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Grief Can Come In The Smallest Of Things…

And it can paralyze you in the biggest of ways.

Today, I blog for the first time in many months (which might be a surprise to some as I’m sure a lot have figured this blog for dead. Me, for dead. As a writer or otherwise.) and it’s not because something really beautiful and delicious has happened. Though many wonderful things have happened since my last post and now.

Instead, I blog for the opposite reasons.

Because, today, in the literal words of Reddit, I fucked up.

Words are not easy. Writing words is not easy, though many claim it to be so. Speaking words are even harder, I think. Because at least when it comes to writing, we can erase. We can hit the delete or backspace button as much as we can. Undo. Redo. Select all. Delete. Cut. Paste. Or maybe, even the old fashioned way. Scrubbing rubber on paper. Flakes brushed off with the sides of our fingers. Or if ink is your weapon, then slashing and scribbling is the means. All in all, when something is written, it can be taken back. If we want to, that is.

Speaking, however, cannot. Oh, we can try. We can try as hard as we can sometimes. To take back those stupid noises that tumbled out of your mouth, to retry an answer, sound less stupid, sound more confident, whatever the poison is, we can try to seep it back into our mouths and have it run back through the computer that is our brains. And sometimes, it kind of works.

Key word: kind off. Because when we think it works, when we think we’ve taken back all that we’ve said, those little words are still trapped in someone else’s minds and hearts and the damage they do is still….

….lying right there. Just covered with the bandage of whatever we’ve done to “make things right again.”

Most often, it doesn’t work though. And that, can be the deepest of pains.

Forgiveness isn’t easy. Of course, it never is.

But, sometimes, I wish it was.

Selfish as it is, I don’t like living with guilt. I don’t like my stomach twisting and turning in one ugly queasy ball. I especially don’t like losing things. Losing people. Losing people I care about. 

When one doesn’t care, it’s easy to let go. So long. Goodbye. Vaya con dios.

But when one does care, we cling as hard as we can, dig our nails in deep, claw, scrape, beg for another chance.. we do what we can so that we don’t have to let go. Even when we don’t have any other choice but to let go.

Today, I might have to let go.

And it’s the scariest thing I’ve had to consider in my entire life so far.

Even letting go of past friends, boyfriend, memories, tv shows.. all of everything that’s been in my life so far, it hasn’t been like this.

And it’s not even something, most would deem as important. But it is– was to me. It is small. Very, small. So small, it would be insignificant to everyone, but myself.

Today, I might have to let go of a friendship that was built very slowly within a three month span (though I have friendships that have been cultivated for years, the shortness of its duration is perhaps what makes it so bitter in the mouth). Something, someone, that, in my mind, was steadily becoming a friend and memory that I could hold onto dearly in the back of my mind, to look back on in sweet, innocent happiness.

Today, I was prepared to let go of a place. Not the memories it gave me. And, certainly, not the people it gave me.

And the worst part of it all, was that in the ticking countdown moments of goodbye, a few words spilling from my mouth crashed down everything that had been slowly built over those three months. Had I kept my mouth shut, had I actually thought about what I was going to stay and analyzed it, I would have realized how those words would sound like coming out. What they would mean to another person and not how I meant them to mean.

I have a problem with word vomit. I spill out whatever comes to mind, the instant it comes to mind. I don’t scan for errors, no spelling check, no grammar check. Nothing. Often times, it’s funny. Witty, or silly, or stupid. Other times, my words come out in embarrassedly backward lines and sayings. I get made fun of for those. But I think that’s fine.

Finally, there are times where I get into trouble because of my word vomit. Those times are the most awful of times. Interpretation is a funny thing– there is never just one of them. There are always many interpretations. Safe words have safe interpretations. Others do not.

I don’t think. I have that problem. And addressing my problems is never an easy task for me because I like to think that I have no problems. I don’t want to have problems. I want to be perfect. I want to be me and be perfect. And pride can be a very ugly thing.

