Another hundred.

Since my last one seemed to go over pretty well, here's another. Written about 2 and a half years ago, when my ex-girlfriend and I had just broken up. I found out a week later that she had been seeing someone else for two months before we broke up.

Coincidentally, we now live together with two other friends. The past is the past. I forgive, but never forget.

Her hand reaches over and touches the nape of my neck. It’s hard to see through the darkness the envelopes the room. There’s a sense of loneliness in the way she pulls me closer. Her lips press up against mine. I fill up on bated breath and anticipation. My heart is there, but my head is a million miles away. She whispers something that I can hardly hear. Does she confess too much for me to comprehend? No matter how much we fit together like puzzle pieces, our edges weren’t meant to stay connected.

It’s hard to sleep alone now.

One hundred words.

I sometimes do a writing exercise in which I limit myself to 100 words. I typically start by jotting down adjectives, nouns, and verbs that come to mind when I consider the concept about which I intend to write. Then I string them together with prepositions and pronouns and all that, and condense. I don't write for a career or anything, but I often find that it helps when I'm trying to figure out what I want to say and I have too many thoughts bouncing around my head.

Below is the last one I did - about a month and a half ago, shortly before I moved 400 miles away from my boyfriend.

Dawn creeps silently over the horizon as I watch him sleep; his breathing is calm and steady. I have grown accustomed to his snoring - there is a comfort in it and I will miss it when I am gone. He stirs as I snuggle against him. I rest my head upon his shoulder and drape my arm across his chest. He grasps my hand in his and I feel right where I belong. I have learned to cherish these moments. I will not make the same mistake as I did before, for these moments may never be mine again.

My favourite animal.

Orcinus orca.

Majestic, powerful, and smart as fuck.

Nicknamed "Wolves of the Sea", orcas travel in pods and hunt as a team. They are apex predators in every sense of the word; their prey ranges from small fish to other marine mammals (typically sea lions, seals, and porpoises, but they've been known to take down larger baleen whales), to large sharks.

Their socieities are complex and sophisticated - typically matrilineal, with hunting techniques and vocal behaviours that tend to be unique to each pod, and passed across generations.

They even have dialects. Fucking dialects. Pod-specific, with call patterns and structure distinctive within matrilines. Calves vocalisations are similar to that of their mother's, but more limited. The mothers essentially teach their calves the pod's dialect, using a simplified version.

My favourite animal has culture.

:D

If the magical world as depicted in Harry Potter was real...

I'd be in Ravenclaw. (Well. Would've been, I'd've graduated almost 4 years ago.)

My patronus would be an ocelot.

I'd be a chaser on the Quidditch team.

My best subjects would be Charms and Transfiguration.

My worst would probably be Potions.

My wand would be 11 inches long, supple, made of vinewood, with a dragon heartstring core.

My dress robes would be a deep sapphire blue.

My profession would be teaching Charms at Hogwarts.


I know it isn't real, but the kid in me still thinks about it wistfully sometimes.

If you're a fan, tell me some of these things about you!

Disjointed, tired thoughts.

Bleh. Can't sleep.

This long-distance relationship is taking a toll on me. It's not hard to stay true, not at all. Just hard to be so far from the one I love. I know it'll be worth it, but trudging through it is hard. Trying to keep my chin up.

Looking for a second job. Need to save up money so I can go home early. Signed a one year lease. Can't leave my roommates hanging, since they're my 3 best friends. My options are find someone to sub-lease or move home and pay rent on a place I'm not living in. Honestly, I'm willing to shell out the cash.

It's worth it. Gotta go home. Just can't be happy here. It was what I wanted, what I thought I wanted, back in May. It took leaving my hometown for me to realise that everything I need was right there, in the palm of my hand.

My love. My family. Good friends. A good job that I loved. A school where I could earn my AA cost-efficiently. A small, close-knit community nestled in the most beautiful, serene, amazing landscape; the place to build my family.

In a couple years, of course.

But anyway. Second job. Bartending, serving, hosting, stocking, I don't care. Something I can do at night, after I'm done with my crappy retail job. Something with tips, preferably. Make that extra money, come home, and be happy.

'Cause I just can't do it here.

But don't worry, baby, I am holding onto the hope you give me when I'm home.- "Soulless" by Fake Problems

Waxing Poetic.

Lately I've found myself delving into old English poetry. A la John Donne, Shakespeare, Lord Byron.

There's something profoundly satisfying about being able to apply such heavy, ardent language to a 21st century relationship. Not to say that true love doesn't exist anymore, but true romanticism hardly does, does it? If my boyfriend were to spontaneously text me a verse, say, from Donne's "Stay, O Sweet", I might just faint with pleasure.

But who thinks like that anymore? Who would text someone lines quoted from a 17th century poet? Well. I do. I would. To people like my boyfriend, whose idea of a romantic text is a modified Owl City lyric - "If my heart was a house, you'd be my furnace." - which, don't get me wrong, made me beam, the aforementioned mentality is simply eccentric.

But what are personality quirks if not eccentricities? A personality quirk of mine is that I'm traditionally romantic. A personality quirk of my boyfriend's is that he sings aloud, off-key, and makes up parodies. So, if he can amble around the house after a shower, singing (poorly, of course) "The Climb" by Miley Cyrus, and I can find it endearing, can't I text him poetry that he'd find equally endearing?

Stay, O sweet, and do not rise!
The light that shines comes from thine eyes;
The day breaks not: it is my heart,
Because that you and I must part.
Stay! or else my joys will die,
And perish in their infancy.
- John Donne