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Growing Up But Staying the Same

I grow up. I get older. I take on more responsibilities, but I stay in the same place. I get to a place where I can almost feel stable, and dare I say it, happy. But no, I don't stay there. I don't reach that level. I fall backwards. And I hit that same spot over and over again, making a deeper impression each time. Sinking deeper and deeper into everything. Drowning in it. Yet I always cover that up and hide it. I want to be everything for everyone.

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Alright so to continue my story about classes...

My advisor I have decided, is actually a monk. He is in the basement of like the oldest building on campus and its very creepy. Anyway, he hasn't been around for me to visit with for two days so I hiked back to Hammond and went to see Kathleen who is the secretary of the Dean of Undergraduate/Graduate studies...or something like that. She told me to go back to the registar and see if they had a recent list of the classes I could choose from to replace the class I was dropping. Wonderful. So I hike back across campus to the Sanders Admissions Building and see one of the people there who gave me a ten page list. I sat there for half an hour, finally picked out a class, and asked them what signatures I needed. They suggested I talk to the Dean. *massive sigh* So I hiked yet again to Hammond and talked to Kathleen yet again and then waited for another half hour to talk to the Dean. I explained to him the situation with my History teacher, he signed my paperwork, it took five freakin' minutes, and then I found out he lives in the same town as I do. Wonder-fucking-ful. Then he says to me "Give this to Kathleen to make a copy of and then bring it to the registrar." I think I visibly twitched. So I wait for Kathleen to make a copy, inquire about work study, decide I have to go to Financial Aid and see if I can apply for that and then I take a deep breath and head right back to the registrar. In my like third trip there, I dont hear my sister yell my name twice, oops. I get to the registrar, give them the paperwork and they drop my u.s. history class and sign me up for the last seat in History of Architecture. AND THAT, was my day.

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Oh the excitement of it all.

I get to spend my morning running from building to building to talk to countless people and get countless more signatures so I may drop my history class and pick up Commonwealth of the Arts class. Joy. You see, the add/drop period has passed so I have to get the right people to give me permission to leave a class that I have repeatedly been told by the professor in numerous comments that I am unintelligent. Thats what the comments insinuate, anyway. They are rude, senseless, and just mean comments that I don't intend to sit through for the rest of the semester. Nuh uh, ain't happenin'. So I am playing the run around game to get myself out of it and into a class that I might actually be able to enjoy.

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When my family moved back into the house we live in today, the house I mainly grew up in, it wasn't under good pretenses. We had left a rough life in another town. We had left many angry people behind. We had left a life we had known for almost six years.

Looking back now, I don't think I ever knew the real story behind it all. I was young, I was confused, life was beyond hectic. Now I am trying to piece it all back together. This may not be the right time for it, but you can never convince your heart of it.

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The college life..or lack there of...

Well, I am in college. Yeehaw for me. It's going okay. Oh, except for the part where it keeps raining like it's goin' out of style, and that part where the residents hate the commuters, and the commuters are like lepers. Our Commuter Cafe is in the basement. Yah.

My math class is boring as all hell, but it's easy credits. My writing class, well, thats yet to be seen. US History is obnoxious and difficult. The Philosophy of Human Nature is so going to be my favorite class. My professor is fucking hilarious. Stuff about pot, and choking kids. Its funny. Doesn't sound it, but it really is. He has a crazy accent though thats hard to understand sometimes.

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I don't know why I feel the need to write. I don't have anything to say. Just that infernal itch that makes me want to say something when in all honesty there is nothing to say. Oh, how redundant that was.

I wish I could catch dreams at night. Keep them in mason jars like fireflies. And examine them more closely when I am awake. I wish I could fly up among the stars and find out what they have been singing all these years. Hear there story, know what they see, feel their brilliance. I wish I could sleep on a cloud. Just sink into its cottony outside and drift to sleep. That has to be the only true way to sleep.

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Its the saddest, most depressing thing, watching the space expand between you and the person you're closest to even before it has happened. You can feel the distance between your physical selves, your mental selves, and your lives growing ever larger. And you're still living in the same city.

I've always wanted that friend. You know the one, the kind of friend who would always have your back when you needed them the most. Who knew just what to say even if to someone on the outside, it didn't seem very sympathetic. The friend who knew exactly what foods were a makeshift bandage and what movie would make the world seem halfway decent. I always thought I had that in her.

