Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Hold Your Own

Have you ever had a hangnail? On your thumb, ring finger, wherever. And in an attempt to free yourself from the annoyance of free, flailing skin, you made the horrible mistake of ripping it off? But, of course, hangnail's aren't like blades of grass you pull with ease from the dirt. I mean, sure, you can get lucky occasionally, but for the most part they rip much deeper into the skin. And they hurt.

Have you ever had an open sore from a hangnail? On your thumb, ring finger, wherever. And in an attempt to free yourself from the annoyance of constant pain, you made the horrible mistake of applying Hydrogen Peroxide? It's supposed to help your wounds heal, correct? Then, don't mind me asking, why does it never work? All that happens to me is intense stinging for a ridiculously short amount of time. But, depending on the severity of the sore, it's enough to bring you to your knees.

A hangnail, whether you try to fix it with Hydrogen Peroxide or simply let it be, can bother you all day; it can be a boulder thrown upon your sinking boat. A hangnail. Really?

I sat in Chemistry today, and two boys were throwing a small, foamy ball back and forth across the room. One of them happened to be sitting behind me. The ball happened to hit me in the back of the neck.

"Can you get me that ball?" The moron behind me asked, each syllable of his simple question laced with the apparent tone of his superiority.

"No." I said bitterly. "You can get it yourself."

In the past I would have hesitated and given in, leaning far out of my way (possibly exposing the room to my underpants), and delivering the ball into his smirking grasp. Not today.

"Miss Sensitive." He muttered as he got the ball himself.

I'm usually very collected, very calm, very slow to anger. I'm usually the one laughing as friends fight back their embittered fists; but at that moment, if it wouldn't have lead me to look like an utter fool and (for lack of a better word) deuce, I would have turned around and beat him down with raging words he's too dim to understand.

But I didn't.

And that hangnail's been stinging all day.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Music, Magic, and McFly

There are things I'm missing. And it just hurts me. It digs into my heart and twirls around like some epic screw until I'm aching all over; aching so much I feel I could simply melt with anxiety through the floor and six feet under. And you want to know what hurts me the most? Music. Music I don't have access to. Songs unavailable through anything but the glory of youtube.

Here are several songs I'm dying over; dying because they aren't mine. And frankly, they probably never will be.




Collapsible Plans, Jason Mraz

This song has been a long time favorite of mine, and in spite of his use of uncalled for cuss words I can't help but want to jump into the video with him and be the little girl that runs up and stars adoringly at his image until she sheepishly runs away. I absolutely adore this song.



Bad Habit, Varsity Fanclub

Of all the boyband songs I've ever heard, this is the only one that will eat at me through the rest of my days. This song is the theme music that plays through my head nearly every other day, and I'm sure this apparent thrust would be quenched if I owned the song via iTunes.



Breakdown More, Eric Hutchinson

Ever since I made a Pandora account this song as been eating away at my soul. I absolutely love Eric Hutchinson, but of all his incredibly delicious songs, this is by far the most tantalizing. You watched the video, right? How could you not hear that song-those words-and not be hooked like a crack addict? Please try to understand my pain.

Well, I wanted to go out with a big Back to the Future video, but all BTTF related videos were against being posted. So instead enjoy this picture as your favorite quote floats repetitively through your mind. Don't have any? Here's one of mine:

"There's that word again. Heavy. Why is everything so heavy in the future? Is there a problem with Earth's gravitational pull?"

Peace-Erica

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Love and Hate

I'm a respecter of artists. But to me, and artist is not the type that puts his mind to a canvas with acrylics or lays on his back on scaffolding and beautifies the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. In my dictionary an artist is a musician, a singer/songwriter, because, in their own individual way, singer/songwriters and artists both do the same thing. They put their minds into something tangible and worth feeling, whether that be a canvas of acrylics or an acoustic jam.

An artist that's recently grabbed my attention is Daphne Willis. If I was skilled enough I'd post a video of her. We'll see what this link does.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K9_CvhcHFsw

The thing I love about Daphne is her folk type sound, her thought-provoking lyrics (the likes of which I haven't run into since the early Mraz days, and my quite Dawn Mitschele phase), and her image. I love how she doesn't make the effort to, well, make an effort. (First impression wise, she kinda reminds me of The Queen of Hearts from Disney's animated version of Alice in Wonderland. But she's not a grouch.) Granted, a little effort and she'd be quite a beauty, but she keeps her look organic and natural, just like her sound.

Kudos to Daphne. She's bumped herself up the my top five favorites. And, by the looks of things, that may just be where she's staying.



As Daphne would say: FOWSH.
I still have no idea what that means...

Friday, April 2, 2010

A Little Fall of Rain

"Well. Here we are."

The rain is pouring and the bus isn't coming. Lucky for me there's a shotty roof covering the bench. I sit and think over the humidity and how my hair will poof up. You're sitting next to me.

I really want that bus to come.

Or time to slow and the rain to fall forever. Because it's just you and me here, for now. And I like just you and me.

I can't look at you, though it's all I'm dying to do. I just want to watch you forever, to soak you all in. I haven't felt this way since...

But I won't think about that. I shouldn't. Because remembering those days will make this all seem alright. This sitting just out of the rain with you, this falling into love with you.

And it's not alright. It's not okay.

