Lock and Key

Raise your glasses as I'd like to extend congratulations to Constance-Marie C. James for one full year of abstinence. You go girl!

The first question I was asked was, "Was it hard?" Not particularly. I find it more difficult to disrespect myself, subject my body to possible harm, and intimately share myself with someone who is much less than deserving.

I don't allow my primitive urges to drive my life, and I don't do hook-ups. I've only had intercourse with one person in my life, and that was a decision that I made, not a situation I found myself in. I'd like all my future encounters to happen under the same level consideration.

And they will. I don't understand the 'it just happened' theory. I don't subscribe to the "whatever happens, happens" line of action. I might be the last of a dying breed, but I still think sex is a big deal. I still think that when you have sex with someone, a small part of that person remains with you forever. I still think sex is the highest form of intimacy you could ever experience with someone else. I don't think it's just about physical pleasure, and I don't think making reckless and short-sighted decisions is something that's inherent to being a teenager and should be accepted as so. Unless you plan on dying immediately after your years as a young adult, which I do not, decisions you make now are ones that will live within you for the rest of your life. I'd like to be as proud of my decisions as I possibly can.

And I am.

(I won't pretend that I can take all the credit, though. I did get to a point where I was willing to sleep with someone, but due to extenuating circumstances, did not. I think that was God and the universe telling me that it just wasn't the time. So thank You.)

Here's to another year?

There Goes The Sun

I imagine reflecting on my past as turning around after taking a long walk on the beach. Not to imply that life, particularly mine, is even remotely comparable to a stroll along the shore, but when I envision my past, I see foot steps left in the sand. One in front of the other, usually.

I hate looking back and seeing foot steps smudged along side each other, indicating steps taken backwards. The more I step backwards, the wider and deeper those footsteps become on the impressionable shore of my youthful life. They become the easiest to see, the most profound.

My biggest fear right now is becoming despondent. I'm desperately trying to blow at the embers of passion that still flicker in me, but with each storm my coals smolder less. My fire that once burned brightly, vividly and almost dangerously is slowly smoldering away. And I'm just afraid I don't have the fuel and wood to start them up again.

I hope I'll have the opportunity to look back on these tracks, and find that they are narrow, single file, and solitaire. Barely visible along the sandy shore.

Moderation

My well of sympathy for others is now completely and utterly dry.

To several:

No one cares anymore. No one cares what happened to you, who you lost, who fucked you over, your leg being amputated, your house burning down or your dog being abducted by aliens. All of your complaining, whining, bitching and moaning is in vain because you have demonstrated, time and time again, that you a. take ZERO accountability for anything that EVER happens in your life, and b. have ZERO intentions of making the necessary changes to improve your current situation.

Nothing is ever your fault, everything just happens to you. Give me a break.

And what's worse is instead of listening to the honest and sincere words of your 'friends', you cut them out as soon as their words don't mirror what you want to hear. The perfect way to stay stagnant in maturity and understanding is by surrounding yourself with simpleminded yes-men who condone and encourage your emotional and mental immaturity and foolishness.

I wish you all the best of luck.

Excerpt of Vision

The nature of love, at least in the sense of romance and friendship, is that it is unforeseen, unplanned. Out of some odd irony, or coincidence, one feels tinges of love where they previously did not exist for a person they previously did not care about. Love is normally experienced, felt and enjoyed before it is recognized as, and therefore called, love. In love, the emotions qualify the existence. In love, the happening is a mistake, sometimes a horrible one, sometimes a beautiful one.

The nature of hate, however, is that it is unnatural. Hate, in all of its malicious glory, is an intentional and directed occurrence. While one goes to sleep not expecting to love the next day, one wakes up with hate on their itinerary. Once they've decided to hate, their thoughts, actions and perception of others is molded to match. Once they've decided to hate an individual, their brain allows them to believe, with great confidence, that that individual in turn hates them, thereby justifying their hate. While love is often quietly unreciprocated, hate churns loudly in a violent cycle, even if it has only one participant. While love is usually a by chance happening, hate is a decision, an intention.

The problem with hate for the hated, is that it leads them to believe that they are worthy of hate, worthy of being hated. It makes them question themselves, makes them wonder what they did to deserve this intentional and directed emotion. It wounds their ego, hurts their pride, and knocks them to the floor. Hate hurts more than love satisfies, because love is a mistake, but hate is a bullet shot in execution-style; it is accurate, direct, and without mistakes.

