We were on a college visit, both from different places, but for the same reasons. We wanted to get away. You had a graduating class of 15 and I belonged to a class of 515. You were a southern gentleman, I, a Yankee angel. You were tall, I was short. We couldn't have been more opposite. . .you said you liked the way I laughed. So we smiled for those two hours, allowing our hands to hold as we refused to let time slip past us. I forgot to give you my number. But we'll never forget.
We were on a plane together. Both from different towns going to different places. You were going to a new home as I was on my way to the only home I'd ever known. We talked about sports and college and the crazy summer sun that refused to let up. Your eyes pierced mine. My head touched your shoulder just minutes before we touched down on the ground. Coming down from a high like that with a beautiful boy wasn't easy. I couldn't remember which terminal I had to go to. . .so I ran. I may have forgotten the terminal, but I'll never forget your sweet disposition.
We were at a debate tournament. My partner was out of the room as we exchanged pleasantries during the nightly prelims of the competition. When the judge asked for my name and was puzzled by it's masculine connotation, you smiled at me without missing a beat to say, "a pretty name for a pretty girl". Though the judge may have voted you down as my partner and I easily defeated you, you won my heart. The next morning the clock literally stopped as we were given a four hour break. I played with a tennis ball as you played with my hair. Our teams laughed at us. Our coaches forgot where we were. But we'll never forget.
I can confidently say that I fell in love with each of the three mentioned above. For when I say fall in love, I mean that I gave a piece of my heart to them. I was never in love with them, but I fell in love with them. There is no right or wrong time to give someone a piece of your heart, to lend someone a few hours of your time, for they'll surely give it back to you when they meet you in your dreams.
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Friday, March 28, 2014
8 Things You Should Never Settle For
1. Second Best
You are number one. Period. End of discussion. Don't allow someone to put you on the back burner and turn you on and off like a light switch. You deserve to be number one, always.
2. Cheating
"If you love two people at the same time, choose the second. Because if you really loved the first one, you wouldn't have fallen for the second.”--Johnny Depp
3. Frenemies
You have friends. You have enemies. Do not combine the two. Stop wasting your time with people you're only around because you're afraid of what will happen if you stop being around them.
4. Your Significant Other
Sure, you're not going to marry Bar Refaeli or Fabio, but that doesn't mean you need to marry Oscar the Grouch either. Be with someone who makes you happy, who's worth your time and who challenges you in all the best way. Don't lay in bed wishing you were with someone else, lay in bed knowing that you're lucky for having this person, and they for having you.
5. Bad Food
There are so many options for food in this world. Don't settle for a salad if you're craving a cheeseburger--we all know that at midnight you'll be sneaking down the stairs for Ben and Jerry's. That being said, don't overindulge. Healthy food can be good. But there are always more places to try, new grocery to go to and new farmers markets to explore.
6. Uncleanliness
Use a toothbrush. Take a shower. Slap on some deodorant. Use a vacuum. Pick up the mop. There is no excuse for living in a pigsty, nor smelling like one either.
7. People Who Don't Answer
There are always people who won't pick up the phone. Who'll say hi in person, but never make the first phone call. If they're that essential, they'll realize it. If they're not, don't waste your time looking like the crazy ex-girlfriend.
8. Boring Weekends
Sure, we all love to have a cozy weekend in with Netflix and some pizza by our lonesome. But there is no reason to be bored on the weekend. Call an old friend, meet up for drinks. Hell, go to church or a book club. Bottom line, there are always fun things to do.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Time
Time. It's the one thing we can give but never get back. Even pieces of our heart can be returned, though slightly damaged. Time is the one commodity we waste away, planning better things to do with the loads of time we've wasted planning tomorrow. What happened to today?
I'm touring colleges. Questioning what my future will hold. So transfixed on 2015 that I'm wasting away 2014. I'm terrified of growing older as I try to hold onto the past I've wished to go away for years. There's this duality--we want to be treated older while still looking younger. We want to act younger and be held to a childlike standard as far as punishment, yet we squawk when someone dare question our maturity. We wish to be mature 10 year olds who can get away with murder. . .as long as we make it home by sundown and mom's pulling baked mac and cheese out of the oven.
When I look back on my 17 years, I'm not sure what to think. How many hours have I spent blogging? Was it all worth it? In the end, what will seem "worth it" to me? At this point, I haven't the slightest of clues. I simply hope to be content as I look back on my life, knowing that if I had the chance--I'd do it all the same.
I'm touring colleges. Questioning what my future will hold. So transfixed on 2015 that I'm wasting away 2014. I'm terrified of growing older as I try to hold onto the past I've wished to go away for years. There's this duality--we want to be treated older while still looking younger. We want to act younger and be held to a childlike standard as far as punishment, yet we squawk when someone dare question our maturity. We wish to be mature 10 year olds who can get away with murder. . .as long as we make it home by sundown and mom's pulling baked mac and cheese out of the oven.
