Whatcha Gonna Do When They Come for You?

5 - Swimming lesson instructor.

6 - Teacher.

9 - Famous singer.

10 - Missionary.

12 - Writer.

15 - Married to a billionaire.

17 - Actress.

18 - Mother.

19 - Youth pastor.

21 - Pastor.

23 - Travelling poet through Japan, conquering skyscrapers and scary hairstyles with my devastatingly touching iambic pentameter.

At each age, these were my highest aspirations. Some are still with me (hello, famous singing career, here I come), and some are long dead. I never wanted to be a doctor or a lawyer or astronaut or princess, because it was never about the money (except marrying rich, of course); it was about living out what I was passionate about.

So. Self-analysis time. What am I most passionate about at this moment?

...Reading my Bible, making delicious food, making anything really, going on adventures.

Okay. Now why am I doing anything else?

Obvious answer: it's all part of the plan. Finish school, do what's required, I'll thank myself later. And realistically, I'll be done in just over 5 months. That's all. But until then...I'm dragging myself through the mud.

I want a better attitude! I really do. And there are parts about school I absolutely love to bits. But there's the parts that literally take the things I used to love and twist them into ugly representations of lovely things. Too hardcore? Fine. The joy for learning is gone when I'm over-worked and under-prepared and hungover (JOKES) and, in some cases, have already learned exactly the same thing in five other courses (this happens more often than you'd think). And other things still hurt. I think I've mostly forgiven the painful bits from over the last whiles, but it doesn't make the hurt any less legitimate. Sometimes I forget how badly it still affects my heart, and then a reminder stuffs itself into my face and I cannot breathe all over again.

Sidenote: What do you do when you know something that literally no one else on the planet knows except the person whose secret it is to tell, and this information could destroy everything for someone else? What do you do when there is no "sworn to secrecy," but instead a mutual silence? What do you do when you know you should do the right thing, but in the end no one will thank you for it?

End sidenote.

I am fighting through this, but I'd rather enjoy the ride. What's the worst that happens? I don't get A+'s across the board? Unlikely at this point, anyways. I don't graduate with highest honours? ...I'm guessing that I'm the only person who cares if I do that or not. The school I want won't accept me because my grades blow chunks? I take the road set out for me instead of the one that was obviously of me.

I am officially letting go of perfection and instead striving to enjoy this at least a little bit more than I have been. Hello, folks! It's celebration time. Freedom is nearly here. It's taste is strongly overpowering my leftover coffee and midnight cigarette (JOKES...about the coffee. JOKES! Gosh).

Destruction on the Highway

"There are two tragedies in life. One is to lose your heart's desire. The other is to gain it."
- George Bernard Shaw

...So does that mean it's better to never get it and be miserable, or to get it and be miserable? I'm in a state of not being able to decide.

Sidenote: If a tragic beer bottle accident is the worst thing in the world for someone, they've got it good.

Figure 3.12

The summation of my experience on this planet has served to teach me only one thing: boys are dumb. I can be walking down the street wearing my baggiest sweats, with the dirtiest hair and no make-up, and receive the same number of honks and "ow OWWWW"s I would if I were wearing my shortest mini and had somehow "misplaced" my top. This can only lead me to believe that in the long run, looks don't really matter. All I need is proof of my womanhood and KABLAM! Interest pops out of thin air.

Sidenote: This isn't to say that I in any way deem myself desirable. As much as I say "OH EM GEE, I'm lyk, the hawtest thing ever!", no one can expect that I'm actually taking myself seriously. Don't get me wrong, I'm finally in a place where I can love myself and have gotten over the fact that I will never tan or be labeled as not too skinny. This, however, is in no way an indication of pride, just because I don't hate my body. In fact, I despise pride; every time I catch a hint of actual pride in myself, I immediately do my best to kill it. I loathe it with a passion usually reserved for breathing in autumn air (ask my bathroommie, I nearly fell out the window yesterday).

So, back to interest. My biggest self-deprecating issue is that in the past, I have found that as soon as initial interest wears off and a guy realizes exactly how much of a handful I am, he loses interest and things draw to a rapid close. This, in turn, leads back to my biggest internal struggle: I am always too much, yet somehow never enough (but this is deep-rooted hurt that I just don't have time to get into LOLZ [my annoying, common way of taking a serious statement and half pretending I wasn't serious at all]).

I once dated a guy who, after several months, informed me that I didn't have to bother shaving my legs anymore if I didn't feel like it. He said he didn't mind. So I stopped. He then told me I looked much prettier without make-up. So I stopped bothering with make-up. He also encouraged me to wear my hair up as much as possible because it brought out my eyes. So I wore my hair up, which led to washing it less (now everyone say "EW"). He also, I noted, paid me the same compliments whether I had tried to impress him or had just come from the gym. So I stopped trying altogether. And then, with shocking clarity, I realized that I had turned into a complete slob, and he couldn't have cared less.

The idea of a guy loving me even at my grungiest is sweet, don't get me wrong. The problem comes when I no longer feel the thrill of being beautiful for someone; the rush of having the one I care about looking at me and not being able to say a word, because he can't breathe. So while having my man not mind when I don't dress up once in awhile is fine, I infinitely prefer someone who notices when I try.

It seems we have come full circle. Boys are dumb. End of story.

...But not quite. I have never really been one for caring about my figure, mostly because my metabolism is killer, and likes to play tricks on me. Like taking every particle of fat in my body and flushing it out no matter what I eat. Once, I gained 15 pounds, and only my mom noticed. I looked exactly the same! But as the years have gone on, I've realized that it's a good thing I never tried to fit a certain mould. Every guy on the earth has a different idea of what is beautiful! Some like blonds, some like brunettes; some like short, some like tall (usually more to do with their own height than anything else); some prefer deathly skinny runway models who wouldn't know a cheeseburger if it ran them over with a lawnmower, while others like 'em curvy. This epiphany has birthed in me a surety that this bod is the one I'm meant to have, and one day I'll find a man to appreciate it for what it is.

Even if he's dumb.