Stupid Six Word Memoirs by Me

Wondering Words from the Unwonderful

Dear God,

I'm so sorry to disturb you.
But I need inspiration and I think you are inspiration.
The kind of inspiration that deserves to written about.
And I know you have the Bible which is all about you, and this, well this is petty and miniscule, but I have something to say.
And I don't think this is the kind of thing you actually want to hear about-
I'm not thanking you for my family or for my blessings.
I'm not asking you to help my brother or make my mom happy or fix my stomach.
I'm just here and I want to talk.
I was just wondering how you see things.
Because this dog is looking at me like he knows we are doing something wrong.
Are you watching the world through the dogs eyes?
I think that would be entertaining. Also, I think I would've made a better dog than I am as a person. 
Or do you have a big screen up there? Lots of headsets and microphones and control panels?
Do you point and laugh at our embarrassing moments? Do you get bored? Do you want a day off?
Do you take offense that I don't see myself as pretty? Because I've been told you created me based off of you. So I'm sorry about that, I bet you're good looking.
Are you disappointed? 

When I said I had something to say, I guess I was lying. My apologies.

Happy at Four Hundred and Seventeen

Sometimes I like to remember what life was like four hundred and seventeen days ago.

Like is the wrong word. It's more of a habit.

Sometimes I wish I was there four hundred and seventeen days ago.

I could tap myself on the shoulder with my shaking hands

Maybe give myself a hug.

Tell myself the secret through a smile:

Life's a bitch, but you're not alone.

But I can't even remember if I was happy four hundred and seventeen days ago.

I like imagining that I was.

Because I was hoping to be happy by seventeen.*

*Saturday At The Canal by Gary Soto

I Do Not Like People in General

I hate him.

I hate her.

I hate them.

I hate you.

I hate you.

I hate you.

These thoughts can't escape my mind as I walk down the school halls. I hate everyone and this a known fact to the general public. I hid it for about sixteen years but finally just gave up. I gave up pretending to like everyone I came across because I am not capable of loving freely. The fake smiles, touchy hugs, and girly squeals coming out of my mouth were a contradiction to every thought I was trying to lose in my mind. So now the headphones are in with my glare in place and I am hating everyone I come across. It's quite enjoyable actually. No one bothers to say hi because I no longer make an effort to respond.

I continue to shove my way through the suffocating halls. People move out of the way because my shoulders are back and my head is up. I walk with purpose- I walk like I hate everyone. I pass possibly the most annoying girl I know. And I am perpetually annoyed by all high school girls, so this is saying a lot. She is the girl who posts about her boyfriend every ten minutes on Facebook. She screams and launches herself into hugs when she sees anyone she's ever been in acquaintance with. When she talks to you, her face comes too close and she smells like cotton candy. Ick.

One of the football players pushes against my shoulder. I push back and give him my best death glare. He's an idiot. I don't even know his name, but I would punch him in the face if I had the chance.

I bounce off idiot football player and land into another one. Are they even adept to being alone? I don't have to try and put my pissed off mask on because I am pissed off as I look at this football player. He's hot. Just stating the facts. His life is perfect. He's rich and good looking and exceptional at every sport. The hardest thing he has ever done is lift weights and decide what college scholarship to take. I hate him because someone needs to hate perfection.

I regain my balance and continue the walk of hate. I pass one of the cheerleaders. I can't believe I used to be one of them. I hate all cheerleaders because I see what I could have turned out to be, but I especially hate this one. She always looks perfect. Her smile is always in place and has the body girls kill for. She has no personal style, but always in style. She laughs too much.

The next girl I see is a nobody. No one really notices her but she has a group of friends. Not pretty, not ugly. Just there. Filling in the spaces. She has no opinion on the world and lets people push her around. No personality whatsoever. I don't know how she functions that way.

I pass the town bicycle. She has made out with so many guys I almost respect her. But mainly it is just gross.

This girl is wearing so much make up that I could scrape it off her face. She seems to be popular, but has no real friends. No one can really see past all the make up and skinny body.

The girl passing me is an emotional wreck. She is always sobbing and sniffing or giggling and skipping. And it's not just a week out of the month, this is all the time. She is so dramatic. I do not like her but I enjoy the entertainment she provides. Everyday is something new.

"Kat." someone says from a distance.

I continue to walk. No one ever calls my name.

"Kat." It sounds like an old man.

 I take my headphones out and look around.

Huh. The people surrounding me continue on to class.

