Its been years, SPEAK! say something! I'm done waiting...I get it, you dont want me...I aint mad at u either but whats holding you back from just saying something? Is it something I said? You bite your tongue before you even allow yourself to just speak...I'm stronger than I was then...whatever it is, please just say it...
I wish I could just walk up to you and get you to fucking say something...im not crazy ...I wish I could force you to just say it...i need to hear these words...but you refuse to just say them...and I wish I knew why...the fuktup part about it is you will probably read this and not even know that I'm talking to you...
Im glad you still check on me every now and then even if its a bit of spying...I wish you weren't afraid to just way whats on your mind...that is if there is anything to be said...i guess im assuming too much again...and making an ass out of myself again...
I know your life is in a direction you never expected but I can tell you are happy...I hold no grudges, except one...yes i have but one grudge against you...and its a simple question, that i think deserves a real answer...but maybe I'm wrong and I don't deserve an answer or even the time it takes to read this...
My simple question:
From the bottom of my soul I know I see something...
why is it that when I looked you in eye, all I saw was fear? Why did I see fear? Do you fear me?
I hate you, so much. But I need you. I look at pictures of myself and I am disgusted. How have I let myself become this? I told myself I wouldn't gain any weight in college- now look at me. My roommate lost a lot of weight in the past year, so now I'm the heaviest. Faith- the designated fat friend. Faith- Why would anyone want to date her? She's nothing you can show off. You're losing me friends. I can't even see anyone from my hometown, even my family, without being embarrassed. Oh, there's Faith, she got big, didn't she? Fuck you. You're always around, and you could solve the problem, but I'm weak. Mentally, physically, emotionally. I have no will power. I feel pressured by my roommates to eat, and so I do. But you can't throw up while they're still in the room, right? Have to wait until they're gone. There's only so many times you can pretend to have a stomach bug. Help me, help me, help me. How much weight can you lose me before New Years? I'm going to the Bahamas and I have to look good in a bathing suit...
Allow me to introduce myself. My name, or as I am called by so called "doctors," is Anorexia. Anorexia Nervosa is my full name, but you may call me Ana. Hopefully we can become great partners. In the coming time, I will invest a lot of time in you, and I expect the same from you.
In the past you have heard all of your teachers and parents talk about you. You are "so mature," "intelligent," "14 going on 45," and you possess "so much potential." Where has that gotten you, may I ask? Absolutely nowhere! You are not perfect, you do not try hard enough, furthermore you waste your time on thinking and talking with friends and drawing! Such acts of indulgence shall not be allowed in the future.
Your friends do not understand you. They are not truthful. In the past, when the insecurity has quietly gnawed away at your mind, and you asked them, "Do I look . . . fat?" and they answered "Oh no, of course not," you knew they were lying! Only I tell the truth. Your parents, let's not even go there! You know that they love you, and care for you, but part of that is just that they are your parents and are obligated to do so. I shall tell you a secret now: Deep down inside themselves, they are disappointed with you. Their daughter, the one with so much potential, has turned into a fat, lazy, and undeserving girl.
But I am about to change all that. I will expect you to drop your calorie intake and up your exercise. I will push you to the limit. You must take it because you cannot defy me! I am beginning to imbed myself into you. Pretty soon, I am with you always. I am there when you wake up in the morning and run to the scale. The numbers become both friend and enemy, and the frenzied thoughts pray for them to be lower than yesterday, last night, etc. You look into the mirror with dismay. You prod and poke at the fat that is there, and smile when you come across bone. I am there when you figure out the plan for the day: 400 calories, two hours exercise. I am the one figuring this out, because by now my thoughts and your thoughts are blurred together as one. I follow you throughout the day. In school, when your mind wanders I give you something to think about. Recount the calories for the day. It's too much. I fill your mind with thoughts of food, weight, calories, and things that are safe to think about. Because now, I am already inside of you. I am in your head, your heart, and your soul. The hunger pains you pretend not to feel is me, inside of you.