So I haven’t addressed my word vomit like I should have. Because so far, I’ve been able to peel and press brightly colored bandages on any wound or mistake or accident so far. Because so far, I’ve been fine with bandaging. I’ve always felt that I never needed to fix it.

I’ve been fine playing faux doctor.

I can’t do that today. And as ugly as it is, a part of me still sort of wants to. Even uglier, I might actually be able to.

I said a few lines, jokes as they were to me, and I crashed down a fortitude of trust, because they did not come out as jokes. I was stupid. And I am at fault. I do not excuse myself. I fucked up. Bad. Very, bad.

I want to take everything back. Rewind those last five minutes.. keep my mouth shut and been able to say goodbye to a place and maybe not the person it gave me. It’s impossible, but how I want to.

I feel guilty.

I feel mad because I feel guilty.

I feel sad because I feel mad.

And finally, I feel numb. Because I can hear the grief creeping in. Mourning potential loss already.

I hate losing things.

I hate grief. It brings so many things. But for me, it affects me in only one way. Paralyzing. I grieve, I grow numb. And boy does it take a lot to get the blood circulating on its own again.

I don’t know where this is going, I’m not sure how to stop this mess of writing. Writing with emotion is always a mess of writing, isn’t it?

I am sorry.

I am so very sorry.

I want to be forgiven.

Will my bandage be taken?

I don’t know. I doubt it.

I am sorry.

 

 

I think I’m due for a long walk. I need to clear my head.

Getting close to things is a very scary business. We never know when we might lose them. Sorry.

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Kuroshitsuji (Black Butler) Chapter 96

I’m doing this review much earlier than I thought, mainly because I found a great wifi spot (^^) and need something to make me smile after having been forced to complete the Think About It online course for college. That stuff was really boring and was basically common sense. (Well…)

But anyway, here I am! Doing this review. (Very short, but oh well) For all those who haven’t read this chapter and are going to read it sometime, I suggest you read it now/catch up to this chapter – because obviously, SPOILERS. However, since I’ve decided that this one time I’ll be posting every single page to the chapter, you can also just read it right now…here…if you’re fine with my interrupting comments.

That is all.

 

Kuroshitsuji (Black Butler) Chapter 96

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Of course there’s the advertising for season 3 of Black Butler. I am totally going to use this as my next wallpaper background for my phone (as soon as I get bored of what I currently have now).

Who else loves Joker? And/or feels a tiny bit bad at what happened to him? (I wonder how that’s going to play out in the anime…)

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Chapter 96: That Butler, Encouragement

Already it’s easy to guess what this chapter is going to be about… Encouragement. At this point, there’s truly only one character that word brings to mind. Sullivan, the witch.

My dislike for this character has been obvious (or at least I think it’s obvious) since the very beginning so I’ll admit that I was pretty excited at this. What would she be encouraged to do? With Ciel’s sort of malicious plans (‘games’) anything can really happen – more likely, something bad.

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Anyone else absolutely positive that it’s Diedrich getting information? I’m pretty sure this is Diedrich. Pretty sure…

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It’s at this point where my excitement at something possibly bad happening to Sullivan vanishes. I’m actually starting to feel sort of…odd. Maybe pity? Maybe sympathy? Either way, I think Sullivan definitely did not know what she was getting into by letting the strangers stay… But who knows? Maybe nothing too bad will happen to her? I also really want to know what ‘the ultimate magic’ is. It’s been mentioned several times, but I’m not sure as to what it pertains to. What does it do to the werewolves or to the village?

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“Even her selfishness is at a royal level”

I’d like to point out that Ciel’s officially back to giving orders like usual which should mean that he’s mentally stable again, however i wouldn’t be too sure… Will he go back to having nightmares like he did way in the past? During the time he and Sebastian had trained to perfect Earl and Butler? Will Sebastian have to stay in the room until Ciel falls asleep – again? I’d find that funny if he did… Sebastian would totally be like “…Back to where we started…” *Major Sigh*

But nah… Ciel’s stronger now…right?