I turn my music back on and start hating again.

One guy actually braves waving to me. I raise my eyebrows in acknowledgement and nothing more. I have several classes with him and he is always high. Very much so. He is flirty and touchy and his jokes are never funny. His best friend is walking next to him. The one always by his side. He doesn't say much but I bet he has some pretty funny thoughts if he ever let them be known.

A hand lands firmly on my shoulder and startled, I  jump. "What the hell!" I mumble as I rip out my headphones and look to the hand.

It is an old man.

A very old man.

A very old man that I do not know, I might add.

I give him my best "who-are-you-also-I-don't-like-when-people-touch-me" look. He doesn't acknowledge the expression though it was quite obvious. He just smiles kindly and moves his hand to the small of my back. He starts to lead me through the halls. I walk with him. I'm curious and confused and I firmly believe once you hit the age of seventy you can do whatever you please, so I am going along with this.

He says nothing. I look at the people I'm passing, no longer making a mental hate list but wondering if they find it odd I am being escorted by a grandpa down the hall. No one seems to notice. He walks slowly but steady. He also walks with a purpose. He is walking like he does this everyday. And somehow, I am still going along with it.

"You know that girl you hate? The one you find annoying because of the constant Facebook posts and squealy hugs?" He starts talking as if continuing a conversation we were having. His voice is deep but soft, the comforting kind of voice.

I shyly nod my head.

"The reason she tells everyone about her boyfriend? For the first time in her life, she feels loved. She is touchy and needy because she's never had that. She didn't know it was possible for someone to love her. When she was two years old, her Dad shot her Mom. She was in the room. She was adopted into a strict family and has never felt at home."

I am shocked. I can't say anything, which is rare for me. What? What is he saying?

"The big stupid jock? His Dad makes him play football. It's all he knows. Next year, he will get a scholarship and go off to play college ball. He's going to blow out his knee. He will never play football again and that's all he knows. He will have no where to go with his life."

He pauses for a moment and looks at me with his stormy gray eyes. My mouth opens, but he continues before I can mumble...well mumble something unintelligent.

"And Mister Perfection over there? You're right, his life is pretty perfect. It will stay that way for a while. But his wife is going to get cancer and die when he is thirty years old, leaving him with three kids." His eyes start to slightly water. "And he will sacrifice everything so those kids will be able to have the kind of life he had growing up."

"The cheerleader? She's the one who marries Mister Perfection. She dies at twenty-nine after battling cancer for a couple of years. She is one strong girl. She laughs too much because she sees the good in everything. She believes in being happy."

He stops walking. I look at him. He looks at me with sadness. I don't know if he is metering my shallowness or trying to figure out what makes me hate everyone so much. I can't stand him being able to see through me so I turn my head. I am ashamed.

"The girl that fills in the spaces? You don't like her because she is pushed around? She's was raped last year. She hasn't told anyone yet. She is terrified. She doesn't think she will ever be good enough for anyone. She's...she's just trying to get by." His voice falters. I can tell he wants to say more, but he can't.

"And the girl who uh, well, gets around?" His voice is quavering, but we both smile. "Her parents are in the middle of a divorce. They don't notice anything she does. She needs some attention. She just needs to feel loved." He pauses and we keep on solemnly walking.

"Her, with too much make up? Her Mom tells her she isn't pretty enough everyday. She's anorexic. She has been told she is ugly her whole life. She piles on the make up because she is just trying to get her Mothers approval."

My eyes have started to brim with tears, which hasn't happened in months. I still can't look at the old man. Speaking of, where did this old man come from? WHO? Who are you? I think this loudly, but say nothing.

"Emotional wreck over there? I understand your annoyance." He grins, but it doesn't come close to reaching his eyes. "But she just cares too much. She loves everyone she comes across and is disappointed too easily. She suffers from depression. And right now, her life is good. But when everything gets a little harder, she will go numb. She will stop feeling anything until she is barely a person at all."

"And the kid that is always, what do you say? The kid that is always...high? His older brother introduced him to drugs when he was thirteen. He'll clean up when he is older and it will be difficult. But his best friend? The quiet one?" He stops in his tracks. I keep walking a few steps so I turn around to face him. He is looking directly at me. "He was going to kill himself last year, but his best friend, even if he is a druggy, stopped him. He saved his life."

The old man puts his head down and starts to cry. I am standing two feet away from him just watching. My lips start to quiver. I can't help it, I start to cry with him. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I ever hated any of you.

