Of Chances and Changes

I started high school with short hair. It had purple and blue streaks. All the other girls got in trouble for having brightly colored hair, but I didn't. I think it was the confidence I had. No one questioned what I was doing, even the adults.

I don't have that confidence anymore.
The kind that says "I'm perfect--I would never do anything wrong."

I was quiet and kept my head down. I blushed when the football players talked to me. I studied for tests. I had never been kissed but I had read so many ridiculous romance novels that I felt like I had. I didn't swear. I didn't lie. Ever. I only had one notebook filled with my random musings. I never pushed the rules. I never questioned anything. My bra size was 32A and and my jeans were a size 7 and I really didn't mind.

Now I'm starting college.

I have a different confidence now. One that says "I don't give a shit about anything."
That would probably because I like to pretend I don't give a shit about anything.

(I give a shit.)

So, college. I've already been kicked out of an apartment. I flip off the football players. Police Officers have caught me making out about 5 times. I swear too much and I lie. ALL THE TIME. I keep my head up and I have an excellent "don't bother me face" that works incredibly well.  My sarcasm has reached perfection. I have at least 35 notebooks filled of my random musings. I'm a feminist and sometimes dress slightly slutty. I'm a size 3 in jeans and my bra size is now a 34D. Let me repeat that, because it's kind of a big deal. My boobs are now a D cup. I would like to end there, because my bra size is very important, and it would create a nice emphasis but I won't, because that would make things uncomfortable.

Actually, I AM going to end it here.

I am officially a big-boobed blonde.

Here I come world.

I might have a chance now.

Shipments from Urban Outfitters

Things that fit in a box.

Frozen Mozzarella Sticks

Condoms

Ticket Stubs

Film Negatives

Toothbrushes

Envelopes

Cookies of any kind

Rock collections

Shipments from Urban Outfitters

Sticky Notes

Mexican Coke

Things that don't fit in a box.

Kisses

Souls

Reckelessness

Music

Things too big for boxes

Excuses

Stereotypes

Fears

The world probably doesn't fit in a box

Maybe we're just living in a giant box

Time

Sarcasm

Second Chances

When you first kissed me I tried to put it in a box but it didn't fit no matter what I tried. I still felt it on my lips but it was disappearing rapidly. I desperately needed somewhere to put it. But the box wouldn't accept it. So I took the kiss out of the box and gently gave it to my memories. The kiss meant something. Every kiss must mean something. Is there such a thing as a fake kiss? The staged ones, the planned ones, the filmed ones, do they mean nothing? A kiss is never just a kiss. And kisses don't fit in boxes.

Sometimes my soul does the talking. It says hello and introduces itself. It knows you're going to be my friend. It keeps talking while I stay silent. And when I begin to walk away, apart of my soul latches onto you. The first time we met my soul knew, it knew, and it gave a piece of itself to you without any doubt. It does that sometimes. I don't give it permission and I don't really appreciate it. People are walking around with pieces of my soul. I would like them back please. I can put them in a safe box where they won't get hurt. But they don't fit. It doesn't work that way.

The psychiatrist always tells me to put things in my box. "Put your fears in your box my dear" she says. "Put your past in your box" she says. "Put your cynicism in your box" she says. "Put your recklessness in your box," she says."This will help you get better!" she says."Lock up your box. Now throw away the key," she says. "Throw away the spare key, too. Now throw away the box," she says.

"Shut the hell up," I say.

Please stop trying to put me in a box. 

Even if I fit.