Pretty soon I am telling you not only what to do with food, but what to do ALL of the time. Smile and nod. Present yourself well. Suck in that fat stomach, dammit! God, you are such a fat cow!!!! When mealtimes come around I tell you what to do. I make a plate of lettuce seem like a feast fit for a king. Push the food around. Make it look like you've eaten something. No piece of anything . . . if you eat, all the control will be broken . . . do you WANT that?? To revert back to the fat COW you once were?? I force you to stare at magazine models. Those perfect-skinned, white-teethed, waifish models of perfection staring out at you from those glossy pages. I make you realize that you could never be them. You will always be fat and never will you be as beautiful as they are. When you look in the mirror, I will distort the image. I will show you obesity and hideousness. I will show you a sumo wrestler where in reality there is a starving child. But you must not know this, because if you knew the truth, you might start to eat again and our relationship would come crashing down.
Sometimes you will rebel. Hopefully not often though. You will recognize the small rebellious fibre left in your body and will venture down to the dark kitchen. The cupboard door will slowly open, creaking softly. Your eyes will move over the food that I have kept at a safe distance from you. You will find your hands reaching out, lethargically, like a nightmare, through the darkness to the box of crackers. You shove them in, mechanically, not really tasting but simply relishing in the fact that you are going against me. You reach for another box, then another, then another. Your stomach will become bloated and grotesque, but you will not stop yet. And all the time I am screaming at you to stop, you fat cow, you really have no self-control, you are going to get fat.
When it is over you will cling to me again, ask me for advice because you really do not want to get fat. You broke a cardinal rule and ate, and now you want me back. I'll force you into the bathroom, onto your knees, staring into the void of the toilet bowl. Your fingers will be inserted into your throat, and, not without a great deal of pain, your food binge will come up. Over and over this is to be repeated, until you spit up blood and water and you know it is all gone. When you stand up, you will feel dizzy. Don't pass out. Stand up right now. You fat cow, you deserve to be in pain! Maybe the choice of getting rid of the guilt is different. Maybe I chose to make you take laxatives, where you sit on the toilet until the wee hours of the morning, feeling your insides cringe. Or perhaps I just make you hurt yourself, bang your head into the wall until you receive a throbbing headache. Cutting is also effective. I want you to see your blood, to see it fall down your arm, and in that split second you will realize you deserve whatever pain I give you. You are depressed, obsessed, in pain, hurting, reaching out, but no one will listen. Who cares?!?!! You are deserving; you brought this upon yourself.
Oh, is this harsh? Do you not want this to happen to you? Am I unfair? I do do things that will help you. I make it possible for you to stop thinking of emotions that cause you stress. Thoughts of anger, sadness, desperation, and loneliness can cease because I take them away and fill your head with the methodical calorie counting. I take away your struggle to fit in with kids your age, the struggle of trying to please everyone as well. Because now, I am your only friend, and I am the only one you need to please.
I have a weak spot. But we must not tell anyone. If you decide to fight back, to reach out to someone and tell them about how I make you live, all hell will break lose. No one must find out, no one can crack this shell that I have covered you with. I have created you, this thin, perfect, achieving child. You are mine and mine alone. Without me, you are nothing. So do not fight back. When others comment, ignore them. Take it into stride, forget about them, forget about everyone who tries to take me away. I am your greatest asset, and I intend to keep it that way.
"We tell lies when we are afraid... afraid of what we don't know, afraid of what others will think, afraid of what will be found out about us. But every time we tell a lie, the thing that we fear grows stronger."
Dear Reader,
Think one thing, say another. We all do it. Wouldn't it be nice, though, to just once say what's really on our minds? We could never do that, though. What would people think? Surely most would not react the way you would want them to, and, deep down, we all know this. So we twist our words, and the truth. We keep things like journals and diaries and blogs- the only places where we can just be ourselves. Even in the blogging world, though, it is hard to do this. People you know read what you write, and it's out there online for everyone to see. I want to start something up again that I did on my last blog- it's called Let It Out Monday. If you would like, send me a letter that you have written, or one that you have stumbled upon online. For those of you who, just once, want to escape the pressure of what other people think about you, tell me and I'll post it anonymously. For those of you who say to hell with what other people think, give me the link to your site and I'll post it with your letter. Let It Out Monday will be every Monday. I will post one letter, on a first come, first serve basis. My e-mail is gottahavefai@gmail.com, you can send them there. Intro quote not necessary, but welcomed. Look forward to hearing from you!