He looks up at me, emotional in a way I can't explain. He is so defeated, but so happy. Like he knows something I don't. "My dear, there is not a person in this world you wouldn't love if only you could know their whole story."

Dreams of Suicidal Barriers

I had this dream.
I had this dream and it scared me.
We were driving along listening to music and you decided you were done.
Done with everything. You wanted to go up there and be with him.
And here I was, trying to talk you out of it, when through my whole life, you had been the one keeping me alive.

I didn't like this dream.
I didn't like this dream because it scared me.

You're the one that is supposed to be strong.
You're the one holding me up.
You're the one I live for.

But you just looked at me and said:
"Oh honey, I don't want to die.
I just can't live anymore."

I really hate this dream.
I really hate this dream because it scared me.
But it was just a dream, even though I can't get it out of my mind.
And dreams don't become reality in my world.
Which in truth, this is the thing that's scary.
Dreams don't come true.

Sticky Notes are Applicable

We decide to label ourselves. I grab the perfectly square pad of bright blue and you grab the light yellow sticky notes. You always go with the classic. I get the sharpies and we start to write. You write "I hate everyone" in your thick messy strokes and stick it on my forehead. I write "attachment issues" and stick it on your cheek. You scrawl "Pessimist" and put it on the back of my knee. Did you know you make me weak in the knees? I write "Ignore me" and press it against your heart. My hand touches your chest and I can't help but wonder if your heart beats different when you're around me. Because I know the rhythm of your heart like I know my favorite song. It's perfect and has a nice quick  long thing going on. I am wondering if I have an affect on your heart when you give my a questioning look. My hand is still on your chest.

I laugh.
And we contiune.

"Perpetually annoyed."
"Scared of failure."
"Hipster."
"Emotional."
"Contrarian."
"Skanky underwear."
"Mismatching socks."
"Afraid of conformity."
"Low self esteem."
"The after thought."
"Swears like a sailor."
"Burden."
"Realist."
"OCD."
"Liar."
"List maker."
"Numb."
"Judgmental."

We are covered. Your  yellow sticky notes surround every inch of me as my obnoxious blue are scattered around you head to toe. I feel vulnerable. I am afraid of being vulnerable. But you and me, we are conquering our fears. We are being young and reckless and brave and last night a police officer caught us making out at the cemetery and it was funny and fantastic though that's not what the officer intended.

This is who I am and you know that.
You know who I am and you still come around. 
I know you and I can't stop coming back.
We are done hiding. Pretending. Lying.
Look at me.
This is who I am.
And I think you actually care.

Questioning a Negative Connotation for a Pretty Word

Are you allergic to any medications? Please rate your pain from 1 to 10. How do you feel about that? When was the last time you ate? How are you today? How much do you weigh? Can you please describe your symptoms? Why do you feel that way? How long has this been going on? What's going on in your mind? How are your relationships? What medicines are you taking? Can you sleep at night?  What time would you like to schedule your next appointment? Are you happy? Can you verify your health insurance please? Can I get you anything? When did this start? Will you sign and initial here? What do you think is the cause? Can you take five deep breaths for me please?

One hundred and seventeen.

That's how many butterflying doctor appointments I've gone to in the past year. 

Questions Questions Questions

All they ask are butterflying questions.

Because fix me fix me fix me fix me fix me.

"I just want my daughter back." 

That's what Mom says. 

"I just want my daughter back."

That's what she tells every doctor.

"I just want my daughter back."

I'm butterflying still here.

Answers Answers Answers

All we want is a butterflying answer.

Because apparently I'm broken broken broken broken broken.

"Do you think I'm broken?"

"No honey, not at all."

"Then why are you trying to fix me?"
"I just want my daughter back."

I'm butterflying still here.

I say "I'm okay." I say "I'm feeling better today." I say "I don't know." When in reality I'm lost in my mind. All the doctors ask the same questions in the same order and I know how to answer.

