I am the shell of what used to gaurd life,

and to think that I wanted. I desired.
Oh but her need to function like me, simply now, something I used to detest.
And the way she exclaims when she gets pissed, the way that she is clear, that I am wrong and she is wrong and we are wrong and we are alright.

The way that she makes me hate her for only a moment before wanting to fall princess first into her arms,
she is tough, tougher than anyone who had kissed my lips before.

And I'm just a pretty fae princess,
I need tough. I need tough love. I need discipline, I need everything she gives me.
She gets how to deal with me.
She understand when to let me win, when to shut me up, when to put me in my place, how to.

And sometimes, for a couple of minutes, I called her names.
We fight dirty.
And then the makeup, the heart poor.
Where she forgives quickly, where I drive her insane, the way I feel her blood pulse when I don't calm down quick enough.
She keeps me in line.

The old me and the new me.
She gets it. She is above it.
And no, I don't deserve her, and yes, she can be harsh.
I bitch in the corner, feeling sorry for myself. Victim.
And she doesn't feel bad.
She tells me "You're fucking crazy, I'm fucking crazy, who give a fuck, Sarah? You're my bad bitch" and then thats it.
I laugh. Me.
You're okay with that?
You're okay with me being "a bad bitch"
and I tell you sometimes, I say,
You're an asshole, You are.
and you agree... and you call me a bitch. and thats okay.
because then you tell me all the things I need to hear, and my hands miss your thighs. 

So... A corner office will never make me happy, huh? Well fuck. Honestly. Now what? Now I guess I go to work everyday until I discover I give two fucks and do have options. Wish me luck. I need time to be fairy.

100 movies from the 1960s!

Well, I have decided to stop trying to be influential and become influenced. So, as a start, I will be watching Lawrence of Arabia! I am watching the trailer now, I will post my thoughts soon :)

8 Months. I have never desired for 8 months to go by as quickly as I asked them to this time. Time. I have never admired it and disliked it this much. See, I have always had the time. The time for you and school and work and play and I have never wanted to give time away. While all my friends wanted to grow up, I wanted it to be a rule that you must be a little girl. You must dress like one and rarely ask for more responsibility or freedom. But now, As I look at the right hand corner of my PacSun register, I see a date and I think- fast forward! I see the time and I think, I need this much money and then, clock, please, hurry. I used to love the car at night. I loved the lights and the smells and the recentness of it all. I remember several times, sitting in the passenger side of my brothers old spider eclipse on our way to his first Louisville apartment, listening to theatrical music and analyzing it so pervasively and all I could have wish for was that the ride could be longer and take more time. Now- As I set in the drivers seat, heading from Indiana to Louisville and back and forth again and again- I find myself frustrated. I think about what I could be doing instead. I look at the clock and wish I could make it vanish- so the ride wouldn't be so long, but I would still have time to do things when I returned home. 8 Months. 8 months ago, a Thurday. You packed all of your things. All of them. Your clothes; all of them. Your hygiene products; all of them. Your notebooks and bags- yeah, all of them. Everything but me and transportation went with you. It rained that night- a fitting rain. The electric went out at my brothers house and I found myself on a foreign floor, not foreign to my brother or his wife, but foreign to me. It was a rather unflattering time and fit no matter how inviting that night. I really needed to be by myself and so I had a bed made up on the floor and my phone, silently laying beside me. I stared at it seemingly all night long, checking the time to see if it was morning yet. Months later, (8, imagine that) I am growing quite to used to it all. I am able to type these words without growing bitter or sad. And in no longer than a week you will be back, with everything, all of your things... And so, part of me says, that I want that two months to last a very long time; but part of me says, 8 years, seven to go. I don't just mean that you will be gone for another seven years and that makes me sad. Of course, I enjoy your presence and I am thrilled that you will be home. But the new discovery of love and hate for time isn't only you. I find that I am confused. Some people say that high school is the time of your life which I have mostly doubted. Others say college- and though college only lasted one semester for me- I was never as content as I was when I was in my brothers spider eclipse- So, maybe not college. I mean, maybe things don't get better or worse with time... Maybe it will all stay the same. I do know that I want to enjoy myself, no matter the time but I just can't help but imagine that it has to get better. I am not depressed. I am not living for the future. I just simply think that this can not be it. Life can't possibly be this simple; An awkward battle to find the balance between work and play- Between waiting and obtaining. I know something has to give. If you must know what I am living for, I suppose I am living for the equation of it all. To figure things out- to discover and also to figure out how to make the good drives longer and the frustrating ones less frustrating.

I Want to Try Something

"I want to try something" she insisted, holding her hand out to grab my own.
I felt the need to hesitate, like the need you feel to hesitate before jumping into an icy pool in March, but you can't allow yourself to think about it or you won't be able to do it.
I didn't hesitate, not physically at least.
Grabbing her hand I felt a tingle up my arm and then it was over as quickly as it had come.
I look around. Familiarity and distance both exist.

Does God hate insects?

I tried to resurrect a fly today... In a church... I may or may not have asked God to prove himself by bringing the fly back to life... No luck.

Barbie vs. Boosey (My PERSONAL shoe wishlist of Dec. 2011)

A series: Love letters to Xeuryia; Letter One

You, Xeuryia, are sacred.
Much like the way your wet hair grazes your lower back when you step out of the shower, much like the chills that manifest on your abdomen as his lips graze your neck.

You, Xeuryia, are quirky.
Much like the way you enjoy eating Ramen noodles with chopsticks because it makes you feel cultured.