CNP's writing nook
 

I hate going through these threads and seeing mountains of poems, or twelve threads by the same person with one different thing. And I realized that I have a few threads of my stuff floating around, so, I'm putting it all in here so I'll clutter less, unless I'm specifically looking for feed back.

Index:

Page 1:
Post 1: Real
Post 2: In loving memory
Post 3: Story about a chicken
Post 4: Bitter Sweet Fall
Post 5: Vent writing
Post 6: Teenagers are stupid
Post 7: Drabble
Post 8: I'll be fine

Real - still need a better title


I’m not real. That’s what they tell me. With their white coats and clip boards, they deny my existence. They tell me I’m a figment of somebody else’s imagination.

Wait. Let’s back up. My name is Lauren. I’m 17 years old. My parents are divorced. This happened because Dad was abusive. He was real bad when she finally left him. I was 11 when that finally happened, I haven’t seen him since. I’m okay with that. I have a little brother. Cory. He’s seven right now. My Mom works real hard to take care of both of us. She really wants me to go to college, but, I dunno. I’m dating this guy, Jeremy. I have been for two years. He’s two years older then me, too. Based on that alone for a while Mom used to hate him, not she likes him well enough.

But, despite having a life, I’m not real. Or so those jerks with their clipboards tell me.

I still need to explain more, don’t I? I was in class, and, I was super stressed. The teacher says I sort of stumbled and fell, and, woke up crying and confused, saying my name was Katie.

In all fairness to the white coats, that IS my real name. But, when Mom and Dad split, I switched to Lauren. They’re convinced that Katie created me then and has been dormant all this time. I’m a voice in her head. I’m not. I swear I’m not. Split personalities know when they’re the fake, right? That’s what Jeremy said. HE believes that I’m real. He’s the only one, I think. They’ve only let me see him once. Fuckers. But, he’s on my side. At least somebody is.

That’s probably why they only let me see him the once, huh? Every one needs to be united in brining Katie back. They don’t get it. I tried to explain it to them. So many times. My name change was symbolic. I was starting over. Moving on. I refused to be weak and helpless another day in my life. I was going to be a new person. I re-invented myself. I cut my hair, got as much of a new wardrobe as I could managed, pierced my ears, changed my name. I wanted that shit-head Father of mine to know that I’d never let him push me around again.

The clipboard told me I hadn’t re-invented myself, I had just invented myself to cope. Or, Katie had invented me, rather. I asked clipboard to tell me, then, where Katie had been for the last six years. She was dormant, apparently. Stressed, scared, so, she hit and invented me. They said she had surfaced now because this ideal person for her had failed. I got stressed and overwhelmed. I broke.

Ideal person? Me? No. I’ve never been my own ideal. I just wanted to be stronger. So, I got stronger. Apparently, that isn’t how it works. So now they’re trying to coax this chicken shit Katie out of me. Should I be feeling another person inside of me? Trying to clap her way out? I keep looking inside of myself. For another girl with my eyes, my nose, my jaw, my forehead, but, she won’t show herself to me, either.

Still, they insist I’m not real. I, I used to be certain, they were wrong. I was real. But, if someone tells you something with enough conviction enough times, you start to really wonder. I’ve finally agreed to let them put my on medication. I’m scared…


It’s been a year. I haven’t vanished. I’m not trapped in Katie’s subventions, I’ve been poked, prodded, tested and medicated this last year constantly. I’ve lived in this psychological facility for the last year. They’re apologizing now. They’re so sorry, they miss-diagnosed me, I can go now. I’m cured. It was just an episode. I’m cured. Fixed.

How can I be? I’m still here. I don’t actually exist. Jeremy hugs me, tells me he’s so happy those doctors came to their senses. I don’t know what he means,. How can I? I’m just a character of some sick girls creation to hide behind. I’m not real, she can write me to seem to think and feel, but, I’m just a figment within her mind. I shouldn’t’t be. But, here I am. With false dealings and fake thoughts. With real people hugging me. They’re glad I’m back. That I’m better. I shouldn’t’t be. I shouldn’t’t be here. I need to vanish so Katie, the real person, can live. I’m going to kill myself. Katie will take over once I’m done. Drowning. I’ll drown myself. I’ll jump into the lake, I’ll die. So, she can live.

In loving memory of "Luke".


I had never really known Luke. He was a distant cousin of some sort who I periodically saw at family get togethers or the cottage. He was a childhood memory of a smiling face, and I knew his wife and kids far better then I ever knew him. I know his eldest, and only son (Jason) went to Warped Tour and we were both stunned to find out that the other liked Coheed and Cambria, and his twin daughters, a year younger then myself and I used to invent silly jumps off the dock at the cottage for different Super Smash Brother characters. I remember once when the three of us girls for in a war with my own brother and theirs in the river, and I had been picking seaweed out of my hair for days after. My Mother was infuriated at my brother, but, I couldn’t have cared less. So what my hair was a bit green….

No, when I look back to try and remember Luke, the best I can do is the smiling face playing horseshoes or barbequing with a beer in hand. Grabbing his wife in a one armed embrace and kissing her, or giving one of his daughters a noogie as I scampered off fearing I may be next. But if you asked me what his favourite colour was, or what he did for a living, or what he had always wanted to do as a kid or even his most predominate personality trait was, I couldn’t tell you. I always thought he was happy. But, happy people don’t kill themselves.

It was one of those dark and rainy days at the cottage, and, since there is nothing on that little island but trees, a bit of a beach, and, well, the cottage, not complete with electricity or working plumbing, we did the only thing there was to do: Play cards. Or rather, Uncle Phil, Luke, my Dad, and older sister played cards while I watched and tried to comprehend ucher. I had been trying to do that since I was about ten. “C’mere kid” said Luke motioning me over, determined to succeed where both my siblings, dad, and uncle had failed. I walked over to the table and leaned against it, not even bothering on commenting on his calling me ‘kid’. “Alright, what do you know about this game so far?”

