my boys

Somewhere around my 10th birthday, my stepdad built me the coolest fort imaginable in a corner of the backyard. The first level was a shed for his tools and whatnot, and then I climbed the ladder up to the second level, a beautiful deck with railings and a curvy slide. The third level started with a few steps up from the second level onto a carpeted hideaway. The third level was the only part of the fort covered by a roof. It even had a window that I could open for a light breeze, and berber carpet to avoid pesky splinters. I painted the inside a deep cherry red. That proved to be a very stupid idea.

I had a boy/girl sleepover in the fort the first week after it was built. I invited the entire neighborhood and got hell for it when kids started showing up in our backyard at 6pm with sleeping bags and potato chips.

During those unbearably scorching Florida summers, you could find me on my stomach, third level, Judy Blume novel in one hand, a glass of lemonade in the other. When I wasn't being anti-social, Jordan, Tyler, Zack and I were spies, adventurers, climbers of limb after limb. We stole oranges from backyards and slurped the juice that gathered in our sticky palms. We played so hard that dirt rings gathered around our necks and clothes were coated in dirt and fresh squeezed orange juice.

There was also a snake-pit somewhere between Zack and Tyler's houses that we used to jump over, just to see if we could make it. My legs were never as long as the boys, and I would always fall into it and scramble out before anything could creep up and bite me. The boys would run away laughing.

At the terribly stupid age of thirteen, I waved to the neighborhood boys from the back of our extrmemly cramped van. I blew them kisses and held up hand-made signs and mouthed that I would come back, I would come back. Two extended, fully-loaded U-Hauls followed behind us, heading the 20 some hours to Pennsylvania. I left my fort behind.

I grew up with them, these boys. I played house (which I detested even at the ripe age of seven) with their sisters, and rode bikes for hours after school and blasted my water guns with the best of them. We were each others.

I still remember little things about them; the way that Jordan would eat ketchup with his mac and cheese and instantly throw up at a single whiff of dog poop; the way Zack would try to rap in his garage and put his arm around me when we all squeezed on his couch, sipping Hugs and pretending to be cool; the way I turned five shades of red when Tyler's lips touched mine in his hot tub.

They were my boys until they weren't anymore. And sometimes, when I remember my tom-boy days, I let them pop into my mind and I climb trees with them one last time.

Germ.

It's just a bad case of fascination, infatuation, and a little bit of everything in between. Nothing at all, really. It's nothing, nothing, nothing.

Conversation.

"It's like those lizards you used to throw against trees and squeeze. You thought you were helping them. But you weren't. You were killing them."

"Wow."

"Yeah. And that's what you're doing to your heart. You're slamming it against a tree and then squeezing the life out of it. You're just hurting it. Don't you see?"

"...good grief. You're right."

"I know. Nobody wants a pulpy heart."

Hello America.

Walked into the bank today and handed over the 60 Euros that have been burning several holes in my purse since August.

I walked away 80 dollars richer, and too many levels of sad. This is it. I've officially said my goodbyes to Europe.

It's time to move on.

so tired of the i, i, i

Last night I seriously considered joining the Peace Corps. Not now..but maybe after Grad school.

I need to do something with my life other than live it solely for my own amusement.

stars in jars

Up until I graduated from high school, I used to love Valentines Day. Those little heart candies with the out-dated, cheesy phrases like "fax me"; the gorgeous bouquets of roses and tulips and lilies; people fluttering around like Cupid himself... I used to have fun with it.

Somewhere between freshman year and now, I've lost all interest and fascination. Maybe it's because I'm around bitter people -- friends who've always abhorred the lovey-dovey couples, detested the constant flirtation and scuttling around for the 'perfect' gifts -- but whatever the case, I find myself scoffing.

I don't know what happened. I've always been a Romantic - you know, the type of girl to cry all over other people's shoulders in the theater during heartfelt chick flicks, the type of girl who always used to stare star-struck at little acts of kindness between men and women. Sure, I think deep down there resides this little Romantic Me...still here, waiting to be swept off my feet... but maybe my eyes have been opened. I feel like if you want something to happen, it's up to you to make it happen.

I don't think people are ever swept off their feet. It just doesn't happen.

Of course I say this, I think this, but a part of me will always be waiting to be carried away into the sunset by my knight, put onto a white horse and galloped away into bliss. If my thoughts betray my heart, than dreams should override the scoffing.

Who knows? I guess I'm waiting for someone to turn my world completely upside down, to maybe, just maybe, be proved wrong.

Pass it on.

Just recieved a forward from an old friend. One of those people who used to know everything about me. We used to buy each other the perfect Christmas presents because we knew each other better than anyone else, at least that's what we thought.

We were clever, rash, loud. She used to say these crazy things, and we used to talk about our futures as if the both of us were going to be in each other's next five, ten years.

Funny, huh?

It was just a forward... but she only sent it to 3 people. We used to fill out these crazy, mind-boggling surveys for hours, just because we thought they might tell us something about ourselves that we didn't already know. That's what she sent me - a forward survey-type thing. If she remembered anything about me, she knew that I could never pass those up. I loved them. I still do.

So for a split second, her thoughts were intentional. She sent me something she knew I would return. And for more than a split second, I remembered her, the us we used to be, and it brought me back.

Chi-Town, here I come :)

Just bought roundtrip tickets to Chicago for the first weekend in April...does this make me crazy? I love it!

I'm going here...

To visit this amazing guy...

and I cannot wait!!!!!!!!!

Little Romance.