This one was written by Jessica Leigh Griffith. You can see the actual post here.
This is my tribute to the nice girls. To the nice girls who are overlooked, who become friends and nothing more, who spend hours fixating upon their looks and their personalities and their actions because it must be they that are doing something wrong. This is for the girls who don’t give it up on the first date, who don’t want to play mind games, who provide a comforting hug and a supportive audience for a story they’ve heard a thousand times. This is for the girls who understand that they aren’t perfect and that the guys they’re interested in aren’t either, for the girls who flirt and laugh and worry and obsess over the slightest glance, whisper, touch, because somehow they are able to keep alive that hope that maybe… maybe this time he’ll have understood. This is an homage to the girls who laugh loud and often, who are comfortable in skirts and sweats and combat boots, who care more than they should for guys who don’t deserve their attention. This is for those girls who have been in the trenches, who have watched other girls time and time again fake up and make up and fuck up the guys in their lives without saying a word. This is for the girls who have been there from the beginning and have heard the trite words of advice, from “there are plenty of fish in the sea,” to “time heals all wounds.” This is to honor those girls who know that guys are just as scared as they are, who know that they deserve better, who are seeking to find it.
This is for the girls who have never been in love, but know that it’s an experience that they don’t want to miss out on. For the girls who have sought a night with friends and been greeted by a night of catcalling, rude comments and explicit invitations that they’d rather not have experienced. This is for the girls who have spent their weekends sitting on the sidelines of a beer pong tournament or a case race, or playing Florence Nightingale for a vomiting guy friend or a comatose crush, who have received a drunk phone call just before dawn from someone who doesn’t care enough to invite them over but is still willing to pass out in their bed. This is for the girls who have left sad song lyrics in their away messages, who have tried to make someone understand through a subliminally appealing profile, who have time and time again dropped their male friend hint after hint after hint only to watch him chase after the first blonde girl in a skirt. This is for the girls who have been told that they’re too good or too smart or too pretty, who have been given compliments as a way of breaking off a relationship, who have ever been told they are only wanted as a friend.
This one’s for the girls who you can take home to mom, but won’t because it’s easier to sleep with a whore than foster a relationship; this is for the girls who have been led on by words and kisses and touches, all of which were either only true for the moment, or never real to begin with. This is for the girls who have allowed a guy into their head and heart and bed, only to discover that he’s just not ready, he’s just not over her, he’s just not looking to be tied down; this is for the girls who believe the excuses because it’s easier to believe that it’s not that they don’t want you, it’s that they don’t want anyone. This is for the girls who have had their hearts broken and their hopes dashed by someone too cavalier to have cared in the first place; this is for the nights spent dissecting every word and syllable and inflection in his speech, for the nights when you’ve returned home alone, for the nights when you’ve seen from across the room him leaning a little too close, or standing a little too near, or talking a little too softly for the girl he’s with to be a random hookup. This is for the girls who have endured party after party in his presence, finally having realized that it wasn’t that he didn’t want a relationship: it was that he didn’t want you. I honor you for the night his dog died or his grandmother died or his little brother crashed his car and you held him, thinking that if you only comforted him just right, or said the right words, or rubbed his back in the right way then perhaps he’d realize what it was that he already had. This is for the night you realized that it would never happen, and the sunrise you saw the next morning after failing to sleep.
This is for the “I really like you, so let’s still be friends” comment after you read more into a situation than he ever intended; this is for never realizing that when you choose friends, you seldom choose those which make you cry yourself to sleep. This is for the hugs you’ve received from your female friends, for the nights they’ve reassured you that you are beautiful and intelligent and amazing and loyal and truly worthy of a great guy; this is for the despair you all felt as you sat in the aftermath of your tears, knowing that that night the only companionship you’d have was with a pillow and your teddy bear. This is for the girls who have been used and abused, who have endured what he was giving because at least he was giving something; this is for the stupidity of the nights we’ve believed that something was better than nothing, though his something was nothing we’d have ever wanted. This is for the girls who have been satisfied with too little and who have learned never to expect anything more: for the girls who don’t think that they deserve more, because they’ve been conditioned for so long to accept the scraps thrown to them by guys.