“Nothing” answered my sister for me. “Luke, don’t even try, it’s hopeless, we’ve been at it for years” I smiled sort of uncomfortably because it was all too true. He snorted and took a swig of his beer, dealt a hand and showed it to me.

“Alright, trump is a suite called at the beginning of the game, and beats every other suite. The tricky thing about trump is this: The jacks are highest, their bowers, the right one beats everything, the left one everything but the right”

I blinked, already confused. “Okay, stop before you go any further, I admit I’m no card player, but, there’s only one jack of each suite, and, how the hell do you determine trump? Pin up four cards and throw darts at them whichever one it hits is trump?”

Luke laughed good naturedly “No no, the left is the jack of the same colour,” it still didn’t make a lick of sense but I nodded knowing I’d be able to parrot this information back to anyone who cared to ask. It took us all day (my brother ended up taking over for Luke in the game) for him to teach me but damn it by the end of the day I could play!

Not well mind you, I’m still not very good, but, I can play.

I came home from school late that day, I had gone to the mall after school to hand out resumes and walked home. It was dark and cold outside and felt like rain or snow. It was that time of year that both could be dangerous. “I’m home!” I hollered jogging up the small flight of stairs in the entrance of my home into the living room where my Mother hanging up the phone on the couch. “Sorry I’m late Mum” I said giving her a kiss on the cheek before plopping down in my Dad’s Lay-z-boy chair and tucking my knees under my chin.

“It’s alright” she said with a distracted smile. She sighed and put the phone down on the coffee table “Any luck?” she asked turning to face me more comfortably, her dark eyes seeming a bit darker than normal.

“Uhm, yeah, a few places said they’ll call within the week, the pet store wants me to go in for an interview tomorrow, so I’ll be home late again tomorrow, and I think the Jewellery store might have hired me on the spot but I’m not sure, I need to call and give them my PIN, but that’d be just for the holidays if she did give it to me….” I stopped to try and think of anything else and when nothing came up I shrugged. “Anything of interest happen today for you?”

My Mother had a moment of thinking before she spoke with a very uncharacteristic slow and thoughtfulness. “I got some very shocking news today” I felt my chest tighten as my mind immediately leapt to my Grandmother, who was older and not doing as well as she used to be. There was maybe two seconds of a pause after she said that but it felt like an eternity. “You know Luke Smith?” I had a moment of complete bafflement and shook my head. She glared “Yes you do, Tina and Tara’s Dad?”

“Oh! Duh, sorry, my brain is a little softer then normal, too much smiling and begging for a job this week, takes a toll.” I offered my Mother an apologetic smile, figuring it wasn’t so serious as a death. Maybe he and my uncle both drunkenly dyed their hair (or lack there of) pink? I knew it wasn’t something that simple, I knew my Mother well enough that she would have blurted it out with a laugh if it was something that stupid, but part of me fearing the worst was trying to think of harmless things.

“Well” she said hands folded in her lap torn between looking at me and them. “He killed him self” there was a long pause. I was baffled. That happy smiling face had…? “I was shocked, just, shocked, I still can’t believe it, your aunt thought they had the wrong Luke, but, no, Bridget found him when she was going into work in the morning in the garage” it is only at times like these that I truly marvel at my Mother’s strength to be able to re-tell this with such forced calmness. “He hanged himself”

I was at a loss for words. “He, but, but, did he leave a note?” I managed to flounder out, not sure if it would be better or worse if he did or not. My Mother nodded.

“Yes, the police currently have it” having read one too many murder mysteries and having an over active imagination, I leapt to conclusions.

“Do they suspect foul play or something?” I got the look I deserved.

“No, it was him, we’re all baffled why though. Maybe he was diagnosed with some terminal illness, or he lost his job, or, or…” Now she was fishing. Desperately trying to figure out why her cousin, some one she had grown up with, had done such a thing. I was out of the chair and hugging her, she clung to me and fighting back tears went on. “Phil called me, and, he’s just mad, ‘that stupid ass’ he kept saying. He and Luke were close, they talked, but, h-he didn’t talk to him about this” her voice broke and I rubbed her back.

“Shhhh, it’s okay Mom, it’ll be okay” it was a lie and we both knew it, but, sometimes, those sweet comforting lies are all we have.

The fire was crackling happily and the warmth of the flames was strong enough that sitting back was necessary to roast marshmallows. I was about 11 and holding my roasting stick in one hand and a bag of marshmallows in the other staring at the pit with a type of determination to rival a donkey. “Gueto” said my Dad bemusedly from his chair, I glanced back at him, having grown accustom to his interesting choice of pet names for me. “You’re going to roast your self”

“Sounds good to me” I could hear my older brother mutter from his chair staring at the fire moodily. He had wanted me to disappear off the face of the planet for longer then I could recall, not that that meant much as memory has never been my strong suite. About a week after I had been brought back from the hospital he kept saying ‘bring the baby back!’ actually, he still says that. I gave my dear brother my dirtiest look.

“Aw leave the kid alone” said Luke good naturedly casting around in the brush behind him before digging out a particularly long stick “Here, try this one, maybe you can keep your fingers then” he gave me that bratty grin that my Mother’s side of the family was infamous for. I did keep my fingers. However, I did not keep the first three marshmallows as all of them burst into flame and were flung into the river. Something I have gotten very good at over the years.