They are asking me these butterflying questions and I'm thinking about the movie Top Gun. How I started it last night and need to finish it. How I watch all the time because I like the song Danger Zone but I've never watched it with another person. Which leads to how in sixth grade I went to Alabama to go to the NASA Space Camp and one of the kids was convinced he saw Tom Cruise. And Space Camp was the first time I held hands with a boy and it was terrible and I don't remember his name but he looked like a mouse. Which leads to how I don't like holding hands but I really like this guy and we hold hands all the time and it's actually nice. Then I remember how my sister used to hold hands with her boyfriend under the table while we ate dinner and how that boyfriend turned out to be gay. At least they didn't get married and I wonder if he is happy now. Hopefully the guy I marry doesn't turn out to be gay. That would be unfortunate. Though I don't think I am going to get married. Which obviously leads to cats because if I don't get married I need lots of cats. I don't really like cats. So I should probably get married. Which leads to Seinfeld. How Kramar and Elaine make a deal that they will get married in fifty years if they aren't married and Kramar says: "We're engaged!" like the happiest guy in the world. 

I start to laugh out loud because that is really a funny episode. The doctor looks at me odd. The question he asked doesn't go well with me laughing. I wonder what he is writing on my chart. Something about me being delusional because Sick people aren't supposed to be happy.

Butterfly you, doctor.

Death is that Popular Cheerleader

Death was born on a Sunday afternoon at 3:02. She came two weeks before her due date, because you always know death is coming, but you can never know when. Her mom wasn't prepared. She didn't have her overnight bag for the hospital packed or a car seat. Deaths mother was 16. She didn't want Death. She wouldn't be able to take care of Death and Deaths dad was a douche bag. But Deaths mom was stubborn and strong, and on that Sunday afternoon on the way to the hospital, she decided she was going to keep Death. And on that Sunday afternoon, it started to rain. At 3:02, it started to pour. And at 3:02, Death took her first breath. All the nurses and doctor stopped and stared.

Death was beautiful.

Death did not allow you to look away.

Death had bright blue eyes and thick black hair. From Deaths first breath, she was breaking hearts. And Deaths lost and sixteen year old mom took the beautiful baby in her arms and loved her. She loved her because Death was to be loved. But she was afraid. She was afraid of her because Death was to be feared. 

Death was a good baby. Healthy. Strong. Death never cried. But Death would never do as she was told. Death always had her own agenda.

Death grew and went to school. Death grew prettier everyday. Death didn't have the innocence the other children had. Death was different, Death was odd. But some of the children didn't mind. They would take Deaths hand and play with her. They knew Death wasn't bad. That's when those children still saw glimpses of good in everything. But even innocent children grow up.

Everyone who met Death was very intimidated. Everyone who met Death felt like they had met her before. Familiar. Everyone was familiar with Death in some way, somehow. Some loved Death. Death loved no one. Death made no friends, but she had friends. Death was on everyones mind. 

Always

Always

Always

Because once you meet death, you will never be the same.

Death became an obsession for some. She grew up to be beautiful and mysterious. She was surrounded by darkness but full of light. The boys fell in love with her and the girls wanted to be her, but everyone was terrified of her. Every boy knew it was inevitable to have a crush on her at some point. Every girl knew it was inevitable to be jealous of her at some point. Death was simply inevitable. But the secret? No one actually liked Death at all. It was all pretend. They pretended to like Death, to not be scared of Death, because that is what you have to do to stay alive in High School. You pretend to like who you are supposed to like. You pretend to like the pretty girls and the jocks.

Pretend

Pretend

Pretend

Death is that popular cheerleader everyone is secretly afraid of.

Death is that popular cheerleader that has no real friends.

Death is that popular cheerleader that everyone is supposed to love but no one actually likes.

Of Closets and Consequences

I have nothing to say. Which is unusual, because if you give me a sharpie I start to write and I can't stop. Give me a sharpie and I will write poems on your walls and scribble lyrics on all the cardboard boxes. I write the things I don't mean on ripped paper using thick strokes that I crumple and give to the wind. The day I was given a sharpie my life changed. My closet walls are covered with words, words, words. In which I have nothing to say so I am going to go sit in my closet for inspiration. 

Inspiration's a bitch.
But here we go.

I want to jump off of a building
Without the consequence
I want to feel the wind billowing through my hair
Without meeting the end
I want to feel what flying really feels like
Without the chance of dying
To free fall
Let go and dive
Dive off the top of the highest
Just to feel that high
Meet the boundless air
Shake hands with the never ending sky
Smile until it leaves a trail of itself in the wind
Fell just a remnant of what a bird feels
The bird that leaps
And sees how long she an possibly go before
Spreading her wings
Because sometimes you have to fall
Fall big
Before you can defy gravity
And really fly
But when your me
Flying has more than just
A consequence.

-Poem from July 2012 found on the west side of my closet by the cardigans. Surrounded by weird drawings of birds.