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Oh Gawd…tea!

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Alright, so is Wolf a werewolf? Because I’ve been thinking that he is…which would make sense considering his name…

Also, I think he looks very sweet in these panels… but in the sweet sad smile sort of way. When I read this the first time, I started to feel sad.

The kind of sad that slowly got worse as I read on…

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Damn.

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The pity for Sullivan and Wolf grows intensely.

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And finally I feel kind of bad for hating her….but not complete enough to actually wish for nothing bad to happen to her.

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Why does Wolf want to keep her there?

I’m also wishing for there to be more backstory on him… I’d really like to learn more about him. As a character, there is substance there but not enough for me. I need more stuff so that I can fully understand his character. He’s drawn very handsomely, but then what… I know he’s way too precise in cooking that he took FOREVER to make a meal.. I know he wants Master Sullivan to never leave.. And I’ve learned that he cares for his master a lot – enough to feel guilt for wrecking her feet.. But what kind of care? Where did he come from? What are his motivations?

Hmm..

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If this happened to me – like I saw Ciel and Sebastian outside my window – I’d do either one of two things (or both) depending on what I’d been thinking about prior to them appearing:

-Silently scream in happiness and fling the window open

-Silently scream in horror and throw whatever object near me at the window.

I mean..two dudes…randomly showing up at my window…at night.

I like living…I’m allergic to dying…

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BAHAHAHAHAHAHA. “I’m quite interested.” 

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The bastards. I’ll say it. Those bastards. I love them, but god do they go in for the kill.. They know that is exactly what this girl dreams of.. and they’re offering it to her on a diamond encrusted plate…ONLY IF SHE ACCEPTS THERE MAY BE SPIKES UNDERNEATH IT.

(SEBASTIAN LOOKS INCREDIBLY SEXY BUT SCAR AND MALICIOUS IN THE TOP PANEL)

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Ciel looks every inch the manipulative watchdog he is. Props to Yana Toboso for pulling off that perfect seemingly innocent but calculating look. It’s sly and convincing. Sullivan never had a chance…

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Ouch…I feel really bad for her now. The big drawn watering eyes totally got to me.

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And that’s the end…for now..

I’d usually say I can’t wait for next month’s issue, but this time.. I can kind of wait..

(HOW IS WOLF GOING TO REACT WHEN HE REALIZES SHE’S GONE?????)

My Origin Story

Written for the DP Challenge: Writerly Reflections

When I was thirteen, I asked my mother if she wanted me.

See, in school that day, the topic brought up over tater tots and milk cartons was of bastard babies and whether we were ones. Naturally as soon as I got home, I popped the question to my mother. “Did you want me? Was I planned?”

My mother paused from cooking and wrapped me in her arms. “You have no idea how much I wanted you.”

I thought nothing of it until I went to bed. That’s when I remembered that before me, I had four other siblings.

I didn’t know what their names were, hesitated to even ask if my parents had gotten to name them before they were lost, but reflecting on that, it was clear that yeah, I had been wanted.

And though, I knew deep in my heart that I was/am precious to my mother, there was a period of my very young life where I felt deep resentment towards my parents. That’s where books opened my eyes to what I had.

 

From when we were babies, my brother and I, we were by our mother’s side everywhere she went, including work. My mother worked cleaning houses and to this day, I’m still amazed at how she bravely marched from home to home, carrying us with her. At first, she’d plant us in a corner with toys and blankets and somehow we understood her pleading to stay in one spot and to keep quiet. Then, as we got older, she’d bring piles and piles of picture books and leave them in front of us. I was three and my brother was two.

We didn’t know how to read. But we could entertain ourselves with the pictures. So we did. Day after day, we flipped through old picture books bought from yard sales or given by friends and since at night, our mother would read to us from the very same books, we could later piece together what we were looking at and when the stories would change when we ‘read’ them by ourselves.