By the time I had created three little sugary infernos on a stick the fire had died down enough that I could move in close enough to actually see the marshmallows. I didn’t actually care much for them, I just really liked to roast them. I wasn’t the only one, either. My two older siblings had joined in, too. Determined not to make another inferno on a stick I went very slowly over some embers, meaning both my sister and brother were done seven marshmallows before I was done my one.

Which translates to both of my parents had eaten their fill of them, leaving me eater less. “C’mere kid” said Luke motioning me over. I obliged and he ate my perfectly cooked marshmallow for me, much to my delight. He then managed to pack away another ten from his own kids.

The next day at school I didn’t think much of it, as I’ve said, I never really knew Luke, and his daughters and I had grown distant with age. It bothered me that it didn’t bother me, if that makes any sense. School went on, and I went to my job interview, and got it, and was thrilled. She made me interact with customers for a while to observe me first, but after I sold 7 crickets a fish and a mouse she gave me hours for next week. I actually sang on my way home, but, once I stepped in the room I could smell cookies. I jogged up the stairs to investigate the smell and made it to the kitchen, proceeding to noticed the counter top. On it was a plate and a platter. On the plate was about seven cookies, on the platter they were stacked five high and I vaguely wondered if a fork life would be needed to pick them up. My Mother having the mildly psychic abilities she denies explained “I was baking a lot today”

“No, really? And here I thought the baked goods fairy was feeling ironic again” I helped my self to some on the plate and tried to pick up the platter for sheer curiosity’s sake.

“Very funny. No, you know how I am, when I’m feeling any sort of strong emotion I bake, if I’m happy, I bake, if I’m sad, I bake” she had wandered in behind me and took a cookie her self. “I was just cooking all day wondering why and how” she bit into it sullenly and I hugged her, not sure what to say. I hadn’t seen so many baked goods since my sister went off to university, the first of her children to do it. “I’m brining the platter over to Bridget’s in a bit”

“Can you even lift it?” she hit me upside the head playfully. “Come on it weighs more then I do! Do you need me to help you carry it there? Maybe we could hire a crane or something…”

“Are you done being a smart ass yet?” there was a pause.

“You make it sound like I’m capable of stopping” she sighed and shook her head.

“I need to go and bring these over before it starts to rain” said my Mum picking up the plate of cookies and displaying a surprising display of physical strength. I gently bit my lower lip and nodded. “Do you want to come?” I shook my head “Didn’t think so, alright, I’ll order the pizza when I get back, you go do some home work” she kissed me on the forehead and headed out, somehow managing to carry the platter of cookies. I went downstairs and after maybe twelve minutes heard the door open and close and a cry of my name. I sprinted up the stairs and there stood my poor Mother, face stained with tears. I hugged her and she clung to me. “Why?” she cried into my shoulder. “How could he leave so much love?” her voice and body were trembling. “When I walked in Jason saw me and just walked out of the room and when I went to hug Bridget that was it, I just started crying and they didn’t need me there crying more so I just left”

There was a long pause where I rubbed back “Why did Jason leave?” she asked me helplessly, the question held so much more then just the words, and I had no idea how to answer it.

“He probably just didn’t want any more pity” was all I could manage. My poor Mother nodded.

“I know that’s the last thing you need in those situations, more pity, I wasn’t there to pity them, God, when I walked out the lights were on and I could just see him with his head in his hands… How could he do it?” she looked at me and it was one of those moments where the parent and child role were switched. Where I could phantom what my Mother felt. My chest ached and I longed to be able to give her an answer.

“I don’t know Mom” I was on the verge of tears myself, fighting back that urge, because, my Mother needed me more then I needed to cry. She sniffled, nodded, and went upstairs, sending me back down to put something away.

I was seven and had been elbowed in the face by my brother. An accident, he swears it. Right, and I actually do have magical powers. My Grandmother had found some stale bread and soaked it in milk, which I was now pressing against my almost black eye. Apparently it would help, apparently. I was only seven so all I could do was protest for fair punishment of the offender. To this day I can’t recall what happened to my brother. My Mother was dealing with my brother while Dad was looking for sunglasses that would fit my tiny head (again, my Grandmother’s idea) so I wouldn’t have to hold the bread. Luke was keeping an eye on me. Making sure I didn’t walk into a wall or something.

I looked up at my cousin through my good eye and he looked down at me. “Can I see it?” he asked curiously. I moved the bread and he let out a low whistle. “It’s a beauty” I blinked with my one eye, having put the bread back. “Does it hurt?” I nodded “You’re a big strong girl though, have you cried?”

I nodded again “When I first got elbowed, I thought I had lost my eye” Luke laughed, and, being seven, I was confused.

“Come on kid, let’s go see if your Mommy is done chewing out your brother” I blinked again “What?” he asked looking down at me.

“What’s she chewing him out of?”

I stood in my basement body shaking wondering the same thing she was. The same thing every one was. Why? I found myself suddenly on the basement floor, body trembling, throat burning and eyes stinging. “Luke you bastard” I choked out in a whisper. “You selfish Mother fucking bastard”

I didn’t go to the funeral, I sort of wish I had, but, I know I would have done something stupid, so it was best I stayed behind. I guess it isn’t fair for me to say I never really knew Luke. He had always been there in the background, eating my marshmallows and helping me play cards and making sure I didn’t run into walls. I don’t know who I knew, but, the man I thought I had known, well, clearly he was somebody else. I doubt I’ll ever understand why he did it. How he could. Or what drove him that far. How much pain he must have been in. I hope he’s in a better place. Even thought I’m not a religious person, I pray for him. I pray for the family he left behind. For his three children who will now forever hate him. For his widowed wife left to carry the burden on her own. For his friends, and, for those in my position. Those who were never really close enough to feel anything, but, we do. Those sinners brought back to prayer not for ourselves, but, for those left. Luke it dead. He hung himself, and there is nothing that I can do about that. But, those left behind? That, I can do something about.

