You are, for contradiction's sake, everything I remember that I swore I'd forget...
Megan and I saw at book at Borders called Will Cook For Sex, and we joked about how it should say David Cook For Sex.
So I photoshopped that to go along with our collection of David Cook inspired pictures.
This was at our wedding on the beach. Megan's in the background crying with jealousy.
Megan won the presidency, but she's jealous that I get to have a sexy dance party with my husband.
Cook and I on our honeymoon.
Hahaha.
There is nothing like not sleeping for the second night in a row
and walking around the neighborhood at 5:30, watching the sunrise all around me.
It's like a ghost town,
empty, void, vacant.
I don't feel so alone when the buildings and benches are alone too.
Not that I'm lonely, not by any means.
There's just something about watching a sunrise alone that puts that ache in my heart.
I am not depressed. I don’t want to hide in my bed for days and days. I don't want to cry into my pillow and scream until my voice goes hoarse. I'm actually happy. I have a few friends (alright like two or something) that I know will always love me. I know I don't need anyone to help me stand. I don’t need anyone to help me become a better person. I don't need anyone to help me get my head out of the clouds.
Everything is supposed to happen like this. I just keep repeating that.
And I know someday I'll be going going g o i n g to where I should be.
Because I do know I belong somewhere. I do know it isn't here.
I will not waste away. I will not live too fast.
Sometimes I wonder if guys don't like me because I don't party and get drunk every weekend, or take pictures of my friends and I barely clothed holding cans of beer. I guess maybe one day I'll meet a guy who cares about more in life than just getting drunk and getting laid. There are guys like that out there, right? There has to be. There just has to.
My mind was working and my fingers were itching. So I came home and wrote. Stacks and stacks and stacks of nothing and wasted shavings from my pencil. I always think I'm not good enough to be this. I always think "How can I write a book based off of a boy who doesn't talk to me anymore, friends who aren't devoted and how the leaves fall?" But for the first time I've conceived an advanced topic. I refuse to be a failure at the only thing that makes me feel safe.
I just danced, pranced, galloped, leaped, skipped, flew, rolled, and smiled around my entire house. The most liberating substance of life is trudging and dragging yourself through a metaphorical winter and landing with two feet into what feels like summer in my heart. My elevation of happiness led me to dancing wildly and throwing myself onto my bed, doing a backwards flip off the other side. For a couple of minutes I laid in complete silence, only the sound of Copeland blasting out of my speakers. The entire day my heart had caused my whole body to shake and as I lay on the floor and spoke aloud, maybe to myself, maybe to the feeling, maybe to you, maybe to God, I said, "Please don't leave me."
I won't give up. I'm going to keep running until I reach the very end.
Who's coming with me?