I know what you are outside of this covered bus stop. I know how you are. But I still can't help but inch closer to you, still can't help but want to rest my head on your shoulder. And I think you can see it.

Even when it was "gone" you could see it. You'd speak to me and taunt me with it. And I thought you a fool. Well, look at me. I'm the fool. I still love you. If it's possible to do so. Can I even say "still"? Did I ever "love" you to begin with?

I scuff my kicks on the cement, thinking of how it would look if the pavement here were wet. Cars drive past and you say something.

I don't even know what it is, but I know I wont respond right. I never do. You always catch me off guard. That, or around you I'm so far on guard that I can't find my voice, my thoughts, or even my breath.

And I just want you to see what I see.

What I see in myself that you miss because I clam up around you; what I see in you when you're across the room, forgetting I exist. I want you to see that and love it the way I do. I want you to love me the way I do.

And you do. You do love me. When it's just us, on this rain-free, covered bus stop bench. But this, sadly, is the only place you'll ever love me. Right here, right now, and tomorrow night when I bring myself back here as I drift to sleep, my heart breaking because it's not going to come again.

You know it, and I know it. When the bus comes you're gone. When the rain stops, you're gone. And both things are completely inevitable.

And in the end I'll sit here, my hair full of volume from the humidity and my heart laying crinkled in my lap. I don't blame you. I really don't. I don't believe you're being cruel.

God made you what you are. But I'm not blaming Him either.

I'm complimenting Him, commending Him.

And blaming myself for wishing on rainbows.

Rainbows that leave, like you, with the rain.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Heart of Glass

"Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got till it's gone?"
-Big Yellow Taxi, Counting Crows

"It's not having what you want. It's wanting what you've got."
-Soak Up the Sun, Sheryl Crow

"In a world where what we want is only what we want until it's ours."
-Calling All Angels, Train

What if what we want is only what we want once we don't want it anymore?

I don't know what it is with me. But this veil has been removed from my eyes. He's not the same person, but I almost like him all the more for it. I found him attractive before and now... Now I'd be content to stare at a picture bearing his face for hours, when before photos were shudder inducing.

But I've said it before and I'll say it again: If we were the only two people on the planet, I'd be with him. Because then there'd be no other girls for him to get distracted by. It would just be the two of us. And one-on-one he was always fine.

"Maybe if we both lived in a different world. Then it would be all good and Baby, I could be your girl. But I can't 'cuz we dont."
-Womanizer, Britney Spears

I think I tend to love unconditionally too much. And too soon. And I can't get past the thought that maybe no one after this moment will love me. So I keep hoping the boy who holds my heart at this moment will love me, so all this emotion and childish belief in fate can mean something. But, of course, it doesn't happen that way.

Listen to me! I sound like a thirty-year-old single woman who's lost her hope in humanity and ever finding that one special person.

Helllllooo! You're not even an "adult" yet!

Work today brought great insight to me, and I don't think my coworker even intended to do so. She was April Fools joking a boy through texts saying one of the missionaries she writes had sent her a ring and wants to marry her. She hasn't ever talked to this missionary other than letters and emails and such. She kept asking me for lines to feed her friend after his questions and arguements. One such argument was, "Look at how young you are! You can't get married now." She asked me what to say next.

"Say.. 'What if this is my one shot at love, and I say no?'"

As she happily turned away to type it I realized I, in a way, was speaking for myself. I'm so worried "the one" will slip away that I get myself caught up in having "the one" come right now. And, of course, when "the one" is merely destined to be a friend, I'm broken.

Call me vain, but I often feel that there are guys who totally dig me. Who are totally into me. I'm like their Sun. But that all ends rather shortly. One day I see in their eyes the crave for my attention, and the next... Kuputs. And I can't help but ask myself, "What am I missing to keep them around? Why do they always change their minds?" And even worse, "Why can't I ever be them, seamlessly falling in and out of love, no jagged corners, no rough and sudden drops...?"

I just remembered something I wrote the other day. Let me type it:
(Writen March 18. Origionally.)

Things aren't set in stone.

What's your purpose? What's your motive? Why am I what always is left behind?

Is it a right of passage? Am I just another rung on the ladder, and to get where you're going you can't skip me? Do I have to be used?

I'm certain I can't keep being drained this way. I was full, once. He took most that away. And now you? I'm feeling empty again.

Perhaps next time there'll be nothing left to take.

Perhaps next time I'll have nothing left to give.

And I tried oh so hard not to give to who wouldn't take.

But I guess that's just me being me again. I guess that's just me being over-optomistic.

Never again, I could vow, never again. But to what avail? What good did this pledge do me the last time around?

So I guess I shouldn't look anymore. I guess I shouldn't hope. And if you, or him, or any other man finally desides to chase me, finally desides that I'm a prize, well, that's when I'll be content.

That's when I'll have to be content.

Because apparently this isn't up to me, and apparently I have absolutely no say.

As of now I'm done, and should you change your mind, great, but don't be surprised if I don't seem the same.

By the time we're on speaking terms again I will have beat myself up and struggled with my heart too much to be the same.

I'm sorry I'm wrecking this for us.

I'm sorry you're too blind to see it happen.

And I'm sorry I'm not what's wanted.



Daddy once said, "Someday some boy will think you're the prettiest thing." Or something like that.

I wish I could get in my head that "someday" isn't today. Or tomorrow.

And by the looks of things, not next week.