Story about a Chicken - This thing is actually published


Billy looked at the chicken pen with contempt. He had begged his Father for a dog for the seven long years of his life, all farm boys should have one, but his Father had told him to pick a chicken, keep it as a pet, and if he did a good job with the chicken he could have a dog. How were chickens and dogs alike? He hopped the low fence and threw some feed around the pen, watching the chickens case after him as he walked a slow circle around them. All but one, this chicken, he knew, was odd. It always waited till all the others had eaten, then would come out from hiding behind the red wheel barrow. “You” said Billy squatting down by the chicken once he finished his circle, the chicken squawked and scrambled back in alarm. “Don’t be afraid of me” scorned Billy “I’m just tryin ter talk to yah” The chicken walked forward, curious. “Hi” said Billy offering a fist full of seed to the bird. The chicken ate from his hand happily. Billy decided this one would be his pet. So he put a leash on it, how he got a leash on a chicken not even I know. He was walking the chicken (Which he had named Fred) around, while Billy’s mother watched him from the window with concern.

“Earl” she said to his Father “I think there’s something wrong with Billy”. Earl gave her a curious look “Come see what he’s doing” she said motioning to the window. He did.

“He’s walking a chicken” said Earl, surprised. He had expected Billy to treat the chicken as a pet, but putting a leash on it? “How on earth did he get the leash on?”

“Earl!” cried his wife distressed “Our baby is walking a chicken!” she said shrilly “WHY is Billy walking a chicken? Hm? Do you know?” Earl nodded “Now please enlighten me as to why our son is walking a chicken?” she asked, her lips pursed as she watched the chicken take a peck at the tree.

“He wanted a dog. I don’t think he’s ready for one, I told him to pick a chicken as a pet, and take care of it, and if he manages to do a good job he can get a dog after” explained Earl stretching. “I did it to the other two kids” he added on defensively as his wife didn’t stop scowling.

While this exchange had taken place, Billy and Fred had made their way into the woods. Conveniently forgetting that there was a bit of a cougar problem. Our brave hero’s trudged through the woods, Billy telling Fred about the different kinds of plans and animals. “I wanna be a farmer like me Pop when I grow up” he announced to Fred who squawked at him politely

“So I gots at know all about tree and plans and animals and stuff” she shoved his hands into the pocket of his dirty overalls. “But Pop dun’t want me to be a farmer, he wants me to be a doctor” Billy rolled his eyes. “But some ones gotta take over the farm some day, and it’ll be me!” Fred squawked his approval happily as he danced ahead on his string of a leash.

Suddenly a low angry growl resounded from up on the hill, Billy and Fred looked up at the noise in unison. It was a cougar, Billy pulled out his trusty sling shot and cast about for some pebbles. Fred, however, used to be a cock fighting chicken. When Billy hit it in the eye (thus merely peeving off the animal) the cougar shrieked angrily and lunged at him. Billy gave out a startled yell as he scrambled back, but Fred bravely dove in the way, saving poor Billy. Fred then proceeded to kill the cougar as Billy watched dumbfounded. Covered in blood afterwards Fred puffed out his feathers proudly. “Remind me to never get you angry” said Billy as he washed off Fred.

Fred merely clucked happily. And when his Mother demanded to know why the chicken was bloody she walloped Billy like something fierce for such ridiculous lies.

Bitter Sweet Fall


The two of us were sitting out on the porch, fall creeping in around us, sending icy tendrils through the air. She was watching the trees shake away the last of their leaves, baring themselves in a naked honesty that you can only expect from plants. “What’s on your mind?” I asked, my voice sounding strange in all of this silence and nature. She looked at me slowly sliding her earthy green eyes at me. I actually turned my head.

“Nothing. Just enjoying the scenery. It’s been a while since we got out of the city.” when we were dating back in high school I lived out in the boons, so we had to drive through the country to go to my house. She always fell into this sort of content silence when we did, unless she was singing along to the radio, something she got less and less shy about as time went on.

“You’re the one who wanted to live in town.” I pointed out looking back out to the bare trees as her eyes slid back to the scenery.

“That was a statement, not a blame thing.” she said tonelessly, throwing her head back and sending a cascade of chestnut over her shoulder and nearly whipping me in the face. “Sorry,” she said glancing back at me as I swatted at air and hissed.

We fell into companionable silence, and I remembered when she hated just sitting around and saying nothing. Well, she was always good when her surroundings offered her some sort of beauty. I had a hard time getting her into conversation when we were out on the country side or in the forest, or, worst yet, by the lake.

But when we first started dating, she was so different, I reflected silently. She was high energy, bright, shining, loud, a bit insecure, and seemed all warmth and caring, but shockingly kept most people at arms length. I never had the problem of her keeping me to far back, which was why years later we were still together. She was much more subdued, but that could also be because we weren’t in high school anymore. Her sense of humour was more wit and cleverness then lewd cracks at her own or friend’s expenses.

“Are we ever going to get married?” she asked, pulling the blanket more tightly around herself. She was wearing a pair of jeans, an over sized sweater, what for all I knew were kids boots, and a blanket, shawl sort of thing around her shoulders and hugged to her chest. She was very carefully watching the naked trees dancing in the wind when she asked that, afraid to look at me. She thought if she looked at me that she’d see what she was afraid to, that even after all this time, I didn’t want to settle down.

“Dunno.” I said honestly. Her whole head turned in a sharp movement and she studied me with those green eyes of hers. They darted back and forth, focusing on each of my eyes in rapid turns. “You know I love you.” I said for what felt like the millionth time.

“So you keep telling me.” she said tonelessly. I sighed and looked back out at the bare forest.

