Dear Eugene

I want to share a bathroom with you and walk in on you while you're brushing your teeth and catch a smile in the mirror as toothpaste rolls down your lips which reminds me of last night and I want to sit on a grassy hill in July after a rain with the back of my head on the top of your thigh and your hand running through my hair listening to Winehouse blues as your hand is also running through my mind and I want to compliment your hand and you'll just laugh at me but I mean it I always mean it your hand is my favorite part of your body but I still get butterflies when you lift up your arms to pull off your shirt socks pants and I'm blushing but it's okay just like your cheeks when you're having a bad day or you're drunk and either way I want to hold your cheeks so tightly you forget about everything else because the smell reminds you of the first time we shared a bed together I want to cry when I have to sleep alone recoil as you walk out the door every morning completely paralyzed when I haven't heard from you all day because it's like before I met you and then when I wake up at 3AM all I want to see is your god-given hair that just covers your beautiful grey eyes because I want to love you that much.

what I'd like to know

I know that really only Connor reads this blog.  And that's fine.  It's a place for our secrets.  Secrets like: I am writing this alone in my house, without my bra on, feeling the way my stomach skin rolls under my tiny breasts, listening to the song Autumn Leaves.   Or the way I piece myself together so no one knows how I'm really feeling.  Or what I am thinking.  Or how I don't ever want someone to break down my walls, and how I lead most people to believe they have.  Or that I hate being taken for granted.  I am worth something, even if no one tells me I am.  I don't need anyone to tell me that, even if it would be nice to hear once, rather than how I piss you off, or how I'm a cunt, or the worst sister ever, or a poor student, or that I don't care.  Because, little do you know, I do care.  That's all I do.  I don't know what else to do but care.  I'm just wired that way.  If only you could look in my mind: there would be lots of images of attractive men, hateful thoughts of my untoned body, past memories, thoughts of delicious food, useless memorized lyrics, and wonderings about how you are doing.  Yes, you.  Surprise, I do care about you, all the time.  But here's what I'd like to know, where and when.  Where and when am I going to finally going to get my shit together and leave this place.  Go somewhere warm, start off new.  Not know anyone.  Find out who I am, and see who really does care about me.  I'll do it, eventually, just where and when.  The two unknowns.

Purge

I'm emotionally bulimic. Or anorexic. I donno. This metaphor isn't working. I mean I can coast for days without feeling any emotion other than pleasantly neutral, and then at the end of the week I scramble to get all my feelings down at once. Like right now, I'm furious at myself for putting off my essay, I'm disappointed in some of my closest friends, and I'm super anxious to meet new people in the coming weeks. And all of this is keeping me from getting anything done actually, because I didn't deal with it gradually like I should have. I could have spent hours this week dealing with shit, but I didn't, I coasted, because it was comfortable. And now inevitably some of the pent up emotions are going to go unresolved, ever, because ain't nobody got time to solve all my life crises in one night while new ones pile on. What is wrong with me.

ps. I concur, Molly. Dave Franco the sexiest thing alive.