(no subject)
I wish I were sixteen again.
Not because my sixteenth year was particularly glamorous, because it wasn't.
And not because I yearn for youth.
There is nothing subtle or gentle about sixteen.
Sixteen is loud parties and getting felt up at the movies. It's detention after school and dirty looks in the hall. It's throwing up in the bathroom after lunch and extra eye liner.
And sixteen was you.
I miss you the most.
Friday nights on my porch eating chocolate ice cream and vicodin. You running up to me in the hall at school laughing and spinning me around. Us stealing makeup at the drugstore in the middle of the night. Us pooling the few dollars we had and getting some old guy to buy us a bottle of MD 20/20. You lying to your grandparents again about where you spent the night, and me covering for you.
I covered for you. You covered for me.
Me for you and you for me.
Us taking turns making out with Jack Rutledge because he was the hottest fucking thing we had ever seen and we shared everything because we were sisters.
I don't have a sister now.
Subconsciously, I think every friend I've ever had has been standing next to you and none of them have ever measured up. Not because you were so perfect; because you weren't, you fucking bitch.
But you were true.
You didn't know how to lie and I didn't either. When we got in a fight, we would stand in the middle of the senior lockers and scream obcenities at each other until we both ran out of steam. Then we'd share a coke, and go out into the parking lot and smoke cigarettes in someone's car for the rest of the school day.
When our friend (who quite frankly was a supermodel in training) got the hottest boyfriends, we would mope for 10 minutes, and then we'd move on. And everything would be ok, because I had you.
Honestly, I had nothing else. I had neglectful parents, a bad attitude, a useless boyfriend, and a sub standard education. I was a smart girl and I always got by.
But you kept me hanging on, and right now I wish you were here.
Even though now I have EVERYTHING.
It's hard to be greatful for everything without you here sometimes, Leslie.
I still have your gray tank top. The one with the scalloped edges. It's way too tight now and faded and full of rips. But sometimes I put it on, and turn up the music as loud as I can, and dance around the house and scream and laugh and cry.
It's all I have left of you and it is one of my most prized possessions.
My tribute to you is a gray tank top, and loads of song lyrics, and many live journal entries, and several sketches, and if I ever write a book, I swear to fucking God, it will be in your honor.
I dedicate my imaginary book to you, bitch.
I remember you all the time.
It's enough for me when things are hard.
Not because my sixteenth year was particularly glamorous, because it wasn't.
And not because I yearn for youth.
There is nothing subtle or gentle about sixteen.
Sixteen is loud parties and getting felt up at the movies. It's detention after school and dirty looks in the hall. It's throwing up in the bathroom after lunch and extra eye liner.
And sixteen was you.
I miss you the most.
Friday nights on my porch eating chocolate ice cream and vicodin. You running up to me in the hall at school laughing and spinning me around. Us stealing makeup at the drugstore in the middle of the night. Us pooling the few dollars we had and getting some old guy to buy us a bottle of MD 20/20. You lying to your grandparents again about where you spent the night, and me covering for you.
I covered for you. You covered for me.
Me for you and you for me.
Us taking turns making out with Jack Rutledge because he was the hottest fucking thing we had ever seen and we shared everything because we were sisters.
I don't have a sister now.
Subconsciously, I think every friend I've ever had has been standing next to you and none of them have ever measured up. Not because you were so perfect; because you weren't, you fucking bitch.
But you were true.
You didn't know how to lie and I didn't either. When we got in a fight, we would stand in the middle of the senior lockers and scream obcenities at each other until we both ran out of steam. Then we'd share a coke, and go out into the parking lot and smoke cigarettes in someone's car for the rest of the school day.
When our friend (who quite frankly was a supermodel in training) got the hottest boyfriends, we would mope for 10 minutes, and then we'd move on. And everything would be ok, because I had you.
Honestly, I had nothing else. I had neglectful parents, a bad attitude, a useless boyfriend, and a sub standard education. I was a smart girl and I always got by.
But you kept me hanging on, and right now I wish you were here.
Even though now I have EVERYTHING.
It's hard to be greatful for everything without you here sometimes, Leslie.
I still have your gray tank top. The one with the scalloped edges. It's way too tight now and faded and full of rips. But sometimes I put it on, and turn up the music as loud as I can, and dance around the house and scream and laugh and cry.
It's all I have left of you and it is one of my most prized possessions.
My tribute to you is a gray tank top, and loads of song lyrics, and many live journal entries, and several sketches, and if I ever write a book, I swear to fucking God, it will be in your honor.
I dedicate my imaginary book to you, bitch.
I remember you all the time.
It's enough for me when things are hard.