The letter.

Beginning of potentially a new piece. Epistolary style perhaps.

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Dear Boy,

I think everyone wants something out of life. At least I like to think that everyone has some sort of strong desire – something that keeps them pushing to go through life, rather than just lay down and wave a white flag. But you see, what I want is you. I want you in every way possible. I want to talk to you until three in the morning, and hold your hand when I am happy. I want you to smooth back my hair and tell me I’ll achieve all my dreams, and I want to be so close to you that our skin doesn’t quite end. I want you.

It’s as simple as that. But here is where it gets complicated – you see, I don’t know you. I’ve never met you. I may have seen you in person, but I would have connected the dots I think. You live in my head. Sounds crazy, I know. But I go to sleep and you’re there, and I wonder who you are. I wonder where you are, if you are anyone at all. It seems unfair to me that you are there in my dreams – your dark hair, tall frame, green-hazel eyes. It’s unfair that my dream-self gets to have you, while in real life, I’m just hopeless. I watch people intently, and I keep track of scenarios where I meet you in dreams. Just in case, serendipitously, we’ll meet for real.

But I can’t get past finding you. And I wonder what would happen if I actually did find you. Would you think I was crazy? Do I mention that I’ve met you a million times in my dreams? It all seems so complicated and silly – especially since there is that 99.9% chance that you really are just simply a figment of my imagination, someone who only lives in my dreams, with no real life counterpart to be found.

You see, in my real life, I’m stuck. I hate everything around me. I hate my school, I hate my impending job choices, I hate having to potentially live at home again. I’m even starting to hate my relationships with my friends and family. I wonder what the point is because I don’t have anyone who is really mine. No one belongs to me. That sounds so patriarchal – people don’t really belong to each other do they? But I want to know what its like, to have your heart not be yours, and to have someone else’s beat in your hands.

So, with all of my big dreams rolling in my head, I have you in there too. I want to run away, and I want to achieve things, but most of all, I just want you. I hold hope that you’re out there somewhere, and I think of just getting in the car and driving all over the continent, hopping on planes, scouring the earth until I find you. But I don’t think you’re looking for me, and so my little road-tripping fantasies are cut short, because what happens after I find you? What happens if you’ve already found someone else?

Whoever you are, wherever you are, I think you belong to me. And I think I’m supposed to belong to you. Whenever our eyes meet in some coffee shop/bar/church/parking lot/store/restaurant/street – I’ll know it is you. Until then I suppose I’ll just keep you inside my head.

Love,
Girl

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Potentially autobiographical. Totally depressing. Plans would be to make it less so.

<3
Bex
(I think the X is cooler.)

Life Lesson #4

So I totally fell off the band wagon with the whole life lessons business. Who am I kidding? I AM NOT A BLOGGER. I'm the kid who writes in her journal (not a diary cause those are passé) when she's pissed, and that is all. Anyhoodle, here is life lesson numero cuatro!

Sometimes, when you look really, really hot, nothing comes of it.

So, the other night, I went out with some friends for dinner at this bar/pub sort of place. Thinking that there might be a decent crowd of young, hopefully detached, males I got all gussied up. I shaved, I wore a dress, and I broke out the dangly earrings. Arrive at the bar AND... crickets. Everyone that was there was already coupled up. BOO! Yet I promise, if I would've looked like poo, there would've been seven million hot guys there. (Slight exaggeration, but whatevs.) So yeah, when you get yourself sexified, do it for yourself, otherwise you might get disappointed (or in my case, pissed).