“You remember when you dragged me to that art exhibit, and the woman painted mostly forest. You were staring up at one painting and said ‘It must have been fall when she painted this’ and when I asked why, you said ‘Because it just seems to sad’.”

“You told me that you’d be damned if you knew, I was the artsy one, not you.” she was looking back at the forest.

“Yeap.” I was hardly ashamed of this fact. I liked border line artsy movies, music, and was a fan of the theatre, but, I could never get into photography and paintings. I studied her face from the side, and a slight smile tugged at her lips. “And you remember when we graduated from high school, how convinced you were we wouldn’t make it one year being apart, but, you were hell-bent to try?” she nodded. “We made it three years living apart, and we’ve been living together for over a year now. Why does my not knowing if I want to get married upset you?” I didn’t want to be exasperated with her, but I was.

She turned back to stare at me, studying my face like she may draw it later (for all I knew, she would) and sighed when she decided the question was sincere. “We’ve been together a long time.” she agreed. “We went through the tail end of being teens together, struggled into adulthood, and now, here we are. In the entire time we’ve been together, there’s always been a next stage.” I knew she was going somewhere with this, and already I didn’t like it. “We’re at that point in the time line in life where we either settle down, get married, have kids, and grow old in a little cottage by the river.” I’m not sure where the cottage by the river came from. She looked out to the bare forest for strength, which it seemed to give her, because there was a weight in her eyes when she looked back. “I love you. More then I care to admit out loud. But I want to be married someday. Have kids someday. And if you don’t want those same things…” her voice was snatched away in an icy fall wind. She smiled, but not with happiness, and got to her feet, kissing me on the cheek on her way up. “Sorry to drag you out here and spring you with this, you don’t need to decide right away. Take your time. Think about it. I don’t want to bully you into something you don’t want. Bring it up again when you’re ready, I’ll wait.” she stood in front of me, the fall winds toying with her hair like a new lover.

She smiled those rosebud lips, touched my cheek, and said “I’m going to go make some hot-chocolate, want some?” I nodded mutely and she vanished with no special grace of majesty into the cabin, the fall winds trailing her hair out behind her like some sort of taunt.

I sighed and stared out at the bare trees. Their naked honesty. They’re brittle limbs on display for all, waving invitingly in their seasons winds. They were withering away and dying, and they did it with such a joyful dance. Such a burst of colour. If I was ever going to get married, it was going to be with her, but, I just couldn’t picture that ring on her finger. The white dress on her young firm body. The little house. The bulging belly.

No, that isn’t true. I can see her having all of those things, I just don’t know if I can see her having them with me.

No title. This was vent writing



Feb. 14/06

Well journal, I certainly have had an interesting day despite how little has happened. V-day. Brings up discussion of past flames and future ones, if you’re single. When you’re not it makes all couples feel like they should be in perfect bliss, and like something is wrong with them if they’re not. But, myself being among the singles this year (It was a nice change, surprisingly) ended up looking in both directions. The morning was non-descript, drama, history, I’m officially re-doing the Zoo story, which is going to kill me. Stupid five page monologue, but who am I kidding? I love that play. No, the interesting parts started at lunch, I bought one of the flowers to give to my crush, because I’m 90% sure he would of never phantom a girl like me would go for a guy like him. Not saying anything about social status, I just mean that I’m adventurous, outspoken and just sort of out there and most people think I prefer people who are on that same plane. He’s calm, reserved, smart, easy going, and just generally polite, which are odd features to be drawn to, but in all honesty, I’d get bored with a guy too much like my self unless he was truly spontaneous and we were constantly doing stuff. Or we’d clash. People like me don’t always do so well with others like themselves, not that I’ve yet to find some one so much on both sides of the line as my self. But, that’s not what this is about.

At lunch Tony asked me if I had ever been in love. I was honest and said ‘Yeah, once, two years ago’ and Pride, who knew me through the guy I was with two years ago looked over and asked if it was who she thought I meant, I just said probably. Mostly because she didn’t know the other guy I dated that year. As Tony and I sort of carried on our conversation, him asking what happened, Pride got very red and was clearly bursting to say something.

Considering I was talking about the whole confusion of the break up when she reached her reddest, how his best friend and my best friend had convinced me he had cheated, something two years later I wasn’t quite sure about still, she determinedly said “I won’t say anything” that I knew for sure he had.

To relive her, as although she’s not my favourite person in the world I’m rather fond of Pride, she has a good heart even if her head never reaches it. “I take it you know he did?” she nodded.

“And with who,” I waited patiently for her to go on. “Please don’t be mad” the look in her eyes, on her face of utter most regret now that she knew who she had wronged, of understanding her mistakes now that she was older was just so blatant on her face I couldn’t be angry with her, even though a part of me was baffled at me for not being.

“We were just kids, don’t worry too much about it”

She shook her head “I am so sorry Erika, I mean, I sorta knew he had a girlfriend, but, I didn’t and” it was one of those situations that were nearly impossible to put into words.

“Sweety, I really mean it, I’m not angry at you. Actually, I’m glad some one finally told me flat out, the answer kept seeming to change on me” I said lightly. I could then tell that Pride had been feeling badly about this for a while. I admit she doesn’t have the highest morals or the best background, but deep down when she grows up and figures shit out, she’ll be a decent person deep down. I could tell she wanted me to be mad, so she could agitatedly tell others “I said I was sorry. Fuck, I know what I did was wrong, but I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about and there isn’t anything I can do now!” but instead I was making her feel worse by being so nice about it.

