So happy!

so happy so happy; to market, to bread
so happy so happy; again! again!



I do believe that he's the best thing to have happened to me in a long while. Thank you, Dylan!

Bang-Bang

Confronted Glory. There was no screaming or smiting involved, but he was so damnably unflustered that perhaps some screaming and smiting should have been, and might’ve done him (and I) some good.

Furthermore, he asked if I was alright. There was a moment of dumbfounded silence;

am I alright?

Maybe he meant ‘are we alright?’ It would be, after all, the same thing that I’d asked him. ^
THIS BLOG POST IS INCOMPLETE BUT HERE IT IS, Q!

But I think the only thing of significance that might’ve happened—one never knows with Wilder—is when I was saying that the Whig was spectacular in that he didn’t leave me feeling that I was good enough to make out with, though not good enough to go out with. ^^

^He said yes, we were alright.

Perhaps this post would be a wee bit more coherent if it were written as it happened. Chronological time vs. relative—but was that the term? Chronological time as opposed to the time that is remembered, time that is given its significance based not on where if happened on the time line, but its emotional import. I’m fairly certain that, at the moment, I’m writing this in time that is remembered. This says really rather dire things about my supposed felicity with the Whig.

…Consarnit, I am happy.

^^This seems to be my more common complaint of late: James, Glory, Thomas. They all have their mitigating factors, of course, but still. Frelling hell.

Brr

Life is doing one of those Very Dramatic Crazy Things.

In the form of an amazing person, who thinks the world of me. I'm not complaining, I'm not! I'm just--fretting. That bo-ho blogger chick who sits on my left shoulder just grimaced a little; fretting?! fretting is for people who don't trust in the universe. you trust the universe don't you?

yeah, yeah. I'm just a little strung, right now.

no excuses!

And so now there's some frantic rectifying going on. I like who I am with you, Spinster-boi. That's more meaning than almost anything else, means more than a lot else. Do you see what I'm saying?

I'm sorry.

Day of Infixes

Isn't it beautiful?

Sparkly Things For-freaking-ever:

And yeah, babes, that was a fucking infix. In English. (tee-hee!)

:

Jumpology

There's something more beautiful than me here.

Trufax

Next to Godliness?

Amen. Scrubbed so hard today in the shower I think I might be pure-hearted again. It was a good feeling--like that postcard that said that you've never gone too far the wrong way to turn around and come back.

I don't know if I agree. I don't know if I disagree. It's a beautiful idea though, and a comfort in a strange, wonderful, intimate way.

Blues

The Perils of Justifying Oneself



The concert went swimmingly, though the cost energy-wise of Desperately and Enthusiastically Okay was apparent by the end of the day. I wasn't, of course, as sparkly and graceful as I might've liked, but who the hell is in these sorts of situations? (I had been earlier, says a little, eminently traitorous voice in my mind. I had been sexy and alive and vibrant(!) earlier. What the hell happened?)

I don't know. I'm miles better than I had been even a few weeks ago, but I'm still...very angry. Last night, I wanted just to march up to him, finger jabbing into that well-muscled chest, and scream. I'm all too aware that this would probably give him, in his mind, good grounds to completely discount me. I just want him to know, to be confronted with things that he can't repress. He can't repress ME.

(And now it's like shifting off those bonds of silence, shame-facedness, and un-met looks.)

There's more to it. There's always more it it.
Until there isn't? But that's okay, and probably a fair far ways off.

Whiteboard

"Scratch a lover, and find a foe." -Dorothy Parker

Going to a concert at 4, and Glory'll be there. I think I'll be okay, but my! won't it be exciting? I've come so far in just a week or so, so much more than myself for the addition of a few to my cast of characters. Thanks, Dylan. I mean it.

There's suddenly so much more to life, and it's glorious!

LovE!

This is going to be a post about love; I want it, I need it. (I want to give it, I need to give it.) So this is a love letter for everyone I know.

I love you. You're the cosmic beauty, guys. Best of the best and more by all mores. You all are like flying except without a fret of crashing, fretting, when you know that someone's listening, that crazy euphoria at ball games (he thought we were high. we were so much better), and then that stupid, lovely, fucking perfect song on the car radio.

Love me love you.

Hide n seek at midnight, barefoot! And long car rides, adventures! Long hugs because I haven't seen you all in too long, conversations where we just Get IT. Bashing your music but thinking I kinda love it because it's so you. Laying, just laying on trampolines.

More than anything.

ttfn ~<3

Day 1.

So. Once upon a time, I was in a rut. This might've been yesterday, this might've been when I was making mud-pies.

Then I thought to myself:

Self,

I don't know why you're afraid so much, but it's okay. I love you and accept you. You don't have to be ashamed of feeling this way.

Take a deep breath; there are a lot of people who love you. They recognize something there; it's not just smoke and mirrors.

You can do this school thing, too. It's not going to be fun, but it's mostly getting around that block in your head--something you're more than capable of.

Don't fret. I love you. You're beautiful, funny, sincere, honest, pure. You're an endless mystery, please believe it.

I love you, and it's okay to be afraid.

I love you
I love
you
I love you.

On the run again!

I'm so not ready for this. I wanted to be open the next time I saw him, cool, collected. Not over-compensating, not reaching and fingers grasping at something out of my reach. I am not that. I am that. I am nothing.

Rootless. It's okay to be.

Okay?

Okay.