I'm sitting on the moonlit beach, hair wild and untamed from walking around all day in the sun and wind, breathing in sandy shores and dreamscapes. It's about two in the morning because that's when I get off work...after riding several of the coasters for two hours, of course.

The moon is never bigger than my thumb (!!) and although it looks like it might swallow me whole, I strum my ukulele absentmindedly, soberly.

He'll come up behind me, his locks untamed and wild because although he did not walk around in the sun all day, he couldn't keep his hands from running unconsciously across his scalp. He'll give himself away by chuckling, wondering what in the world I'm doing on the beach by myself at two in the morning.

Of course by that point, he'll have already sat down next to me, not bothering to ask if I wanted company. It didn't occur to him that I might actually have wanted to be alone, especially after mingling with sweaty tourists for twelve hours.

His name is (pick something rugged and sexy) from (pick somewhere that might just sweep me off my feet), and he'll ask me to play him a song...and of course I'll pretend to, I'll pretend to. He stands up, and I wonder briefly if I've offended him with my made-up tunes, but then he saves the moment by holding out his hand.

I take it and we're running toward the water. The moon looks on, jealous.

Our laughter borders on hysterical, or maybe that's my laughter...after all, this moment only happens once and I'm having a ball. We're dancing, dancing, swaying under that white, glaring moon. And then

he asks if I'll be here tomorrow night. And the night after that? And what position do I work again?

.....

I should probably stop daydreaming now. My summer doesn't start for another 3 or 4 months. Hmpf.

"Happiness is only real when shared"

Just watched Into the Wild and am not sure whether to feel exhilarated or depressed.

Buying Jon Krakauer's book as I type.

Ooooh my ambitions.

I've officially decided that after graduation, I will travel 3000 miles, from wherever I am, to tell a guy I love him.

It's just romantic. And not idiotic at all.

barista boy smiles

Coffee shop bliss.

The roommate found it randomly and didn't have to persuade me to tag along to do a little reading and writing on this grey Saturday afternoon. So here I sit, tucked haphazardly in a leather chair, pen in mouth, performing a balancing act in holding my laptop and chai.

There's a chestnut bookshelf on my right and a glass case of mouth-watering desserts on my left. Each holds a sense of longing, and I can't decide which I want to indulge myself in...

And I suppose it doesn't hurt that not more than five tiles away is a cute barista boy. He's got that scruffy, give-me-your-order-and-then-we'll-make-love-in-that-private-back-room sleepy look about him. The dessert case is looking more tempting by the minute...

Although I do not drink coffee (as tea suits me much better), I don't mind the smell. I sit for hours because of the atmosphere, but the smell kind of tops everything off. It's melancholy and warm hands and barista boy smiles. It's a bookshelf full of classics and firey artwork adorning cocoa walls.

I kind of can't get enough of it.

Whisked Love.

Took two exams today, one a critical analysis essay of the canon and poets whose works aren't very exciting, the other an epic fail of a multiple choice test. In between the tests I sat through another workshop, and eventually found myself splattered on the futon by noon, a grilled salami/ham/pepperoni sandwich in one hand, a pint of whiskey in the other.

Joking. I was licked, though.

So when I'm bone-exhausted, sick of people and classes, I turn to my legal pad and any pen that's up for the job of writing openly, freely, letter after crumpled letter. I write to stop feeling. I write to feel something. But mostly I write letters to people, to old friends, to my sister, to those that have come to matter in my life.

I'm not sure what's more therapeutic, more stress-relieving...the actual writing of the letters, or licking the envelopes and plastering crazy stickers around the person's name. Maybe it's the process...the writing, the licking, the dropping in the mailroom, the imagined whisking away of my love to places all across the country.

put your hands up, she screams wildly.

My suitemate mentioned something tonight that sparked some "Hmmms", on my part at least. I was telling her about my job offer at Cedar Point for the summer, and how I felt terrified just thinking about it. I signed up to work with people. With millions of people from all over the place who need help and food and bathrooms and overall direction. I pressed the "YES, PLEASE!" button on my contract, and inevitably gave my summer over to human resources and smokin' hours, and did I mention millions of people?

Anyway, she said that I "boggled her mind" because she hasn't met very many people like me.

Of course, I asked her what that meant.

"Well, there are two types of people - those that hang back from scary situations, and those that knowingly dive right in because they want to. But you..."

I waited for her to continue, wanting to hear what she was getting at.

"You seem to dive into those situations that scare you the most. I just can't figure you out."

Then I laughed because everything she was telling me was so incredibly accurate. I can't figure myself out, and here she was, trying to pinpoint why I'm constantly, willingly diving out of my comfort zones head first, bring-it-on style.

I'm absolutely terrified to be in Ohio by myself for the summer. Let's be honest here - it's Freshman year of college all over again, minus the schoolwork, plus working 60 some hours a week. It's getting food from a cafeteria, wondering who the hell I'm supposed to sit with. It's sleeping in very close proximity with six or more complete strangers who may or may not speak very good english. It's never sleeping, actually.

And then you dare to ask, "So what the hell were you thinking?"

And my answer?

Because I like to push myself. I want to see how far I can hurl myself into this crazy world, how far I can stretch and tug at the boundaries before I splatter like chaos all over the pavement. I like to test myself, see what I can and cannot handle. I like to get my hands dirty with the unknown.

As much as I'm terrified and anxious and worried about going away for the summer to a "camp-like" setting, I'm just as excited. I guess it's "mind-boggling"...but then I wouldn't be me if that word didn't come up once in a while.

!!!!!!!!

My summer is set!

.... I GOT THE JOB!!!