And I Want Her, Need Her

Chapter 2.


He had brown hair, I think, maybe it was blonde at that time. and I'm pretty sure it was curly (at that time.) He had golden brown eyes and I chased him around the playground like a starfish. I thought I loved him. Once, during clean up time, I drew a picture of us as stick figures, on opposite sides of the paper, with a line connecting our lips touching.
I was four.
He's basically my brother now.

As for the next boy I had a crush on, he was tall. And, he had a bowl cut. His hair was sandy blonde and one time we were having a class party and he was telling me a story about a kid who could only say no. A man told the kid, "If you don't stop saying no, I will kill you!" And the kid said, "No! No! No!" I laughed and moved my desk around and loved his name.
I was seven.

I came to a new school. In that school I met a boy. He was around my height, and had brown, shaggy hair, and one day during Orchestra he came in late. He wore Mavs jerseys and sock hats and I thought he was beautiful. He played the bass. One time, on the bus ride home, I told him that I thought his Gameboy DS was ugly, and he retorted, "Your face is ugly!" I hid my tears by turning back into my seat. I cried about it a few week later.
I was nine.

And this angel visited me in the fifth grade. He was tall, he had blonde, curly, wavy hair, and he had baby blue eyes. He loved the Beatles, I think, and just about every single girl in my grade wanted his dick. He ended up going out with both of my best friends, and he almost went out with me. Almost. One time, I sent him a note in science. It said, "Do you still like me?" He never replied, and he actually left it on the desk. My science teacher, who happened to be a total bitch, took the note and showed it to my parents.
I was ten.

On the last day of school in fifth grade, me and the boy I liked in the fourth grade shared a headphone. We watched Spiderman. I liked him all through that summer, and we talked all summer. He then asked me out. We went out for two or three months, and then he broke up with me. A month later, he asked me out again. We were together for a year. He was my first kiss. It happened on my birthday. The next summer, I broke up with him.
I was twelve.

The two boys I broke up with him for are two completely different stories. The one I liked more, with the blonde, shaggy hair, and the blue eyes, and his height and converse and taste in music, did NOT like me back, but liked my best friend. The other became the love of my life. He lived in Georgia, so we had this whole, oh-my-god-I-love-you-but-can't-go-out-with-you thing going on. I loved him more than I thought I'd ever love anyone. He was half-Mexican, he had ADHD and ADD, and played the guitar. He was a jackass to everyone but me. And then he moved back to Dallas. In that time, I went out with him for four months. And then, he broke up with me.
I was thirteen.

The blonde, shaggy haired boy with the blue eyes stopped being my best friend. Georgia boy broke up with me. And my other best friend stopped talking to me, and my grandpa died.
But I don't like to talk about that.

The next boyfriend I had was younger than me. He had glasses and blue eyes and brown curly hair and he played hockey. He listened to the best music and we only went out for three days, but I got to make out with him twice. To this day we are still awesome friends. We went out in the last few days of my eighth grade year.

Then I finally let everyone know I liked girls.

And she came along. I can't say much, except for the fact that I really liked her. She was perfect and she had brown eyes and long brown hair that I'm pretty sure was just styled to stay in her eyes. She was my height. And she talked real quiet, like you had to really listen to hear what she had to say. So you could care. And it didn't happen. And I was hung up over it for a while. I made fun of her a lot because I liked everything about her so much. And it didn't happen.
I was fourteen.

And I'm still fourteen.
And I met this girl, who's really too tall for her own good. And smells amazing. And can play pretty much every instrument on the planet, and she has a beautiful voice. And she's in a band. And she has these awkward long skinny fingers and when I don't pay attention to her it's because I'm thinking about how I want to kiss every one of them. And for sure, she's one of the only people I've ever wanted to make the happiest girl in the world. And I write her songs and make her gifts. And we're together because that's what awesome people do. She's jamaican. And I could honestly list off every fact I could, except I don't think you'd care.

The truth is, I care.

I care.

Let's Start With The Details, Then Hit The Basics

Chapter One -

I've always had this affiliation with bruises, or some kind of physical scarring. To me it shows everyone around you you spent your life doing something, or spent your life getting abused, or spent your life just fucking living.
I've always thought that any kind of physical scar is one of the most attractive things on a person.
I'm pretty positive I don't like what most people like. I'm pretty positive that I'm a little different, but if that makes me the same, then I don't know what I am.
I think that in the grand scheme of things, you really don't need to know what I am.
You just need a few scars, a few bruises, a few pockmarks just to show people, yeah, I may not know what I am, but I know what the fuck I did and I know I fucking loved it.

I got my first scar of real consequence in kindergarten. I was in the bathroom, waiting for the big stall (the handicap stall, as you may call it) and probably thinking of fucking ponies. I was leaning against the heater, sitting down, cause that's not gross at all, and it fucking stung.
That's one of the best things I've felt.
It fucking stung. I remember looking at my arm and walking to my classroom, I was in KE, and I held up my arm and pointed at the burn, which was turning red and bleeding and cracking a little bit already. I didn't cry.
The scar isn't there anymore, but I know I lived it.
When our memory fails us, what'll be there to remind us?

Even now, I have random scratches and cuts and bruises all over me and when people ask where they're from, I can honestly say, "I don't know."

When our scars fail us, what'll be there to remind us?

