who I am now, I refuse to become unrecognizable when I look in the mirror. But I'm terrified that that's what being at school is doing to me. I've started to watch what I say in class during discussions, I've started to censor myself (with today excluded because I totally just had no filter whatsoever.) and just change. And I don't like it. I don't like that I have to do this. I wish that I could feel comfortable enough around these people, or at least comfortable enough with myself, that I can just be who I am with no fear of judgment. Cause you know what, jerkoffs, my opinion is important, what I have to say does make a difference, even if all you want to do is roll your eyes. Just because you come to school high or hungover and the sound of my voice is grating on your ears, suck it the fuck up. Just because you don't want to be here doesn't mean you get to make the rest of us miserable.


This has changed from an actualization/epiphany post to a tirade about school. Time to shut up.

I don't get it. I really don't. You tell me that I'm your best friend, and you let me call you mine. But why am I the only one giving right now? I get that you're having issues. I know you are. I know you're having a hard time of it. I know you are.

But so am I. And I love you. But this past week and a half, I've started to resent you. Because all I've needed was my best friend, someone to just be there for me and give me a hug, and tell me that I'm going to be okay. But you couldn't even do that for me. I don't want to bitch to you, I don't want to unload to you. You know that's not what I'm about. But I needed you to help me get my mind off of things. And for whatever reason, you were incapable of doing that.

I'm not saying I'm mad. (Well, I kind of am saying that. But I'm not really mad.) What I'm saying is that I'm just... I'm sad. 'Cause I believed you when you said that you would always be there for me. And now you've just... you've proven that everyone breaks their promises, at least once.

I still love you. I still think you're the best friend I could've asked for. I just... I guess I was hoping that human error didn't apply to you.

11 - a deceased person you wish you could talk to

Dear you,

I wish you were still here. It's kind of ironic that this number is a year younger than you would be right now, and a year older than you'll ever be. Tuesday will be two years and a month since you died, and I wish I could say something corny like I think about you every day, or everything I do, I do with you in mind, but I don't. I guess in my head, you're still here. I never got a chance to mourn; it wasn't something I let myself do, and it most certainly wasn't something my parents were about to help me with.

I guess the reason I wish I could talk to you is to tell you how sorry I am. I know I don't have any need to be, that nothing I did could have caused or prevented anything, but I am. Our situations were exactly the same, and for the life of me, as much as I try to understand it, I don't know why it was you and not me. I know it's wrong to say that sometimes I wish it was me instead of you, but I do. I had four years on you, and a family that was already broken.

I also want to say goodbye. I never got to. I never let myself feel anything, and goodbyes were part of that package. I wonder if I wouldn't be as fucked up now if I had been able to say goodbye; not just to you, but to everyone who's up there with you. (Which, as I come to think of it, is also eleven.)

And I want to know what it was like. I know that's morbid, but I do. I want to make sure you weren't scared, I want to make sure that you weren't in pain, but I also want to know for myself, so that I know when my time comes, and I want to know that dying wasn't you giving up. That you were fighting until the last second, and in the end, you just... lost. I know it sounds bad, but I just... I want to know. I want to be able to say goodbye, and I want to be able to say I'm sorry, and that I love you, and ask you if you did all that you could.

But mostly I just miss you.

Love,
me.

10 - someone you don't talk to as much as you'd like

Dear you,

I don't really know why we don't talk anymore. I guess it's because we were never really friends, I just wanted us to be. And I know that that actually means that this letter probably shouldn't be for you, but whatever. I'm done with shoulds.

I hope you know that I really did want us to be friends. And I would've been a damn good friend, too. I wish we talked more, because than maybe you'd get it. But whenever I try to chat with you, you're always busy. I don't know if it's you blowing me off, or what, but it kinda sucks. So I've basically stopped trying. I think I've figured it out, though. You're a happy person, a shiny person, a good-times girl. I don't know how to be shiny, I don't know how to deal with shiny people. You need a guy to feel validated, I wouldn't even know how to let a guy be my sole source of validation. We're two entirely different people at totally different points in our life, and while we tried to intersect for a while, and even though when we do talk, we have interesting conversations, we don't talk often enough to be considered more than "acquaintances." Maybe this will change in the years to come, but maybe we'll just always be each others "maybes."

Love,
me.