In a warped dark way that made me feel a bit better, not that I was necessarily feeling badly about it. It was two years ago. It took me a lot of time, but I got over him. Pride went on to tell me that she wasn’t the only girl, but was so afraid to give names, yet she seemed to want to. To be honest, I didn’t want to know all the other girls. Because I knew not all of them would feel as badly as Pride did. Not all of them would be a friend of mine who now knowing that I had actually been in love with the pig would probably feel extremely guilty for what she had done. Actually, for the rest of the lunch period it was clear she did, no matter how much I told her it was okay and I wasn’t angry. She sort of got distracted from it, as she always does, but her mind kept seeming to determinedly stray back to it. I really don’t know how to feel about it.

I mean, like I said, I’ve been over him for a while, it was two (almost three) years ago, I was extremely naïve for a 15 year old, and I was just glad to know for certain if he had or not. Part of me wants to be upset and sulky, to hate them both, but I really just don’t give a damn. I’m saying it’s for the best, bitterness isn’t pleasant anyway.

So, there was the previous love of my life who had determinedly been brought up. My present, well, my present was non existent. But I’m a go getter, and for the first time in about six months, I actually like a guy.

So I bought him a flower, and sort of shyly placed it on his desk in math and wished him a happy Valentines day. It took him a few seconds to realize what I had just done (He had been studying for our quiz) he seemed a bit taken a back. Like I said, guys like him don’t think girls like me would like them. And, going by the fact that he didn’t run away screaming or treat me any differently then before (we’re on friendly terms thanks much, we actually talk) and said thanks (quite sincerely it seemed) and said that he felt bad for not getting me anything, I think my chances aren’t terrible.

But, it’s still early in the game, and I’m just a kid, really. I know it’s odd to be saying that when in exactly one month I’ll be 18, but my brain isn’t fully developed and I’m still not well acquainted with this whole real world thing. I know, not what teenagers are supposed to say. We’re supposed to think we alone know everything and the world revolved around us, and all that good stuff.

But, I dunno. The worlds a pretty big place, and I’m a pretty small person. I might know a lot in admitting my ignorance, maybe more then the average teenager, maybe less, but there is one thing I do know, that I know a lot of other teenagers don’t that makes me feel ahead of the game; I know I’m still young, and I know I have plenty of time to figure out guys and find a good one to fall in love with who won’t cheat on me.

Teenagers are stupid - It doesn't come together in the end completely, but, meh.


Certain bands or songs have always made me think of different seasons, normally when I first discovered them. Smash Mouth and New Found Glory make me think of summer, The Decemberists of spring, Remy Zero fall, and Fall Out Boy winter. It wasn’t necessarily that I was particularly fond of any of these bands, but when the seasons changed, I always found a certain burnt CD spinning away in my decrepit old CD player, or play list on my less decrepit iPod. In most cases, when I listened to any of these bands, I didn’t think of anything more then sunny days, or chill starting to set in, or thaw out.

Fall Out Boy, again, not because of any particular fondness or regard of the band, no matter when I listened to them, brought me back to those terrible dead of winter days. The one’s that Canada is so well known for, and, even thought I’ve lived here my whole life, have never mastered the art of getting through. I know I am not alone. It gets to the point where you cling to the distant memory of sunshine, of springs thaw, of summers warm, wet breezes. Where your spirits rise, just a little, if it stays above -10 degrees, and, if it goes above zero? You feel almost hot walking around in your winter coat.

But in the dead of winter, those days were rare, even in the city. As a child, I used to fancy myself a country girl, as my own city was surrounded by many country-eque areas. I was charmed by the rolling hills, entranced by acres of corn stretching as far as the eye could see, delighted by the stars at night. I was convinced that country folk wouldn’t care if my musical tastes were different then there’s, wouldn’t be mean to me, just because I wasn’t cool. Because I liked books better then I liked sports.

I was in my mid teens when that secretly fostered fantasy had a hole shot in it. A friend of mine, if I can really dane to call her that, convinced me to go with her to a family reunion of hers, hours away from our little country-esque city, in the dead of farm country. Her family lived up the stereotypes of rednecks nicely.

My own upbringing is modest and unremarkable enough, but has always set me a bit out of place in my town. My Mother was a stay at home Mom, and my Father worked for the city college, when I was very little as a professor, when I was older in some sort of administered position. Eventually, he left the college and worked for himself for a while, and is currently the vice president of business solutions for an American company, and quite good at it. My family was upper-middle class, while my home town is mostly lower-lower class. Please, do not mistake my distain for my home town as snobbery, I am merely establishing how it made a lot of the other kinds not so fond of me growing up.

Because I came from the background I did, I was raised to shake hands. And, if I do say so myself, I have a damned good handshake for a woman. I’m always so disappointed in my own sex when I get a limp wrested handshake. Out of habit that had been ingrained to me since I was born, I offered my hand to some of her family when introduced, and was given strange looks and later laughed at. Embarrassed and condescending, she hissed at me “You are such a city girl.” I didn’t bother to point out the fact that she was the one who spent at least half an hour getting ready to trek around a farm, and was wearing heels.

I then allowed myself to be charmed by Toronto, in many of the ways I had let myself be charmed by the country, knowing I did not want the small town life. I was in awe at how tall everything was on my first trip as a kid, and had never seen city lights so thick they carpeted the ground like a field of stars cast from the sky. I had my back up hope shattered when I went to New York, New York, and saw a little old lady get mugged.

This left me confused and location less for my dreams of the future, and I refused to succumb to my home town as the place to live the rest of my life. It was not a nice place, people were poor, desperate, ignorant… We had one of the highest STD and Teen pregnancy levels of the province, in case you think I’m exaggerating. I decided to be less picky and settled for the dream of “Anywhere but here, the country, or very big cities”.