This is what I don’t understand. Men sit and question and whine that girls are only attracted to the mean guys, the guys who berate them and belittle them and don’t appreciate them and don’t want them; who use them for sex and think of little else than where their next conquest will be made. Men complain that they never meet nice girls, girls who are genuinely interested and compelling, who are intelligent and sweet and smart and beautiful; men despair that no good women want to share in their lives, that girls play mind games, that girls love to keep them hanging. Yet, men, I ask you: were you to meet one of these genuinely interested, thrillingly compelling, interesting and intelligent and sweet and beautiful and smart girls, were you to give her your number and wait for her to call… and if you were to receive a call from her the next day and she, in her truthful, loyal, intelligent and straightforward nice girl fashion, were to tell you that she finds you intriguing and attractive and interesting and worth her time and perhaps material from which she could fashion a boyfriend, would you or would you not immediately call your friends to tell them of the “stalker chick” you’d met the night prior, who called you and wore her heart on her sleeve and told the truth?And would you, or would you not, refuse to make plans with her, speak with her, see her again, and once again return to the bar or club or party scene and search once more for this “nice girl” who you just cannot seem to find? Because therein lies the truth, guys: we nice girls are everywhere. But you’re not looking for a nice girl. You’re not looking for someone genuinely interested in your intramural basketball game, or your anatomy midterm grade, or that argument you keep having with your father; you’re looking for a quick fix, a night when you can pretend to have a connection with another human being which is just as disposable as the condom you were using during it.
So don’t say you’re on the lookout for nice girls, guys, when you pass us up on every step you take. Sometimes we go undercover; sometimes we go in disguise: sometimes when that girl in the low cut shirt or the too tight miniskirt won’t answer your catcalls, sometimes you’re looking at a nice girl in whore’s clothing - -we might say we like the attention, we might blush and giggle and turn back to our friends, but we’re all thinking the same thing: “This isn’t me. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be wearing a t-shirt and flannel shorts, I’ll have slept alone and I’ll be making my hungover best friend breakfast. See through the disguise. See me.” You never do. Why? Because you only see the exterior, you only see the slutty girl who welcomes those advances. You don’t want the nice girl.. so don’t say you’re looking for a relationship: relationships take time and energy and intent, three things we’re willing to extend - - but in return, we’re looking for compassion and loyalty and trust, three things you never seem willing to express. Maybe nice guys finish last, but in the race they’re running they’re chasing after the whores and the sluts and the easy-targets… the nice girls are waiting at the finish line with water and towels and a congratulatory hug (and yes, if she’s a nice girl and she likes you, the sweatiness probably won’t matter), hoping against hope that maybe you’ll realize that they’re the ones that you want at the end of that silly race.
So maybe it won’t last forever. Maybe some of those guys in that race will turn in their running shoes and make their way to the concession stand where we’re waiting; however, until that happens, we still have each other, that silly race to watch, and all the chocolate we can eat (because what’s a concession stand at a race without some chocolate?)
This is a letter posted on Craigslist, three years ago today:
I see this question posted with some regularity in the personals section, so I thought I'd take a minute to explain things to the ladies out there that haven't figured it out.
What happened to all the nice guys?
The answer is simple: you did.
See, if you think back, really hard, you might vaguely remember a Platonic guy pal who always seemed to want to spend time with you. He'd tag along with you when you went shopping, stop by your place for a movie when you were lonely but didn't feel like going out, or even sit there and hold you while you sobbed and told him about how horribly the (other) guy that you were fucking treated you.
At the time, you probably joked with your girlfriends about how he was a little puppy dog, always following you around, trying to do things to get you to pay attention to him. They probably teased you because they thought he had a crush on you. Given that his behavior was, admittedly, a little pathetic, you vehemently denied having any romantic feelings for him, and buttressed your position by claiming that you were "just friends." Besides, he totally wasn't your type. I mean, he was a little too short, or too bald, or too fat, or too poor, or didn't know how to dress himself, or basically be or do any of the things that your tall, good-looking, fit, rich, stylish boyfriend at the time pulled off with such ease.
