For those who do not know, I have moved to rural Virginia and am living alone at my grandparents bayside home. To chronicle this place/experience (which mostly consists of me biking around and marveling at the eccentric wonders of country livin') I started a blog, listed below.http://

Now I feel like a crumbling house on wheels. I keep rolling, faster, faster, because if I stop clumps of me will fall away from me, and soon I will be nothing but wheels. Now I feel like child-me with a red pail full of water. I am swinging it in circles around my head as fast as I can because I know now that I am old enough to know things that ( Read more... )

I am initially inclined to say I have had nothing to say. But I should say I am learning to have nothing to say. I should say I am learning to close the door behind me.

Sometimes I make a mistake. I say, I am an angry person. But honesty is tactless. You look uncomfortable. I say, Oh melodrama, and we laugh at me.

I think I need a drink.

I am home. It feels strange to call it home. I no longer mind being in Fremont, so long as my stay is short and departure imminent. The long-lived bitterness I harbored for this place has mostly dissipated, and I am left with a latent sadness for the childhood and adolescence I lived in this colorless, characterless town. It is most strange to see ( Read more... )

I don't really know what my life has been like since I last found I had anything to say about it. I have been avoiding myself, lately. It is a horrifying thing, the ability to ignore oneself. Ignoring my little wants and hurts and sorrows in favor of efficiency and functionality and stability. Subverting those little heart flutters to the demands ( Read more... )

Always, always, I feel a desperate need to perfect what is imperfect.

I want to meet someone unlike anyone I have met before, and when I do, I want to love and be loved desperately, foolishly, inconveniently, helplessly. I feel old, like thrift store air and stale bread, like dry rubber bands and fading dye. I want to be new, like grass after first rainfall and the smell of chopped cilantro, like unworn leather shoes ( Read more... )

And I will always choose the broken ones, the sad hurt messed up broken boys who don't know what they are or why, or who they want to be. And I will allow myself to hope that in allowing myself to love these terrible, lovely boys I will be safe - that they will never be loved by anyone but me. That I will be safe in the knowledge that my love for ( Read more... )

It poured today, for hours. The house is freezing and I ineffectively light a dozen scented tea candles in my room in a sad attempt at creating my own warmth. Everything has that wet sound, wet smell. The cars going by on Laurel sound like they're being driven through a shallow pool, and sirens wail somewhere on the other side of town. I ( Read more... )