You know you do it, too.

Sometimes I mope around and have a cranky day. Other times I perform a Google image search for “Eric Northman” and get over it.

Edited: July 28th, 2010

Unfair.

My best friend lost her oldest friend to a car accident over the weekend. One day, here. Next day, not here. Like that. Newly engaged. Happy. In love. In the car with her fiance. Their two friends. They died, too. All of them. She still had an engagement ring on her finger, but the diamond was lost. Her mom stated it was probably twisted and damaged when her daughter’s body shattered through the windshield.

Fuck.

This person was not my oldest friend. I met her once, maybe twice, in past years. She grew up with my best friend, and she is hurting. This story has wound itself so tightly in my head that it occupies my mind more often than it should. News articles. Pictures of her, her fiance. I don’t know how my friend copes. Actually, I do know. She cries. She breaks down. She smiles and laughs at memories, and she breaks down again. It’s made me realize I don’t know how I would cope.

Life is too short, which is, like, a cliche older than damn time. But it is. For two days I’ve wanted to put all of my friends, and everyone I love, in my pockets. I want to keep them there, out of harm’s way. Do they all know that? Think of the last conversation you had with your friend. Your sibling. Your mom. Your neighbor. Whomever. Is it the last thing you’d want to ever say to them?

To live like it’s literally our last day is impossible, and really, it’s ridiculous. If every time I said goodbye to someone, I carried on like I’d never see them again, well shit. That’s depressing. And not possible. And I don’t want to do that. But think about it. Be conscious of it.

More often than not I smack myself in the forehead because I have too many feelings. And more often than not, I’m one to let them come bubbling out at any and all times. If I feel something, I need to say it. Sure, it backfires. A lot. But what if I hadn’t expressed those feelings? And what if it was too late one day? To be honest, sometimes that might be best. But fuck it. Life is too short. I don’t want to be 45-years-old one day, and emotionally stunted because I kept everything inside out of fear.

This post is all over the place. Realizing the fragility of life scatters your brain.

Be thankful today for what you have. You’re alive. And I don’t care how hard you think your life is. Because your life is better than being in a coffin, mourned by your heartbroken friends and family, while the diamond to your engagement ring is lost in the disaster, along with everything you had.

Go give someone a hug. And mean it.

Edited: July 27th, 2010

A letter to my sister on her 30th birthday.

Amber,

I know. You’re probably like, “God dammit. Quit acknowledging my birthday. I want to pout and feel bad for myself. Fuck my life.” I know you. It’s how you roll. OMG you’re 30! Noooo! EMERGENCY! Make it stop! Life! As I know it! Is over!

You’re sad. You’re disappointed. You’re not where you thought you’d be at 30-years-old. But. But… You’re supposed to be married! With a career! Happiness! Puppies! RAINBOWS. Stop. Look around you. All around you. Who has that? All of it? Sure, they’re out there. I can count about nine of my friends with my eyes closed and hands tied behind my back who have all of that. But look around you. At the people closest to you. Do we all have that? Absolutely not.

You were engaged. You were going to be married in a pretty white dress with pretty white birdies in a pretty white chapel. That didn’t happen. And thank fucking God. You didn’t want that. You didn’t. That’s why you left it. You’ve loved, you’ve lost. You’ve cheated, you’ve lived. You’ve hurt, you’ve cried. So have I. So have all of us. It’s 2010. The year you turn 30 years old. Love and relationships aren’t perfect anymore. They’re hard. You cried because that relationship was gone, and when you felt lonely, you wanted it back. But lonely is better than the life you would’ve truly had. Because lonely isn’t forever.

I was engaged once, too. And then married. And then divorced. And now I’m 28, living in a studio apartment. With cats. Trust me, I’ve already disappointed everyone in my life there was to disappoint with that one. Including you, I’m sure. I am where I am now as a result of that decision, but you know what? I like where I am now. You aren’t a disappointment to anyone but yourself. And don’t be. So what? You’re 30? You hate your job. That demographic fits so many people. You’re not married, boo hoo. Guess what? You’re not ready. But you will be one day. And so will I.

Thirty is a number. Thirty isn’t what it was in 1990, when if you didn’t have your whole life in your hands, and two bouncing children and a doting husband, you had nothing. Thirty is where our lives start now. Don’t forget, I’m right behind you. Seventeen months separate us. I’m the baby sister, picking up the things that break off of you, and chasing you down to glue them back on. I’ll be 30 soon, too. And dammit, we’re gonna rock it. I’m excited for 30. Thirty is going to be what you make it. And you can make it whatever you want.

That’s the difference between you and I. You choose to wake up, say “fuck my life,” and be unhappy for the day. I wake up, say, “fuck, it’s early,” then hit snooze. I smile. I roll around on the floor with Harley. I don’t need a reason to be happy. I just do it because my alternative is crap. And who wants that? Other than that big difference, what really is the difference between us? We both live in studios. Neither of us is married. Hell, at least you have a boyfriend. And one that dotes on you, at that. Just like every other boyfriend you’ve ever had. I don’t have that. Haven’t had that in almost two years. We both have great friends. Amazing parents. We’re healthy. We oftentimes behave like overgrown kids. We’ve both made (large and small) mistakes. Our lives aren’t that different, but our behaviors are.