Eventually, your Platonic buddy drifted away, as your relationship with the boyfriend got more serious and spending time with this other guy was, admittedly, a little weird, if you werent dating him. More time passed, and the boyfriend eventually cheated on you, or became boring, or you realized that the things that attracted you to him weren't the kinds of things that make for a good, long-term relationship. So, now, you're single again, and after having tried the bar scene for several months having only encountered players and douche bags, you wonder, "What happened to all the nice guys?"
Well, once again, you did.
You ignored the nice guy. You used him for emotional intimacy without reciprocating, in kind, with physical intimacy. You laughed at his consideration and resented his devotion. You valued the aloof boyfriend more than the attentive "just-a-" friend. Eventually, he took the hint and moved on with his life. He probably came to realize, one day, that women aren't really attracted to guys who hold doors open; or make dinners just because; or buy you a Christmas gift that you mentioned, in passing, that you really wanted five months ago; or listen when you're upset; or hold you when you cry. He came to realize that, if he wanted a woman like you, he'd have to act more like the boyfriend that you had. He probably cleaned up his look, started making some money, and generally acted like more of an asshole than he ever wanted to be.
Fact is, now, he's probably getting laid, and in a way, your ultimate rejection of him is to thank for that. And I'm sorry that it took the complete absence of "nice guys" in your life for you to realize that you missed them and wanted them. Most women will only have a handful of nice guys stumble into their lives, if that.
So, if you're looking for a nice guy, here's what you do:
1.) Build a time machine. 2.) Go back a few years and pull your head out of your ass. 3.) Take a look at what's right in front of you and grab ahold of it.
I suppose the other possibility is that you STILL don't really want a nice guy, but you feel the social pressure to at least appear to have matured beyond your infantile taste in men. In which case, you might be in luck, because the nice guy you claim to want has, in reality, shed his nice guy mantle and is out there looking to unleash his cynicism and resentment onto someone just like you.
If you were five years younger.
So, please: either stop misrepresenting what you want, or own up to the fact that you've fucked yourself over. You're getting older, after all. It's time to excise the bullshit and deal with reality. You didn't want a nice guy then, and he certainly doesn't fucking want you, now.
I have hereby dubbed the rest of this week “Week for the Nice Ones”. My next few posts will be dedicated to this. For those of you who followed my last blog, sorry there may be a couple of repeats. They’re a good read though. This one was written by Fu-zu Jen in 2003, for the Wharton Undergraduate Journal. You can view this post here. If anyone has a letter they want to write to a “nice girl” or “nice guy”, just send it over! My e-mail is gottahavefai@gmail.com. I can post it either anonymously or with a link to your blog.
Happy reading!
Fai
Ode to the Nice Guys
This is a tribute to the nice guys. The nice guys that finish last, that never become more than friends, that endure hours of whining and bitching about what assholes guys are, while disproving the very point. This is dedicated to those guys who always provide a shoulder to lean on but restrain themselves to tentative hugs, those guys who hold open doors and give reassuring pats on the back and sit patiently outside the changing room at department stores. This is in honor of the guys that obligingly reiterate how cute/beautiful/smart/funny/sexy their female friends are at the appropriate moment, because they know most girls need that litany of support. This is in honor of the guys with open minds, with laid-back attitudes, with honest concern. This is in honor of the guys who respect a girl’s every facet, from her privacy to her theology to her clothing style.
This is for the guys who escort their drunk, bewildered female friends back from parties and never take advantage once they’re at her door, for the guys who accompany girls to bars as buffers against the rest of the creepy male population, for the guys who know a girl is fishing for compliments but give them out anyway, for the guys who always play by the rules in a game where the rules favor cheaters, for the guys who are accredited as boyfriend material but somehow don’t end up being boyfriends, for all the nice guys who are overlooked, underestimated, and unappreciated, for all the nice guys who are manipulated, misled, and unjustly abandoned, this is for you.
