Thursday, January 22, 2009

There's this boy that I've know for ten years. I've never really known him, but I do now and that's all that matters. I call him Blackberry. He is on this golden rod transportation system that we both take to and from hell everyday. He is a year younger than me, although it seems to be five or more, but it's like that with everyone. Anyways, he wears plaid and jeans that are kind of tight and nikes and his hair is getting long. He looks like my one and only, Pokusrhino, but in a young-out-of-control-I-have-yet-to-find-myself-but-everyone-already-thinks-I'm-cool-so-why-try kind of way. I don't tell either of them, though; it would be awkward.

It is awkward; to not see the one you love but see everyone who wants you to love them; to see the ones who might end up with people like me; to see people who might end up just. like. him. It is awkward, but in a good way; but sometimes it's hard. It's hard not to see him; hard to talk to him and know I can't look him in the eyes and grab his face and bring the plump red skin called lips to his, and tell him how I feel. It's hard to know that will never happen; well not in my lifetime at least..

But I imagine it, happening, at night while we're on the phone; he does too.. And we both pull our faces towards the soft, silk covered objects lying next to us and part our lips and imagine it being the other. I wonder if he longs to touch my soft glowing skin. He says he does but I hardly believe anything he says, subconsciously, but I say I do just to make him feel better. He asks why I don't trust him, and I tell him it's because he hasn't given me a reason to, because I have trust issues, because I'm crazy and I need medicine, but he doesn't believe me. He thinks he has showed me that I can trust him and he has, but I just don't know. I do not know what's wrong with me, and I wonder if they will ever find a cure for the Amanda C. Disease.

I wish I could be a doctor, just so I could find a cure for my own self-loathing. Even then, I wouldn't have enough equipment, colleagues, or chemicals to fix me. I am officially unfixable. I am the epitome of troubled teenagerdom. The thoughts that go through my head sometimes are crazed. I belong in the loony bin, but if I told my parents they would never believe me. I do not know how people go to therapy. I don't know how those people explain the thoughts in their head. Or maybe they just have a different disease; a disease easier to explain in words. This one, not so much. I wish I could explain myself; explain what is wrong. No one knows how much easier my life would be if I could just explain myself; how much better it would be for everyone else, especially him.

So, I just sit in the seat numbered twenty-two, and I stare at Blackberry. I take pictures of him some days. He doesn't ever notice and I don't know if it's because I am easily hidden or virtually invisible. But on occasion, he looks over in my direction and our gazes collide, and we just stare. He says "I love you," some days. I cringe at the thought of it though, the thought of someone else saying those three words besides Pokusrhino, and meaning it. Hearing it made me want to throw up, and he noticed, I could tell. But he didn't say anything else to me, he merely turned around and continued looking out the window of the passing gray blur called Georgia.


Friday, January 23, 2009

I had a dream last night that I got Pokusrhino's whole name tattooed across my pale skinned collar bones. When I woke up, I was morose to see it was not there. I told some people in Dee's class about it and they looked at me with mouths agape when I told them, and they said, "You would never get that, right?" and they laughed and said, "Oh jeez, thank goodness it wasn't there, you would've died, huh?" I scoffed and said, "I love him, I would get his name all over my body." And they told me I was crazy, which I obviously already knew.

I think it's kind of cruel to tell someone they're crazy, but what do they really mean? Do they mean, "you're crazy," as in, you need psychiatric help, or "you're crazy," as in, what you're doing is crazy? Which in reality, would mean that whatever you're doing would need psychiatric help, but whatever you're doing can't physically receive psychiatric help, so by doing something "crazy" you are setting yourself up for failure. See what I mean? My thoughts do not make any sense half the time.

On a lighter note, two days ago our sophomore counselor came into my fourth period, so we could all fill out the write-though-three-copy, neatly columned sheets of paper for next years classes. I admire how everyone complains about having to plan for the next school year. Personally, I've always had a knack for being organized and structured, in my life-planning, at least; the rest of my life is pretty much a mess of nothingness in itself. I told "Mrs. Heartsfield" that I wouldn't be a hassle for her that day, and that I already had my whole life planned out and she smiled and told me I was brilliant.

I think I love the life I have planned out for myself. We get asked a lot in high school, where we want to be in five years and where we plan to go to college and where we want to live and how we want to act as "adults", and to me it's simple; I know exactly where I want to go to college, where I want to live, who I want to be, and what I want to be doing. I don't understand why it's so hard for everyone else to know all of that.

I know that my eighteenth birthday is on a Sunday, and the Friday before that, I will move in with Pokusrhino, and the following Tuesday we will get married because that will be our Three Year Anniversary and I will get tattoos and we will live happily ever after. And I know that during my senior year I will get angel bites and more tattoos and my parents will hate me. And I know that after I graduate my boyfriend, Pokusrhino, scratch that, I mean my husband, Pokusrhino and I will move to New York so that I can go to NYU and study art and business so one day I can own my own tattoo shop, and my own record company, and my own book publishing company (I have names for them all, as well). And I know that we will live in a penthouse on the twenty sixth floor (our anniversary) of the building we both pick out. And after that we will have everything we want, except kids, so then we will have kids. We will have a baby girl named Lillie Addison, and a baby boy named Cadence Grey and we will all live happily ever after.

Everyone doubts me on this, everyone that I tell. Except Pokusrhino, he assures me that we will have all of this. He assures me that we do have a different love than anyone in the world, and that we will last forever, and that we won't grow old and hate each other and turn into those people you see on TV who tell everyone how terrible marriage is and who tell everyone they know to get divorced while they still have their dignity. We will not be those people. We will be the people they don't show on TV, who stay together forever and get everything they want, and who are actually happy with their lives. We will start a new trend. The Cinderella Trend.

Yesterday, Pokusrhino told me that he was going to the hospital because his fever was too high. I was horrified. So many thoughts went through my head about him dying and me being left alone and all of our dreams being flushed down the toilet because that one January he got too sick and his body couldn't take it anymore. I told myself to stop and that when I was doing couldn't physically receive psychiatric help, so I needed to stop. Razbeccastan had left the period prior to me finding out, so I couldn't tell her.