Summer.
So, I graduated. I'm glad. The longer I stayed in that school, the more the awful people seemed to make their presence known. Now, I never have to see them again, and I don't have to cry over their dumbass antics.
I don't really feel a huge sense of closure. I do feel that I've left high school behind. I have no moments of thinking idly I'll be there next year. New York is on my brain. It's beautiful and exciting. Also, terrifying.
And good god, I'm in love. Last summer, I said many times it was the best summer of my life-- and I said this even though I was up and down and going crazy with fear and the newness of it and not really telling anyone what was going on in my head. My memory of saying the summer was amazing is the only reminder I have that she makes me particularly happy; I can't distinctly remember not feeling like this for my whole life. It's stunning to be made happy by another person. It's even more incredible to make another person happy. I make her so happy that people actually comment on it-- actually fucking tell her that she's so optimistic these days, that she seems to have "blossomed" this year.
Today I spent all day with her, and she asked me when she could see me tomorrow.
My love isn't "pure." Cheesy phrasing, but it's all I've got. It's mixed with doubt, guilt, regret, fear, and uncertainty. But however much I doubt myself, I really am in love with her.
Tomorrow is my birthday. Eighteen, motherfuckers. And I have friends and I like myself most of the time and I'm in love and I'm on the edge of New York. I've grown up well. Thank god.
I don't really feel a huge sense of closure. I do feel that I've left high school behind. I have no moments of thinking idly I'll be there next year. New York is on my brain. It's beautiful and exciting. Also, terrifying.
And good god, I'm in love. Last summer, I said many times it was the best summer of my life-- and I said this even though I was up and down and going crazy with fear and the newness of it and not really telling anyone what was going on in my head. My memory of saying the summer was amazing is the only reminder I have that she makes me particularly happy; I can't distinctly remember not feeling like this for my whole life. It's stunning to be made happy by another person. It's even more incredible to make another person happy. I make her so happy that people actually comment on it-- actually fucking tell her that she's so optimistic these days, that she seems to have "blossomed" this year.
Today I spent all day with her, and she asked me when she could see me tomorrow.
My love isn't "pure." Cheesy phrasing, but it's all I've got. It's mixed with doubt, guilt, regret, fear, and uncertainty. But however much I doubt myself, I really am in love with her.
Tomorrow is my birthday. Eighteen, motherfuckers. And I have friends and I like myself most of the time and I'm in love and I'm on the edge of New York. I've grown up well. Thank god.