This is for that time she left 40 urgent messages on your cell phone, and when you called her back, she spent three hours painstakingly dissecting two sentences her boyfriend said to her over dinner. And even though you thought her boyfriend was a chump and a jerk, you assured her that it was all ok and she shouldn’t worry about it. This is for that time she interrupted the best killing spree you’d ever orchestrated in GTA3 to rant about a rumor that romantically linked her and the guy she thinks is the most repulsive person in the world. And even though you thought it was immature and you had nothing against the guy, you paused the game for two hours and helped her concoct a counter-rumor to spread around the floor. This is also for that time she didn’t have a date, so after numerous vows that there was nothing “serious” between the two of you, she dragged you to a party where you knew nobody, the beer was awful, and she flirted shamelessly with you, justifying each fit of reckless teasing by announcing to everyone: “oh, but we’re just friends!” And even though you were invited purely as a symbolic warm body for her ego, you went anyways. Because you’re nice like that.
The nice guys don’t often get credit where credit is due. And perhaps more disturbing, the nice guys don’t seem to get laid as often as they should. And I wish I could logically explain this trend, but I can’t. From what I have observed on campus and what I have learned from talking to friends at other schools and in the workplace, the only conclusion I can form is that many girls are just illogical, manipulative bitches. Many of them claim they just want to date a nice guy, but when presented with such a specimen, they say irrational, confusing things such as “oh, he’s too nice to date” or “he would be a good boyfriend but he’s not for me” or “he already puts up with so much from me, I couldn’t possibly ask him out!” or the most frustrating of all: “no, it would ruin our friendship.” Yet, they continue to lament the lack of datable men in the world, and they expect their too-nice-to-date male friends to sympathize and apologize for the men that are jerks. Sorry, guys, girls like that are beyond my ability to fathom. I can’t figure out why the connection breaks down between what they say (I want a nice guy!) and what they do (I’m going to sleep with this complete ass now!). But one thing I can do, is say that the nice-guy-finishes-last phenomenon doesn’t last forever. There are definitely many girls who grow out of that train of thought and realize they should be dating the nice guys, not taking them for granted. The tricky part is finding those girls, and even trickier, finding the ones that are single.
So, until those girls are found, I propose a toast to all the nice guys. You know who you are, and I know you’re sick of hearing yourself described as ubiquitously nice. But the truth of the matter is, the world needs your patience in the department store, your holding open of doors, your party escorting services, your propensity to be a sucker for a pretty smile. For all the crazy, inane, absurd things you tolerate, for all the situations where you are the faceless, nameless hero, my accolades, my acknowledgement, and my gratitude go out to you. You do have credibility in this society, and your well deserved vindication is coming.
"I believe that two people are connected at the heart, and it doesn't matter what you do, or who you are or where you live; there are no boundaries or barriers if two people are destined to be together."
Dear Summer Love,
OHMIGOSHOHMIGOSHOHMIGOSH. I just got done video chatting with you and my heart is still racing. No really, I can feel it- right there in my chest where everyone said it would be. It feels like it has wings and they're lifting me up towards the ceiling- I'm hovering right now as I write this. It only took one word to come out of your mouth for all those feelings to come rushing back to me. I don't even know what else to say- you've rendered me completely speechless! Just wanted you to know that talking to you has made my day :)
"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell."
To My Summer Love,
Everyone told me to not get too attached. It's only for the summer, they said. Don't make it harder to say goodbye than it has to be. I couldn't help it, though. I fell for you too fast- too hard. Now I'm back in the real world, and you are in another country, 1000 miles away from me. I try so hard to keep myself from talking to you- it will only make things worse- but how could I ever forget you? I can't even fall asleep without holding the stuffed bear you bought me near our favorite restaurant. Our song is now the most played on my iTunes. And in all your new Facebook pictures, you're wearing that hat I gave you. Pictures of us scatter the walls near my bed- in them we are happy, we are together. Hard to believe that what seems like the years we have spent apart have really only been a few months. I only knew you for one summer, but even our first week together I liked you more than I ever thought I could like someone. This distance is slowly eating away at me. If I don't talk to you soon I might just melt away...