The second problem with hate for the hated is that in its stinging freshness, it confuses and causes one to believe that if they are worthy of being hated, they are capable of hating as well.

And so they do. Or at least try to. Or at the very least except that they cannot, but try to convince all others that they do, that they hate with a fiery passion. Because the only thing more hurtful to one's image and esteem than being hated, is being hated without hating in return.

Unfortunately that's human nature, and not immaturity. Fortunately, neither are for me. Not for too long, at least.

"Was yesterday so important that you can't start fresh today?"

Not to me.

Cherry Coffee Cake

Last night I saw you in my dreams. Now I can't wait to go to sleep.

In a translucent green bag, I keep all the cards my grandfather sends me. Birthday cards, Christmas cards, Valentine's Day cards, and an overwhelming number of cards for no occasion. Just to say hello, offer a few words of encouragement and a prayer, and remind me that I am loved.

Since my grandparents moved to Ohio, I don't get to see them very often, but I can always depend on his cards to comfort me. Early this morning I awoke to deal with a bit of strife, and before I laid back down to sleep, I read one of his cards.

Then I saw him in my dreams. We were sitting in the living room at his old house on Coyle. He had his favorite blue mug with gold lettering in his hand, full of steaming black coffee. I sat on his lap. He told me again the story of my birth, how his mother was gravely ill, but fought to live just long enough to see me born into the world. He told me how proud he was that I was named after his daughter. He told me, as he has many times, that he knew even from my infancy that I was born to show the world greatness, that I was a giant.

Then he got sad. He said he could see that I was being knocked off my square, that I was questioning myself, my motives, and my abilities. That in me I was harboring confusion and feelings that is uncharacteristic of me. He said that I was a giant, but I was playing small.

And he was right.

Purpose is one of the most important words in my life. I have chosen to endure so many things because of purpose. My life is meaningful, it has direction, it will have great impact; it has purpose. But lately I've been knocked off my square. I've allowed the doubt of others to make me question myself, my college and career choices and my future. I've allowed the vileness of others to contaminate the serenity in myself. I've allowed others misery to adulterate my happiness. I've lost sight of my purpose.

At the end of my dream, my grandfather sat his mug down, planted me on the floor and stood before me. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a diamond. It was bright, beautiful and captivating. Then he reached in his other pocket and pulled out mud, and covered the diamond in it.

And I awoke, suddenly feeling the need to take a shower, and give my grandfather a call.

Thanks.

Projectile

All the streetlights glowing, happened to be just like moments passing in front of me.

I'm sitting here trying to hold back my vomit.

Let me know..

You hate me?

I hate you, too.

Moments passing in front of me..

I wish I could explain in this blog how I feel about this bullshit right now. But I can't.

Just vomiting..

Last of Tears

My shattered dreams and broken heart are mending on the shelf..

I remember blogging some time ago in A Long Way Gone about the relationship between myself and my mother and how I thought it was improving.

Exactly a week ago I realized that I was wrong. To make a very long story short, I was called irresponsible, unintelligent and slutty for trying to help a friend. Very unlike myself, I broke down in the car with my friends. To help make me feel a little better, we all went out to eat, then my best friend Brandon spent the night with me, thinking it would ease the blow of the confrontation with my mother in the morning.

It didn't. She exploded. Irrationally. She threatened me with a pair of scissors, in front of Brandon. She told me she could "fucking kill me if she wanted to because I'm her child", in front of Brandon. I tossed a plastic bowl into the sink, she punched me for throwing her dishes.

About a week prior to that she made me quit my job after I refused to give her a hundred dollars gas money to be transported there, three days a week.

I feel kind of foolish for thinking that it would ever be anything different.

I wish there was a way I didn't have to be here.

The relationship between me and my grandmother is unexplainable. I sometimes make her eggs and toast in the morning. I bring her butter pecan ice cream and lemon pound cake when she asks for it. I try to look at her as a different person, as a stranger. I try to swallow my resentment. I smile. But inside I feel as though I'm betraying myself.

I wish there was a way I didn't have to be here.

-------------------------------------------------

But I guess this is the summer of the lasts. After this, it'll be over. After this, I'll be done.

Nothing for me to do, but have one last cry. For the very last time, stop living a lie.

I guess I'm down, I guess I'm down, I guess I'm down, I guess I'm down..

To my last cry.