Maple Syrup

Oh the terror of the shutters that don’t close right, so the tender breeze floats through, alive as you are, curled under blankets and shame, and it knows you, it knows what you’re hiding, and as it lifts up one flap of hair, running against your bare skin and it whispers the things you never wanted to hear, cold and ice blue, falling against your reddened ears, and nothing can save you. Nothing changes what you’ve already done. There’s no place left to hide, the shutters will never close and the fingers of cold, winter wind will always find you, and chill you to the bone.

I'm in a much different place now. I have a lot more control over my life, I'm not an alcoholic, and I haven't done drugs in like, a day and a half. I have a different, way sexier boyfriend, who is sweet and caring and accepting, although a little distant. I am finally handling my emotions in positive ways, instead of drinking excessively and being messed up about food I write, I actually talk to my friends, I do random acts of kindness and lie in the sunshine.

So yeah. Don't freak out random internet travelers! If you find this, I am probably okay now.

Probably.

Yeah, well get used to it.

But, on the flip side, I'll probably paint my fingernails tomorrow.

Oh, and I've got a complex. The sort of complex where you're only interested in guys who are

a) too young (yes, cougar at 18, time to apply for a world record)

b) way too old

c) dating someone else

d) really not interested

e) probably gay

f) fictional

or

g) all of the above, aka most unattainable men.

Oh, and if you chose all of the above, you're correct! Surprise.

I'm a mess. And if any of my glorious love interests actually get really interested, I run away, so far away.

It's all right though. I'll drown my sorrows in nail polish and lemonade and old Doctor Who episodes. Like a champion.

It's late, and I'm tired from a seven hour shift and I smell terrible. Time for pajamas and facewash, please.

Oh! And I'm trying to get in the habit of writing a bit each day. Not for this blog, like, short stories or chapters or etc. So far, three days of decentness. Lets try and go for tomorrow too, now sport.

Peace out, Holmes. Sherlock. Holmes.

Well, I'm not sure if I can, as my funny bone (hah hah.) is rusty (not funny/slightly gross) but I'll try.

(every time I say the word try, I want to follow it by saying "Do or do not, there is no try" in a Yoda voice. Cool?)

So, as many of you are wondering, a warm grape soda day is like, a very messed up one.

It starts out surprisingly sweet, then gets TOO sweet, then you swallow a fly, then you're gagging on the ground and people are ignoring you, and then you set it down and want to give up, but your parents say "you opened it and you finish it!" and so you try to sip it, and it makes you sick, so you chug back a bit, and then stagger around moaning as your mouth turns purple, and then you sip it a little more, trying to finish, and then you give up, and when no one's looking, you pour the last bit down the sink, splashing the dark purple dye onto your new white shirt, and then you sigh and set down the can, and just walk away, until your mom yells at you for leaving a can on the counter, and you have to deal with the stupid thing that you thought would be good, and then you throw it into the recycling bin with excessive force, and walk away satisfied that you showed that can who's boss. Then you spend the rest of the night applying Tide to Go on your shirt.

Yes.

That is a metaphor for how my day has been/will be. UNDERSTAND ME.

On a nice and happy note: tomorrow is the last day of class!!

Woohoo!

-Tizzle.

Oh, gotta go!

-Tea