9 - someone you wish you could meet

Dear you,

I guess I could start this off by saying I'm you're biggest fan, but I'm sure that's not true. I'm not particularly overweight, so it's a no on the literal sense, and there are probably people who have done insanely dangerous and stupid things to try and get to meet you, so it's a no in the metaphorical sense, as well. But I still wish I could meet you.

There are a lot of you I'm writing to right now. Namely, every person I have ever wished to meet. Ever. Because how do you choose just one? I don't want to meet someone that will be an ass. I don't want to waste my time coming to meet you if you're going to be a jerk, and autograph a picture, making it out to a Heather when I told you my name was Hannah.

But all of you, I do wish I could meet you. I want to know what you're like. I know we'll probably never meet, and it's probably for the better. I've got the idea of you, and I like that, so why ruin it with reality?

Love,
me.

I need someone to crawl into bed with as I cry out these tears that just won't stop coming. I need someone to hold me close to them until all of my demons are forced out. I need someone who is willing to fight them off with me, to whisper the unkempt promise "it's going to be alright."" I need someone to look at me and just open their arms while I collapse,


Because right now, that's all I can do. Collapse.

8 - Your favorite internet friend

Dear you,

This is another one that's quite hard to choose. I have made quite a few friends only on the internet, though I admit, I've met most of them by now, even the one that I met at almost the exact same time as you. Really, there are only two or three other ones that I still like and haven't met yet. But they qualify for more than one. And so do you, really, but I decided to write this one to you, because it just seemed to fit. Especially since we're talking so much lately.

I have to admit, sometimes talking to you makes me feel kind of like a whore. Because you usually have a girlfriend. And I, as usual, am perpetually single. And we flirt. I don't know if it's because we've never met, and so it's comfortable to flirt like this, or if it's because we actually have real chemistry that we just haven't figured out how to deal with yet. Either way, we flirt a ridiculous amount. And I know it's not just in my head.

But this is getting off-track. The point is, you are my favorite internet-turned-texting friend, and hopefully, we'll be able to organize a meet up between you and I wicked soon. Because it's a bit ridiculous that we've been talking for three years, on and off, and never met. ESPECIALLY with all the flirtiness that goes on between us. (Here I go, getting off track again.) Every time I talk to you, I feel better. I love talking about awesome bands and musicians and TV shows and people and bucket lists with you. You make me feel comfortable being myself, even if you judge me for liking gangster rap. :) I promise, when we finally meet, it will be amazingly epic. And, like I said, if you're still cold then, I'll share my blankets with you until you just love me so much that you have to agree to the road trip I proposed. :)

Love,

me.

i finished my novel a little more than an hour ago.

i feel so accomplished.

I am a writer, first and foremost. Words affect (effect? idfk.) me more than images. A well-written letter will inform me of your feelings better than anything else, and a lust scene gets me more in the mood than music or anything else.

I don't know much about myself. But I do know that. And I know that the happiest time of my life was when I was surrounded with twenty-eight other girls who were as passionate about it as I was. Writing has become who I am. I need to find myself a community of writers. I love the small, pretty much one person community of writers I have near me now, but it's just... It's not the same as having a group of people who love the same thing as you do constantly around you and supporting you.

I want people to geek out with over the fact that I have probably twenty pages left of my novel before it's finished. I want people who will look at something, and say, "this is shit. You know it's shit. But here's how you can make it better. Keep this one part. Expand on it. This part works." I want people who understand why I'm freaking out over the fact that for the past few things that I've written, I've actually felt like a writer, and that I can actually make something of myself with this profession, not just have it as a hobby. Maybe I should put up one of those personal ads? "16 y/o swf, looking for a tight-knit writing community. must enjoy fiction, characters, and long walks on the beach while talking about books."

7. your ex boyfriend/girlfriend/love/crush

Dear you,

It's safe to say you probably don't remember this. We were dating in kindergarten, after all. I'm surprised I remember it, and even I'm a little foggy on the finer details.

We weren't in the same class, I remember that much. You were with Mrs. DeBettencourt, and I had Mrs. Robinson. The only time our paths intersected was in gym.