When I finally entered k-4, I already could read the “See spot run” books pretty well. And all that was due to a mother who could hardly speak English herself.

Once I improved my reading abilities, my mother would bring me to the library on the weekends and I would take out stacks and stacks of books. Then, later when she’d take us to work, I would read to my little brother.

Those books were how we escaped.

A lot of people say that when you’re young, you feel no shame – looks wise and all.

That’s not true.

I knew what embarrassment was back then and I felt it, hardcore. Deep in the pit of my stomach and often I’d wish the ground would swallow me whole. I was four and I cringed under the gaze of the random people who lived in those houses. I dreaded the day where I’d end up seeing them at a grocery store or their kids at school. That, I think, was the worse.

Every time my mother would walk into someone else’s home, carrying her supplies, I would trail in after her with my brother and the first thing I did, was drag ourselves to a corner, away from hopefully everyone who lived there. I prayed no one would look at me or him. I curled in that corner and sometimes I’d cry at how embarrassed I felt.

Other kids had parents who were lawyers, firefighters, and doctors.

I had a mother who cleaned up after everyone else and a father who cut people’s lawns.

Back then, I felt like I had nothing to be proud of.

But, reading kept me going, kept me from focusing on the mean comments the kids of those houses whispered about my brother and I, and finally kept me from feeling the shame I shouldn’t have felt – even if only for a few hours. That is how I fell in love with books. Because escaping the real world was suddenly a possibility and all I had to do was open a book.

 

When I grew older, I started to experiment with writing my own things. I wanted to create something that some one else could escape in. How wonderful would that be, I’d think to myself. If my words, even just for a second, could shield someone from an ounce of pain. Now I know I had nothing to be ashamed of. Now I feel proud of my mother and love her all the more for what she did for us. Those houses were how my brother and I stayed in private school all throughout pre-school, elementary, and most of middle school. But I didn’t think that then. And I know a lot of kids don’t think that then.

So I started writing.

I wasn’t very good.

But, I did have very encouraging teachers who even bought my ‘chapters’ from me (there’s no love like a teacher’s love), just to keep me from giving up.

I think the very first story I wrote was about a superhero and all his adventures. My dad still keeps it on his computer and has several back ups of all the chapters I  had written. Every now and again, I re-read them and make fun of myself for ever writing them. All harmless though and it brings back very good memories.

 

Someday, I hope to be published.

In the meantime, I steadily try to improve my writing, by writing when I can and as much as I can. I show my stuff to friends, teachers, and yes, online. Every comment, negative or positive, is truly helpful and my confidence grows.

One day, I’ll have something of mine be published. And then I’ll sit down next to her, and I’ll read my book to her. And she’ll know how much I’m glad she wanted me.

 

 

“Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.”

(Sonnet 116) 
― William Shakespeare, Shakespeare’s Sonnets

The Robot That I Am

Apparently, I am a robot.

A cold, unfeeling one.

This was told to me by a friend of mine, but I hold no harsh, bad, negative feelings towards said person for saying so. Why? Because I’ve heard it a million times before. And I’m okay with that. If being labelled a robot or bitch is what it comes to for being logical and rational in moments of ‘supposed’ crisis, then so be it. Someone has to and so I’d rather it be me.

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Prologue

“It was an accident!” Cade wailed. “I swear, Noah, you gotta believe me! I would never purposely  do something like that”

 

Noah’s eyebrow arched as he stared down at the skinny blonde.

 

“Er….weeell…not to YOU at least!”

 

Noah’s frown deepened and then turning, swiftly, he stalked off down the street. He was really tired of drama and while he knew this teen was so full of it, he had let him hang around him from time to time. But, not anymore. This would be the last straw and he’d be damned if he let the younger man within twenty feet of him ever again.

 

“Wait! Noooaaaah!!”