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Coming Back

As I walk these words
remember their meaning
the memories reverberate through my mind
an echo of voices
shadows of people
doors opening and shutting
to the old experiences
the wounds that sliced so deep
that they are just now starting to heal
throb with the pain
rediscovering what caused them
I ponder and consider
all the time spent here
the endless letters
stringing together sentences

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*sigh* I'm going to melt.

I know that people maintain that you can not melt because of heat, but I am fairly sure thats what will happen eventually. It's ridiculous. My poor cats haven't moved all day. Poor kitties.

Last night was interesting, to say the least. My mom was outside in the tent in the back yard. It's one of those tents you would get to put a table set and stuff inside to keep bugs out, and it's really quite nice at night. We hooked it up with cute little copper sphere lights. Anyway, she was out there drinking, and being upset because it's end of the month so Lynn is ALWAYS working. So I went out there to see what was going on and if she was okay. We started talking about the three kids she takes care of and the two I take care of. And gradually it morphed into a conversation about my mom's childhood. My grandparents took in foster kids and the way my mom described it "I would come home one day, and there would be three kids. I would come home from school the next day and there would be two." My mom has one actual sister. I guess one of the foster kids called a long time ago to try and contact my grandparents using the number he got from his adoptive parents. And my grandfather answered the phone. He didn't get a name, or a number, or anything because he just didn't know how to handle the situation. My mom wishes she could find out what happened to all of the foster kids. Now I know where I got my love for helping people and for taking care of children.

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Two Sides = One Story

Me: You're an idiot.

Me 2: Pardon me?

Me: You heard me, I-D-I-O-T. Idiot. Plain and simple.

Me 2: And what specifications do you have that qualify you to make this sudden proclamation?

Me: I could list them all, but I have better things to do with my time.

Me 2: Moving on then. Why am I an idiot? What supreme blunder have I recently committed that makes me such an idiot?

Me: What haven't you done recently? You turned 18. Big deal. You got your nose pierced, who cares? You are screwing up your furture. Single handedly you are making yourself miserable because you can not for the life of you make any decisions. Except the wrong ones, of course. Face it, you suck at life.

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Sometimes I Understand Why

I feel kind of outcasted here. Not just recently but for a while. I dont know. A lot of other people have felt the same way. But it only started bothering me now.

I write. I write what I feel. I write what I know. I write what I want. And it pisses me off that it seems like the only way to get feedback on what you write, is if you are asking for advice on dating or talking about your latest problem with such and such person. Or something else like that.

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Swept Away Unwanted

What happened? When did it happen? How could I miss it? Why did I miss it? Did I know it was going to happen? Probably. Most things are inevitable. Whether I wanted to see it or not, it's too late now.

So many times I came and I tried to write and I couldn't do it. There was something in me that kept me from sharing, that held me back instead of letting me go on and on forever about anything and everything. I wrote religiously in the beginning just let the words flow every single day. Shared things that I never dreamed I would share with so many people.

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Well you see...

I have had one hell of a weekend. Or atleast saturday was one hell of a day. Did some stupid carp and you know. Whatever. It happens.

Other than that I don't know what else to say. This is my last week of high school. Then who knows what. Still have finals to take starting tomorrow. I'm also getting contacts tomorrow.

Its interesting. I'm changing a lot. Haven't decided whether thats for the good or the bad yet. But whatever.

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Saturday, May 8th, 1986

That's right. This saturday. You know what that means? Well, I do. I turn 18 on that day. I am not thrilled. Sure, being 18 will be amusing. I will finally get my lip pierced. But birthday wise, it's not going to be fun. I will be home with my brother most likely. Whatever. Doesn't matter. I give up on them.

I have a play to make shirts, posters, and tickets for. I have five pottery projects to have made fired and glazed, two graphics projects and a marriage project all to be done in 14 days. All before I graduate. Good times good times.

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*Watches the rain and can't help but think "Is the sky falling?" *

She plays with her sleeves. It's a nervous habit that she shouldn't have. They always have to be down so she can pin them to the palm of her hand with her thumb. Always. Shes afraid when she has them rolled up.

She doesn't understand why she is so afraid. People have seen them before. No one has ever done anything. She knows she should show them to the right person, make them fix her. She can't do that though. She doesn't think she can be anything else. What if she fails?

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