Choose happy. Be happy. Live happy. Accept 30. Because you know what the alternative is to not turning 30? Not turning 30. Not having life. No brand new, shiny Volkswagen. No Jenna. No Jeff. No Eric. No silly rabbit that chews on your stuff and pees in your bed. No Dave Matthews Band. No Harry Potter, no Edward Cullen. No Team Jacob. No awful job that introduced you to some of your closest friends. No baby sister. No mom. No dad. No Christmas mornings in our pajamas when we’re way to old to even pretend there’s a Santa Clause anymore. No laughing. No macaroni and cheese. These all mostly seem trivial. I mean, vampires? Really? Come on? (And you know I’m not judging. Shit. I sleep on a pillow with an Edward Cullen pillowcase. That I got from you. For Christmas). But these are the things that  do make you happy. That make you you.

I don’t think you realize the things you do have. You choose to see the things you don’t. It’s time to open your eyes. Accept what you have and become what you want. You’re 30 and that’s awesome. You’re hilarious. You’re personable. People are drawn to you like damn flypaper. You’re loud. You’re adventurous. It’s your damn birthday. Demand attention because you can. Celebrate. For a week. For a month. Shit, celebrate all year.

Maybe you’re rolling your eyes. (Oh, I know you are. Hi! I can see you! You pessimist). I bet mom’s crying, because she cries. I’ll put five dollars down on the fact that you’ll wake up tomorrow, go to the computer, and somewhere in your Facebook status it’s going to say, “FML.” I’ll slap my forehead, shake my head and laugh at you. Because you’re silly. Your skull is thick. I don’t know what positive message will ever reach you. But this right here is physical proof for all of the internet to see that you have every reason to be happy. Every reason to be excited. Every reason to have a happy birthday, despite your foot stomping and pouting.

You are loved. By me. So, duh. What else do you need? God. But you know who else loves you? EVERYBODY. Even your damn rabbit. That’s love pee in your bed every day. You don’t disappoint me. And if I have to drag you along with me on my little road to happiness, you know damn well I will. If I have to pee in your bed, I so will. So quit your bitching today. And smile. It’s your birthday.

Love, little sister.

7.22.10

Edited: July 22nd, 2010

‘I’m a parenthesis.’

I thought we signed up for the same thing. I thought our relationship was perfectly clear. I mean, you are… an escape. You’re a break from my normal life. You are… a parenthesis.

Did you guys ever see ‘Up in the Air’? George Clooney? Anna Kendrick? It was good. Quite good. Much better than I expected. Above is a line from the movie, near the end. A pretty pivotal scene. The scene stuck with me, like a sliver in my damn finger. One of those real bitchy ones. No matter how much I dig, it won’t come out, and instead, there’s just a bloody mess. And a sliver. In my finger. Still.

I’m having major revelations about myself today. That scene – that line - made it all clear. I’m a parenthesis. I allow myself to be a parenthesis, which , in and of itself, is worse than being of parenthetical means.

I’m no good at relationships. I end them. They end me. I can’t keep them. I don’t want them. I beg for them. I need them. I want better. I’m insecure. I fall too hard. I open up too fast. I shut down too late.

So I put myself into unhealthy relationships. Situations I know will end, and end badly. I don’t know why I do this. Part of it is naiveté. As a guy is holding my hand, he’ll tell me he doesn’t want a relationship. Not ready for it, he’ll say. But because he’s holding my hand, my mind will tell me, You’re good enough. You’re good enough that he’ll come around. Don’t run. Try.

Try.

Sadly, this scenario doesn’t reflect a specific incident. It reflects two. In the last year. In a third scenario, he told me he wanted to be with me. Circumstances wouldn’t let it be. I fell hard, it was silly. I knew it couldn’t be. That it wouldn’t be. But he wanted to be with me, he told me.

Try.

That damn word again.

In the end, each of these situations ended the same. I was the comfort. I was familiar. I filled a need. I was present. I was there. I was good. But I was not enough. They didn’t want me. Not one of them. They wanted the idea. They wanted the comfort. They wanted affection. They wanted what I would give them, because I would give them that. The relationship that wasn’t. No strings. No commitment. When they let go of my hand each day, they got to go back to their real life. The life I was not a part of. The life reserved for relationships. Real life. (Not the escape).

The parenthesis.

They didn’t want relationships with me. And when each of them let go of my hand for the last time, do you want to know where they ended up? In relationships.

I was not enough. I was just the escape. The stepping stone to what they really wanted. A distraction. Trying did not change that. You can only be naive for so long.

This happens to me because I let it. When I’m handed a glaring red flag, I take it and paint stars and stripes on it, pretending it’s something different. I hang it in my figurative front yard on my figurative flagpole. Smile at it when I pass by. But when it rains and all the paint washes off, IT’S STILL A RED FLAG.

No more of that. No more painting over the flags and waving them in the breeze. These are lessons learned. You can’t change a person. You can’t force feelings. I can’t cling to hope. The right relationship will happen. It won’t be forced. No punctuation. I won’t be naive and I will be enough.

Edited: July 21st, 2010

A little Dances With Dirt imagery for your evening.

Here are a few extra photos from Dances With Dirt

that came from my girl, Miranda. Ah, memories…

Edited: July 14th, 2010