I found my lack of directions in my dream left me stuck in my home town longer then I intended to and did an extra year of high school while I contemplated between college or university. My high heeled friend, on one of her visits down, said with an air of superiority and distain to her parents “She may be more creative, but I am by far more mature.”

I looked at her and said “Oh, really?”

“Yes, I am.” she said condescendingly and with such an air of conviction I found myself too bored to try to prove her wrong.

Later that day, I decided to test the deterioration of her character that had been slipping away since her last year of high school. “I think my boyfriend may be loosing interest.” I lied mildly, putting on a very good act of seeming depressed and dismayed about it.

She proved my worst thoughts true, and, fixing her lipstick in a mirror said “I don’t think mine ever would. We’re like, so perfect together. I mean, we talk all the time and…” I fought the urge to start shaking her, begging for her to grow a brain and character. When I first met her, she was one of the sweetest, kindest girls I had ever met. Over the last few years she had become more arrogant and self absorbed. I found myself listening non stop to her complaints of being mistreated by what ever guy she was obsessing over that month. I had not kept silent to these complaints, I had told her she was only hurting herself, since none of these guys ever had the slightest interest in her, and she was setting her self up to be used, like with her ex. I pointed out that she had not been able to utter a word about anything but these guys for almost a year, and I was really on the verge of having some one kill her.

To which she always said “You’re being unsupportive.” now I just half heartedly listened, and tried to keep my cringing to a minimum as she not only made me listen to music I loathed, but sang along (out of tune and loudly) even after my repeated requests for something we both could tolerate, or at least, for her to stop singing.

It was that Thanksgiving weekend I finally gave up on her after two years of clinging to hope. My boyfriend told me I had been a saint to try for that long, since every other one of her old friends had given up on her within the first month. Not that he was one of them.

But, what does this have to do with music and the dead of winter? My friend was much like winter. I was always waiting for her to regain her character, much like after a few weeks I begin to fantasize about sunny beaches and fresh spring breezes as I trekked through slush and grime up to my knees.

I was in the restless mindset that I always slip into, normally in those last few long winter months, in October. When I finally gave up on my friend, I found my moods worsened, by the fact that one of the least selfless people I had ever met was now the most selfish and stupid. I prayed that she would not become a teacher, for I would not want my child’s young mind in her hands.

I mulled these bitter and dark things over in the ebbing cold of October as I walked home, leaves whipping through the brittle air as Fall Out Boy came into my ears, and came to a conclusion about life up to that point for me.

Teenagers sucked, and I was very glad I was nearly done being one.

Drabbel - I did this sort of to get into one of the lesser characters of something I was writing. If cursing bothers you, skip this one

I’m really upset right now. I’m pissed at myself for being upset, but, I think I’m entitled to both of those feelings. I feel like I’m in the same place I was three, four years ago, I know that my so called friends are crap, and I’m seriously starting to think that my boyfriend either doesn’t love me or is totally heartless. I suppose if he’s heartless, then that he couldn’t love me either way, though.

When the woman you supposedly love is in tears, says that she’s having a hard time getting through one day to the next, and that she really needs to just be held a bit more, being even less touchy-feely seems like a pretty cold response. I mean, I know he’s been depressed and having a really hard time of things too, but, until I just crashed, when I was feeling pretty fucking shitty, I tried to be there for him. I tried so fucking hard, but, he wouldn’t even let me in. Fine. If he doesn’t want help, that’s his choice, but, does he expect me to think it’s just fair game when he refuses to even try to come in when I’m begging for some one, anyone, to just try to help me? Just once? Just fucking once. The one time I can get over my god damned pride and actually reach out to people, ask for someone, anyone, to return to favor of me trying to help them so many times before.

I hate feeling like this. I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I don’t. Dane’s pushing for me to see a shrink, but, I don’t think that’s the answer. I’m not sure how going to a stranger for emotional support is going to help take the sting off of people clearly caring so little about me.

I just want to feel loved. Is that so much to ask? For my friends to be there for me? For my boyfriend to actually listen to me, to want to help me, not just send me to a shrink? I know in his own way he thinks he’s trying to help, but I just feel like he’s trying to pass the buck because he can’t handle my emotional issues on top of his own right now.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfu ckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
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fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

I should have just stayed dead on the inside.

I don't really have a title for this one, and, a lot of the stuff I've been posting is really depressing. This one is a bit of a mix, so, yeah. I'm not always depressing, promise.


“You’re too hard on yerself,” he said as she stared mindlessly at the wall, mug of hot chocolate gripped loosely between her still hands. When she didn’t answer, he nervously went on “You always tell people how bright and happy their future is, how natural and okay it is to fail sometimes, not to be perfect, but, you have a whole different set of rules for yerself, don’t ya kid?” he looked at her again, hoping to see a flicker of her eyes darting away. Not even that. He went on, his voice becoming a bit more frantic, that edge of nervousness becoming apparent. “When you fail, or, can’t keep your own counsel completely on yer own, you get mad. You think less of yourself, you think you’re weak. There ain’t nuthin’ wrong with havin’ to ask for a helpin’ hand every now and then.”

When his pale eyes darted back to her, her large, dark, haunting one’s were on him. “Is that what you think is wrong with me?” she asked without much tone, but a definite amusement dancing below her words, mocking him like a kid in a schoolyard on his crush. A smile tugged on her lips just a touch and she leaned back, her head resting against the cold concrete behind her. “No, it isn’t that I think I’m weak for having to ask other people’s help when I’ve crashed and am burning up. It isn’t that I have to ask for someone to pick me up, dust me off, say, it’ll be okay, I’m only human, nothing wrong with fucking up every now and then. Nothing wrong with not knowing everything.” She closed her eyes, and he felt a moment of relief from not being under their heavy gaze. But then they drifted open again, “I’m okay with asking people to return the favor. That isn’t why I tried to kill myself, Leroy.”