When I look back on my 17 years, I'm not sure what to think. How many hours have I spent blogging? Was it all worth it? In the end, what will seem "worth it" to me? At this point, I haven't the slightest of clues. I simply hope to be content as I look back on my life, knowing that if I had the chance--I'd do it all the same.
Saturday, March 22, 2014
Silence
This blog has become a culmination of the thoughts too vague for my journal and too vivid for my constantly racing mind. While I address that which makes me smile and that which makes me cry, I have yet to address that which scares me most: silence.
A natural born extrovert, I tend only to stay in my head in times of extreme crisis. Otherwise, like an artist making sense of the colors on canvass, I need my thoughts to be public in order to comprehend them.
I don't do well with goodbyes. I can handle rejection and I understand that sometimes distance needs to separate two souls for them to grow closer. But if there's one thing I'll never be able to understand, it's silence. Two voices, even if they're exchanging bitter words, are voices representing two individuals who are choosing to fight. Fighting only occurs when there are two parties. Silence only occurs when there is one.
And that, is what scares me most.
A natural born extrovert, I tend only to stay in my head in times of extreme crisis. Otherwise, like an artist making sense of the colors on canvass, I need my thoughts to be public in order to comprehend them.
I don't do well with goodbyes. I can handle rejection and I understand that sometimes distance needs to separate two souls for them to grow closer. But if there's one thing I'll never be able to understand, it's silence. Two voices, even if they're exchanging bitter words, are voices representing two individuals who are choosing to fight. Fighting only occurs when there are two parties. Silence only occurs when there is one.
And that, is what scares me most.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Canvas
I hate it when you look at me. For every time you do, you look down upon me. Isn't that a pretty little girl to pity? Wouldn't she just be more beautiful without that bruise upon her face, mysteriously shaped like a hand?
It was at times like those, when I saw your eyes wandering down onto this almost worthy creature that I'd wish myself to be that much better. That much more pure, that much less fragile so that I could hold up under the scrutiny you rained down on me. You said you were joking when you said you couldn't bear to look at me, that I simply misheard you when you said if I wasn't naked I might as well not be in your sight as all. Whoops. It's clear that you have no imperfections, that I was just lucky to bask in the presence of you and all of your glory, if only for a moment.
Yet as I stand before the mirror in the gym I now call a second home, I can find myself content. I'm not perfect, nor would I ever intend to be. A stretch mark on my right arm was the price I paid for being able to bench more than the guys. The scar on my left eye was the down payment for a lifetime of learning that not all boys can keep their hands to themselves.
My body tells a story. A story you could never read, for you only valued me in the dark. There will always be more room for bruises that I'll laugh off and scars that I'll carry in more place than one. My body will never be perfect, nor would I ever want it to be. Who wants to look at a blank canvas?
This canvas is covered in all shapes, colors and marks. You never understood why I always laughed when you pointed out the scratch on my knee. I laughed then because it told the story of rolling down the hill with my girlfriends and accidentally hitting a tree. I laughed then because the scar on the other knee told the story of a six year old me spending two days teaching myself to rollerblade. I laugh now because they were stories of trial and tribulation. I laugh now because the stories always had the same ending--I picked myself up long enough to crack a smile. . . .I laugh now because while you've thrown more than your fair share of putrid paint on this canvas, you'll never get to hear catch in my throat as I tell the story of how they got there.
I'll never give you the satisfaction of seeing the scars you've left upon me. The one on the back of my head from the first time you got drunk around me. The permanent thumb print on the inside of my wrist from the last time I let you get drunk around me. The stretch mark on my tummy from the five pounds of guilt I ate after you left. You'll never hear me explain the reason why my nose is slightly crooked, or witness me explaining the cautionary tale behind the mark on my cheek.
Go ahead and look down on me. I'm short. That is the only reason I'll ever let you look down on me again. My five foot two stature won't change--it's permanent, just like the colors you've added to my canvas of a body. The unfortunate part of it all isn't that my skin will never be perfect, but rather that you've now realized you'll never be either. I'll never grow vertically, nor will you ever grow emotionally.
Please look down on me. You're right, we'll forever be linked. . .by a twelve year old. What, you ask? It's what defines us now. For I will forever look like a twelve year old and you will forever act like one.
It was at times like those, when I saw your eyes wandering down onto this almost worthy creature that I'd wish myself to be that much better. That much more pure, that much less fragile so that I could hold up under the scrutiny you rained down on me. You said you were joking when you said you couldn't bear to look at me, that I simply misheard you when you said if I wasn't naked I might as well not be in your sight as all. Whoops. It's clear that you have no imperfections, that I was just lucky to bask in the presence of you and all of your glory, if only for a moment.