 

He heard the scrambling feet behind him and broke out into a run. He was stronger and more importantly, faster, than Cade and in no time was around the corner, down an alley, and over the chain link fence separating the rich and extravagant  Stephens Street from the ratty ghettos laying behind on Radford’s. When his feet were firmly planted on the ground he looked back to catch one last glimpse of the man whom he had once considered a friend.

 

Cade skidded to a stop upon reaching the fence. It wasn’t too hard of a climb and jump, but one glance at the man on the other side kept him from trying. There was a look of finality in the other man’s eyes. A look that bothered Cade immensely. Surely, Noah knew he hadn’t done it on purpose. Surely, Noah could forgive him for a mistake he had never meant to commit.

 

But, no.

 

Those dark blue eyes pierced right through the fence, straight into his own and he felt his heart clench. Their gaze was so cold and empty that Cade felt the first tremor of fear pass through him.

 

“No-ah?” He whispered tentatively and shuffled closer to the fence. He lifted his hand and hooked his fingers onto the metal, so tightly, his pale fingers began to turn impossibly whiter. “Noah, please.” 

 

He leaned in closer, pressing his face against the cold metal and looked pleadingly at the dark haired man on the other side. “You can’t just leave like that. Not like that. Not over something I didn’t do on purpose! You can’t leave. You can’t leave me!”

 

Noah felt his gut twist at the begging words filling the air. He had to leave now or he wouldn’t leave ever. His gaze slid over the younger man pressed against the fence, soaking in all his features, memorizing them, knowing he’d never forget him or this day.

 

He took everything in, from the dark, ripped jeans hanging loosely off slim hips to the two sizes too large, white t-shirt swallowing the small, pale body frame and even the ridiculous looking bear hat pulled over messy blonde hair, and let it imprint into his mind. Then he looked away, shut his eyes for a second, before turning his body and walking away.

 

Cade felt like he was just punched in the stomach as he watched the retreating body walk away. No, he can’t just leave, he cried out within his mind. His pulse quickened and he opened his mouth to shout obscenities, but his voice didn’t seem to work. He was shaking, he realized and slumped against the fence before letting himself fall to his knees.

 

He gazed at the ground in numbing shock as his brain processed over the fact that Noah had left him all alone, for good. A hand lifted up wipe at his burning eyes and came away with wetness on his fingertips.

 

He was crying.

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I Don’t Write Poetry

Click.

Click.

Click.

Lionel continues playing with his pen, making the tip appear and disappear as he contemplates the pack of papers laying before him. He disregards the glares from his fellow classmates, seemingly increasing his pen-clicking as to infuriate them further, and lets a small spiteful smirk play on his lips before letting them resume a frustrated grim line. He feels his right eye begin to twitch and he knows he’s mere seconds from crumpling his test. But that would lead to problems. Problems that he wouldn’t have the energy to deal with.

Perfect marks, always perfect marks on everything. Not only is it tradition for him to receive a 100%, but anything less would result in a chunk of his pride to be ripped away from him. He simply could not stand the blow. It is not acceptable.

And yet… here he sits, angry and disappointed. In himself? Of course not. It’s not his fault his teacher is a hopeless…..hippie. He snorts, quickly covering it up with a cough when he notices the strange looks he receives. What sort of English teacher ends their test with a question like that. And not just any old test, but a midterm.

Hippies do, that’s what. 

Think of yourself as a talented poet and write a poem expressing your current emotions and feelings.

Stupid hippie.

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Live For The Moments

Live for the moments. 

When I was 12, I had decided to go wandering on my own without informing my parents or brother where. Of course, I’d known I’d catch hell for it later, but at the moment I hadn’t cared. I needed alone time. I loved my family and still do but there are some times where they are the last people I want to see, let alone be around.

So after having been cooped up all weekend, I set out like a miniature Indianna Jones. I braved the puddle filled streets of rainy Virginia all the way to the little park 15 blocks from home. There, I made my way over to the swings, sat down, and pushed my feet back and forth. I remember it being quiet.

Dark, quiet, and peaceful.

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