He had assumed that wasn’t the short and long of it, but he had assumed that was part of what led her to it. “Then why’d ya try?”

She closed her eyes again. They were too heavy for someone so young. She wasn’t even 19 yet, old enough to vote, old enough to go to war, but not old enough for that weight to be settled so solidly in her eyes. “I’ve always had to play the cheerleader, the voice of optimism. But, I’ve always been a hypocrite, haven’t I?” she opened her eyes, and smiled, it was an actual smile, not just a faint tug of lips, but it was a far cry from happy. “I believed those things about others, and I promised to be there for them when no one else would. And I held true to that.” She glanced down at the now cold mug in her hands. “I was at the end of my rope, Leroy. I was clinging to what I claimed to be my reality, my life, when all of my plans and feelings were spinning wildly out of my control. Off track. I did what I always do, kept my mouth shut and just kept trudging on, trudging on, trudging on… And then I found myself crashed and burning up, and, it was one of those few times in my life I stopped and asked for help,” she paused, considering her words. “Cried for help, damn near begged for it.” She laughed and it was bitter. “I posted it in a silly blog, not the best way to go about it, I know. But, a few people read it, and I didn’t need a fucking city to come to my rescue, just one or two people. Four people told me they read it. Two of my supposed best friends, who proceeded to do a whole dick load of nothing. My boyfriend…” she laughed again, and it was just as bitter. “My fucking boyfriend. The guy who claims he loves me, you know what he did? Asked if there was anything he could do to help, so, I told him, ‘Yeah, I guess. Try being nicer to me for a while, patient, more affectionate. I need to feel that people give a damn’. And, do you know, do you know Leroy, what that meant to him? The next day give me a lingering look and touch on the arm, once, before going back to being a perfect jackass. He was having a hard time of things, I tried to respect and understand that, really, truly, I did. But, you know what his hard time was? He was bored of people. That was what he was so preoccupied with was, boredom and frustration of people!” Leroy had a hard time remembering her to be a girl of any bitterness, and his concern grew.

“There was the fourth person, an acquaintance. Someone I never knew that well, she actually gave a damn, said she was praying for me. I don’t know what she was praying for, Leroy, but, it didn’t help much. Still, she’s a sweet girl, and it was a sweet gesture, and I feel bad for getting her so worried.” She tucked her knees under her chin and peered at him. “And I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

“Well girl, your friends may not be so great, and you defiantly should ditch that boy ‘o yers, but there are people who care about ya.”

“That’s what I thought, but, as much as I try to reach out, and you know how hard that is for me, but, those people who said they don’t want to see me hurting, they don’t want to see me weak…” she broke eye contact, the question hanging in the air. Did they ever care?

“That surprise ya?”

“That answer did.” She said honestly. Leroy smiled sort of sadly.

“Yer always the strong one, the one people crawl to on there hands ‘n knees, needin’ some one ter love ‘em. And yah do, girl, even if they dun deserve ya. Ya wash ‘em up, pick ‘em up, and hold ‘em up till they can do it fer themselves. It ain’t easy looking at someone like ya lying on the ground in tears begging for them ter help ya out like ya did them. People ain’t as strong as ya are girl, and it takes real strength ter see people like ya like ya are now.”

“I guess that makes you a saint, huh Leroy?” she sniffed, wiping at her face. “I like your version better then mine, it makes me sound like some sort of tragic hero. But I’m not a hero, Leroy. I’m just some kid who finally cracked, if I were a hero, my wrists would be in much better shape. The knife would have split in three when I tried to take it to my wrist.”

“Only if yer from some comic book, lass. Yer human, yer not perfect, and neither are people.” She smiled, and although it was heartbreaking, there was some happiness to it.

“I’ve never asked people to be perfect. Never. I just ask for them to have a heart, is that so crazy?”

“No, girl, it ain’t. But hearts can be tricky things to have, ‘specially when ya go lendin’ ‘em out to people who need ‘em. You should know that.” He watched her put her chin to her knees and sigh.

“Actually, I don’t. It always just seemed like what I should be doing. I loose sleep over not being there to drag people to their feet, because I’ve always believed they’d do the same thing for me. Next time, they can drag their own sorry asses up. I quit being people’s God damn shrink, I’m not paid for it. And they couldn’t afford it if I was.” She stretched her legs out before her, looking displeased. “I’m just tired, Leroy.” She said softly. “I’m so tired.” And then the tears began to tremble at the corners of her eyes.

She had been irritable, moody, short tempered, and a touch anti-social lately. People had instead of asking her if anything was up, told her she was a bitch, and for a moment, Leroy was pissed at humanity on her behalf. She’d never point a finger; cry out “You’re terrible! How could you?” She’d just sit by quietly and place no blame on anyone. She’d say they were just stupid, didn’t know better, it’s like holding it against a blind kid for not being able to see. Not their fault. Now Leroy knew what had gotten to the sensitive girl he had gotten to love so well, and he was angry on her behalf for those cuts on her wrists.

He sat down next to her and wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders and she buried her face on one of them. This was all she had needed, someone to lend a god damn shoulder for her to cry on for once. Her shoulders were almost always soaked, and the one time, the one time she asked for that shoulder returned! Leroy was tempted to go wallop that boyfriend of hers for letting her get this way. He wasn’t normally so… Neglectful, she claimed. He was normally a prince, a total prince, but, he was having his own hard time. Stupid as it may be, who was she to belittle his problems next to hers? Leroy looked at her when she said that and said simply “What his writs look like?”

“You gonna be okay girl?” he asked when she was all cried out.

“Yeah,” she said quietly after thinking about it for a minute. “I’ll be fine.”