Yet as I stand before the mirror in the gym I now call a second home, I can find myself content. I'm not perfect, nor would I ever intend to be. A stretch mark on my right arm was the price I paid for being able to bench more than the guys. The scar on my left eye was the down payment for a lifetime of learning that not all boys can keep their hands to themselves.
My body tells a story. A story you could never read, for you only valued me in the dark. There will always be more room for bruises that I'll laugh off and scars that I'll carry in more place than one. My body will never be perfect, nor would I ever want it to be. Who wants to look at a blank canvas?
This canvas is covered in all shapes, colors and marks. You never understood why I always laughed when you pointed out the scratch on my knee. I laughed then because it told the story of rolling down the hill with my girlfriends and accidentally hitting a tree. I laughed then because the scar on the other knee told the story of a six year old me spending two days teaching myself to rollerblade. I laugh now because they were stories of trial and tribulation. I laugh now because the stories always had the same ending--I picked myself up long enough to crack a smile. . . .I laugh now because while you've thrown more than your fair share of putrid paint on this canvas, you'll never get to hear catch in my throat as I tell the story of how they got there.
I'll never give you the satisfaction of seeing the scars you've left upon me. The one on the back of my head from the first time you got drunk around me. The permanent thumb print on the inside of my wrist from the last time I let you get drunk around me. The stretch mark on my tummy from the five pounds of guilt I ate after you left. You'll never hear me explain the reason why my nose is slightly crooked, or witness me explaining the cautionary tale behind the mark on my cheek.
Go ahead and look down on me. I'm short. That is the only reason I'll ever let you look down on me again. My five foot two stature won't change--it's permanent, just like the colors you've added to my canvas of a body. The unfortunate part of it all isn't that my skin will never be perfect, but rather that you've now realized you'll never be either. I'll never grow vertically, nor will you ever grow emotionally.
Please look down on me. You're right, we'll forever be linked. . .by a twelve year old. What, you ask? It's what defines us now. For I will forever look like a twelve year old and you will forever act like one.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
I Can't Make Him Love Me --Riely--
Five texts. Four Facebook messages.Three Snapchats. Two hand-delivered notes and one young girl admitting her love. All un-returned. All seen, read, felt and. . .one sided.
Maybe it was his cologne that I inhaled too much of, causing my brain to endure the same cloud I saw him dousing himself with before class. Before he thought he'd see me. Maybe it was the way his effortless smile was reserved for me, or the way I'd never felt safer than in his arms. . . .Or maybe it was him.
Maybe he was the first boy I fell for, and maybe he broke my heart without even knowing. So I write this to him, knowing he'll never read this confession of how he never felt.
Let's allocate blame where blame is do. Nowhere. Unto no one can these tears be directed. Not onto me, the girl with the wanderlust heart that aches for the brooding boy I'll never see again. Not onto society for creating these inescapable confines that require me to send five messages before he needs to send one. And not onto him, for if anything, I owe him a thank you.
I owe him a thank you for holding my heart, for holding my hand and my bag alongside it. For being teased about being "domesticated" and laughing it off with a punch to his friend. He deserves at least a smile for being kind to the broken girl, for daring to dream that maybe one day they could be. He deserves what we all deserve--true love and happiness.
What a shame it is that he couldn't find it with me.
I can't make myself stop loving him. I can't make him love me. But I can stop for a moment, dry the tears and put down the chocolate ice cream long enough to say thank you. For if I know what love is, it's because of you.
--Riely--
Maybe it was his cologne that I inhaled too much of, causing my brain to endure the same cloud I saw him dousing himself with before class. Before he thought he'd see me. Maybe it was the way his effortless smile was reserved for me, or the way I'd never felt safer than in his arms. . . .Or maybe it was him.
Maybe he was the first boy I fell for, and maybe he broke my heart without even knowing. So I write this to him, knowing he'll never read this confession of how he never felt.
Let's allocate blame where blame is do. Nowhere. Unto no one can these tears be directed. Not onto me, the girl with the wanderlust heart that aches for the brooding boy I'll never see again. Not onto society for creating these inescapable confines that require me to send five messages before he needs to send one. And not onto him, for if anything, I owe him a thank you.
I owe him a thank you for holding my heart, for holding my hand and my bag alongside it. For being teased about being "domesticated" and laughing it off with a punch to his friend. He deserves at least a smile for being kind to the broken girl, for daring to dream that maybe one day they could be. He deserves what we all deserve--true love and happiness.
What a shame it is that he couldn't find it with me.
I can't make myself stop loving him. I can't make him love me. But I can stop for a moment, dry the tears and put down the chocolate ice cream long enough to say thank you. For if I know what love is, it's because of you.
--Riely--
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