Monday, I had to work on a ten page paper due the next day. It is now officially Tuesday, and I have yet to start it. Do you know what I did instead? Made mugs. That's right, made mugs. The ultimate procrastination. Usually I do normal things, like eat or watch TV, but no, this time I chose to make mugs. So I thought, well Fai, you might as well do something with these things, and I made a store. So now I am procrastinating once again by writing to you all this shameless plug: Look to the bar on the right, and view my mugs. Haha. Hopefully this will give you yet another bizarre reason to procrastinate, as I have done. Okay, I have said the words "mug" and "procrastinate" far too many times in this letter. Goodnight, my precious procrastinators.
"Kissing her would be the end of life as I know it."
Dear Future Self,
Just watched P.S. I Love You. Now listening to Love You 'Til The End by The Pogues. That's the kind of mood I'm in right now- the one I get in after watching a real sappy romantic comedy. You know how it is. How are the guys in those movies always so perfect? I thought that "I deserved the best and he's out there. He's just with all the wrong women". (Gosh, that line makes me love that movie even more.) Is there really someone out there for me, just running around with all the wrong girls? Have I been doing the same? Or have I already met who I'm meant to be with? I don't think I have. There's no way, I feel like I'd just know... hopefully you do know, you have found him, and you're thinking about him right now. I just wish you could tell me somehow, so I'd know that everything is going to be alright, and I could stop worrying about it for once.
"Groupie: The untalented who follow the talented around, to try and get some talent rubbed off onto their dull, talentless shoulders."
To The Lead Guitarist From That Band,
Am I a groupie if I hooked up with you for the sole reason that you're hot, talented and popular? Maybe whore is the word I'm looking for. Shallow? Yah, that's it. Whoops.
"All men are tempted. There is no man that lives that can't be broken down, provided it is the right temptation, put in the right spot."
To That Butterfinger Over There,
Stop. Looking at me. I don't even like you. I've never liked you before. But now you're just sitting there, with all your friends, in that stupid candy dish in my common room. Damn you! Damn my roommate for putting you there! How have you instantly become so irresistible? If there were any other candy next to you, I would pick that one instead in a heartbeat. But it's just you and me right now, and I can feel you staring at me. Can't-- take it-- anymore. UGH. Damnit I just ate you and you weren't even that good.
"The creative habit is like a drug. The particular obsession changes, but the excitement, the thrill of your creation lasts."
Dearest "New Comment" Link,
Oh how I've missed you. Seeing you again is like reuniting with an old crush- the flame of infatuation has been reignited. For the past year, I felt as though something was missing from my life. But now I know this whole time it has been you, New Comment Link. I click you, you compliment me. Is it weird how something so simple can give me such a rush?
"There's no such thing as a perfect guy. I think it would be strange if somebody was absolutely everything you always wanted, because then there'd be no challenge. Also, you'd feel inferior."
To That Cute Guy Sitting Across From Me In Class,
Gosh you're good-looking. Don't even say anything, I don't want you to ruin the illusion. Tall, dark, handsome. Smooth voice. I think I'll pretend you like red wine and candlelight dinners. You open car doors for girls and hold on to hugs for that one extra second. You know when to listen and when to talk. You get along with both parents and peers. You live life to the fullest and love to try new things. And for this whole semester, you have been contemplating whether to talk to me, "that cute girl" that sits across from you in class. Yah, there's no way you could live up to that. Just keep your mouth shut for now.
"There's one thing a quote does that nothing and no one else can do... it can become a part of you. You may never meet the person who said it, but that person is now a companion. Quotes help you get over pain, feel love, make you smile and laugh, and help you through those tough days when you think that no one else knows what you're going through."
To You, Dear Reader,
Okay. I'm not new to this. I've had a blog before, but decided one day to get rid of it. So why, you may ask, did I decide to start one up again? I guess I missed putting my thoughts out there. Hearing feedback from other people, too, you know? Let's face it, 140 characters on Twitter sometimes just doesn't cut it. So here I am, on the ol' blogging scene again. You don't have to like what I write- hell, you don't even have to read what I write. But if you feel compelled to, throw me a comment. Sometimes the best thing about blogs is just knowing that someone out there is going through the same kind of stuff you are, maybe has the same thought process as you too or something. I don't know. Hopefully this will be the start of a beautiful friendship.
"I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge. That myth is more potent than history. I believe that dreams are more powerful than facts, that hope always triumphs over experience, that laughter is the only cure for grief, and that love is stronger than death."