Bone Machine: Part 3

So you start to think back, you say, hey, let's think back, where did this start?
So you start to think back.
The morning after, you had left. You remember leaving. Walked out of your own house and hoped she would find her way out, before you would come back.
Hours after, with your legs dead and heavy and your head collapsing because nothing was in it, you walked inside.
There she was. She was sitting on your kitchen counter, she had pulled herself up, she was pulling down a bowl. She had a gallon of almost sour milk and Trix.
She was still naked.
And you remember, you coughed, because you didn't want to say anything but you wanted her to know you were there.
And she was naked on your counter.
You remember feeling slightly dissapointed but slightly glad she didn't leave.
She turned to you and smiled.
She had no right canine. You didn't remember that.
She slips off your counter and comes to hug you.
You did not expect that. You did not expect to feel that shock in your heart when she wrapped her arms around you, pressing against you and whispering something you don't remember in your ear.
And as soon as she was there, she left. She came back with one of your tshirts on and a pair of your underwear and your socks.
She had made herself present in your life. She was not leaving.

Her name, at that moment, was Aydan Lipnicki.

You wonder what it is now.

Bone Machine: Part 2

Where Is My Mind - Pixies

You wake up the morning after. The pounding, blinding, screaming soaring headache pounding against your eyelids is enough to stop you from getting to the toilet, and if that wasn't problem enough, you currently have your legs and arms and body intwined.
With a girl.
And so the memories come flooding back - last night, the laughter, the forest green, the Smashing Pumpkins and god, did you take like 100 shots? So you pull yourself away from this girl, this sleeping carcass, green loving, half-Mexican hellcat, and stumble to the bathroom.
You look long enough in the mirror to realize you are naked.
You look long enough in the mirror to realize what you did last night.
This takes place in a total of .85 seconds, you applaud yourself for a job well done.
Opening the cabinet, you grab the little red capsules, pour four out into your hand and down them without water.
Why not just walk back and take a second peak?
Even when you aren't wasted, you can tell she's gorgeous. Beautiful. The way the sunlight casts against her bare figure as she's covered in your Power Ranger sheets is enough to send you back into bed with her, to sleep for a few more hours, to wake up and make her breakfast.
Instead, you grab a piece of paper and a Mariott Hotel pen, the one you stole because you can, and write down an excuse for you being gone for a few hours.
You place it on your nightstand, you place your socks on your feet, your jeans over your jegs, your shirt over you torso.
You place your mind over your heart, and you leave.
Let's see how long you can stay away until she leaves.

This is the endless cycle.

WRITERS BLOCK, GONE!

this excites me like no other, for fucking sure. got into a spat, wrote a song, and it's OUT. I CAN WRITE FREELY. :)
this is the product;
"you say you were pissed
when we missed the ending
and when i held your hand
and hiding the winks you were sending
to those other girls
i never did see
i tried and i tried and i tried to have you like me
but it's been way too long
for me to care anymore
and i'm laughing right now
just happy you left
because for a while i just
missed you so bad
and i cried and i cried and i cried
well that's shit
because it's wasted tears
and i wish i had used them
on something more important
because i met some real friends
the ones that do care
because after you left when i had nothing there
i was out and desperate,
bare and alone
and it forced me to make
some friends of my own
so thank you for leaving me
and thank you for making me cry
and thank you for being immature
and getting high
because i've been over you since the day
you left and i'm almost i'm almost
almost ashamed to say
we were in love.

Bone Machine: Part 1.

Music: Where Is My Mind? - Pixies


You know you've had one drink too many when you wonder what it would be like to try and fly off the cliff right behind your house, fly and go to Canada, fly and go to Aruba.
So you take another shot.
You're giggling and laughing and muttering and you can't feel it, but there is drool dribbling out of your mouth and on to your empty coaster.
You haven't put down your drink in 3 hours except to get another.
And you knock the 20-something girl next to you, you knock her drink out of your hand and you lean over and pick up the shards of glass. Every single piece pricks you but you keep on going because cleaning it up is what you have to do get everything better. The pain is worth it.
You look up, study her. She's 4'10 or '11, maybe, dark brown hair. She's tiny everywhere and you can see it. She's got this, something in her eye - you can't put your finger on it. The way she looks at you almost gets you half sober for a second.
So you take another shot.
You start to talk to her, and you figure out her favorite color is green, but not forest green and definitely not lime green. Her favorite band is a three way tie between Iggy and The Stooges, Radiohead and Smashing Pumpkins. She's half Mexican.
So soon you're asking her back to your apartment, and you don't quite know if you remember where it is.
But she says yes, and you realize you've never even been with a girl before.
You stand up, grab her hand. Every inch of you is on fire. Your skin crawls and you can feel it when your heart starts to pound.
So you take another shot.

Breathe Me - Sia

Someone I know told me you usually feel like this when you are about to change. Something in your life is about to change. Someone I know told me that they feel like this when something big in their life is about to change.
Last night I was laying in bed about to throw up, listening to a crappy sampler cd from Urban Outfitters and I couldn't change it. Because if I moved, I would throw up. This is something I'd like to call stupid.
Because I don't want something bad to me if I change is how I take it, and that is how I really am. I don't even really like my life.
How do you make you like your life? I think that answer is you change. But I don't want to change because I don't want to here.
This is something I'd like to call a catalyst.
Would you?
I can't say much next because there are so many thoughts running through my head I can't really type them all out. You get that feeling, ever?

"Ouch I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found,
Yeah I think that I might break
Lost myself again and I feel unsafe"