I don't really remember how it started, exactly. Or when it ended, if we ever really ended it officially at all. I just remember the us. I would always sit next to you in gym, and we would hold hands, even though all of the other kids would sometimes make fun of us. We were dating before we knew what dating really even meant. Really, the only other big thing I remember about this "relationship" is Valentine's Day. Is it sad to think that the only Valentine I've ever had was when I was five? Whatever. I wasn't even there for it, because my grandpa had died. You still bought me candy, though. Our parents were amused by us, and thought that we were just too damn cute, and so you and your mom picked me out a box of chocolates in the shape of a heart. I was so excited to get those when I came back... I was the only kid with a valentine from someone outside of their class. I ate them all on the way to pick my sister up from preschool, and felt sick for the entire rest of the day.

We had a good thing, though. Sometimes I wish we could go back there.

Love,
me.

I know it's not your fault, but I'm a locked door
and inside I'm a mess by someone before
and I wish that I, I could find the key
to unlock all the things you want us to be

Help me open up and start again
but there's a safe around my heart
I don't know how to let you in
that's what keeps us apart

And that's why
I need time
I said I need you
I need you to understand
you, you, you
I need you to understand
you, you, you

Call up the locksmith
tell 'em we need him quick
we got a million keys
none of 'em seem to fit
and while you're on the phone
call up the clocksmith
cause I could use some time
even the slightest bit

Help me open up, start again

and break this safe around my heart 

I don't know how to let you in 

that's what keeps us apart

And that's why

I need time

I said I need you

I need you to understand

you you you

I need you to understand

I'm thinking nows the time

maybe it's time to go 

if I gave you my heart

be gentle

I'm tired of laying low

let's give the world a show

and when you know, you know

and when you know, you know, you know

and when you know, you know, you know, you know

And that's why

I need time

I said I need you

I need you to understand

you you you

I need you to understand

I need you to understand

I need you to understand

I need you to understand

I need you

I need you

I need you

you

you

♥

6. a stranger

Dear you,

I wonder about you, you know. What you think about when you see me. If you look at me for an extra second while I'm unaware, the same way I do with you. I wonder if you see me as who I really am, instead of who I usually am pretending to be.

When I see you, I wonder if we would be friends. I either decide yes or no, because I'm human and I have a tendency to judge people. If yes... well, I'm sorry, but you may be in for some awkward conversation. I like to talk to people. I like to make friends with people. I want to feel connected in some way.

I wonder if you do the same things. I want to know what your story is. I want to know the reasoning behind this chanced meeting, if we were meant to meet and make something of it.

Not-really-knowing-how-to-sign-this,
me.

I'm homesick for the home I've never had. I want to be back with the people who make up my family. And no, it's not those who I share biological similarities with. It's the two people in the world I would do anything for. The two people I trust with almost absolutely anything. And like I always do, I managed to fuck it up. Again. I want to erase. I want to rewind. I want a do-over. It's not fair to keep throwing me these curveballs. I don't give a fuck if life isn't fair; I've had my fair share of trials and it's time to cut me a break. I don't want to be waking up afraid that I'm going to have to call 911 because I can't breathe. Again. I don't want to be taking the bus to school, afraid of what's going to happen if I speak my mind. Again. I don't want to be coming home, afraid of what mood the house is in today. Again. I'm drowning in my own fears. I can't trust anyone with them. I want to push people away so that I can find out who is going to come back. I'm sure that the people who are still here are here for just a moment, fleeting in the human-made concept of time. That once they see who I really am, see all of me and not just the good or just the bad, they'll run. Because I can't even handle me most of the time. How can I expect someone else to? How can I ask this of them? It just doesn't seem fair. So instead, I'll continue on. I can't go on; I'll go on. I miss my best friends. I miss feeling like I'm safe. I want to find someone who wants to be with me all the time, someone who holds me in their arms and proves to me that they won't ever let go. I want someone to share a bed with at night, so when all of the monsters come out of their caves and dance around my depression, I can turn over and be comforted as I cry out. But some people aren't meant to be happy. They're meant to make others happy, and just try and be content with that.

5. your dreams

Dear you,

I'm sure you know this, but I'm saying it anyway. We have a love/hate relationship. I love thinking about you, I love the places you take me; you're basically my every fantasy, everything I ever even semi-wanted.

But I hate you. Because unfortunately for us, I am a realist with pessimistic tendencies. I know that the majority of the time, what you show me and tell me is possible, isn't. Talking about the future has always scared me, and that's all you want from me. Sure, it's great when we're there, but what about when we have to come back to the present? You just get to walk away unscathed, preparing to come back later, whereas I have to deal with the reality of it.

It's not helpful.

Love,
me.