Wednesday, August 25, 2004
i'd be pretty disappointed if i could replace everything in my life with alcohol
i remember picking callouses off bloody fingers, and remember i had to wait for my hands to get used to the feel of the ball. the mornings. the afternoons. everything reserved for practice. the weekends were free. then we quit. we were only working on volleyball for a month anyhow, and i doubt i was anything special since i couldn't serve over the net half the time without my hand turning raw with pain. i remember sitting out with cramps when i didn't want to play football and andy coming up to me wanting to make out under the trees. we never made out, because i made that up. often i end up in fictional arms in high school, since almost everything about that time is embellished with false facts. i was alone and i was a nerd and i wanted to be this rebellious little girl. i wanted to be a noir bard, but ultimately i was the smart girl that the administration liked, but stupid enough that the right teachers knew to ignore me. in a school of 50, everyone knows everything and rumors spread fast.
i have opposing blisters on my feet from wearing uncomfortable shoes. girls do ridiculous things in the name of fashion, but i've given them up. i'll never be a super model.
i have bruises on my thigh from unexplained mysterious accidents that occur during my dreams.
i have a small stinger stuck in my middle finger of my left hand.
i have one 2.5 inch scar down my left leg. i have another rounder scar on the right from falling down hard on the asphalt from walking my dog.
there's a rash on my right forearm i have no idea why.
my freckles are fading.
there's a grey bump on my right hand that stays the same size and appears to just be there. i poke at it for comfort some nights. perhaps waiting for a small baby to appear.
my legs are covered in tiny scratches from ingrown hairs, mosquito bites and fleas. i enjoy each and every one of these marks, because i feel like it's the one thing that pulls me out of the crowd. the thing that makes me a colored face in a mass of a gray world.
i remember i wanted to learn guitar. i quit piano. i gave up the band and now i write. i couldn't be happier.
i'm starting to think i shouldn't write here when i'm too tired and angry at myself.
¶ 3:11 AM
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i remember picking callouses off bloody fingers, and remember i had to wait for my hands to get used to the feel of the ball. the mornings. the afternoons. everything reserved for practice. the weekends were free. then we quit. we were only working on volleyball for a month anyhow, and i doubt i was anything special since i couldn't serve over the net half the time without my hand turning raw with pain. i remember sitting out with cramps when i didn't want to play football and andy coming up to me wanting to make out under the trees. we never made out, because i made that up. often i end up in fictional arms in high school, since almost everything about that time is embellished with false facts. i was alone and i was a nerd and i wanted to be this rebellious little girl. i wanted to be a noir bard, but ultimately i was the smart girl that the administration liked, but stupid enough that the right teachers knew to ignore me. in a school of 50, everyone knows everything and rumors spread fast.
i have opposing blisters on my feet from wearing uncomfortable shoes. girls do ridiculous things in the name of fashion, but i've given them up. i'll never be a super model.
i have bruises on my thigh from unexplained mysterious accidents that occur during my dreams.
i have a small stinger stuck in my middle finger of my left hand.
i have one 2.5 inch scar down my left leg. i have another rounder scar on the right from falling down hard on the asphalt from walking my dog.
there's a rash on my right forearm i have no idea why.
my freckles are fading.
there's a grey bump on my right hand that stays the same size and appears to just be there. i poke at it for comfort some nights. perhaps waiting for a small baby to appear.
my legs are covered in tiny scratches from ingrown hairs, mosquito bites and fleas. i enjoy each and every one of these marks, because i feel like it's the one thing that pulls me out of the crowd. the thing that makes me a colored face in a mass of a gray world.
i remember i wanted to learn guitar. i quit piano. i gave up the band and now i write. i couldn't be happier.
i'm starting to think i shouldn't write here when i'm too tired and angry at myself.
¶ 3:11 AM
|
