I just finished reading 'The Secret Countess' by Eva Ibbotson. My heart is still thumping ecstatically and there are stars in my eyes. I think she is my favourite author.
Reading Eva Ibbotson is like going back in time. She writes about a time when men are gentlemen and living in a house with five guys (rowdy, messy, crass, strangely endearing guys) requires this sort of beacon of hope. I thought I had been disillusioned, but I read these books and I can pretend men like that exist.
Anyway, Eva Ibbotson is my hero. Her attention to detail, the way she weaves her story around the characters and vice versa, the language make me sign and laugh and cry. It makes me want to be a better writer. Heck, it makes me want to be a better person.
True, this is the same woman who wrote 'Which Witch?' and yes, her books are categorized in the teen romance section. But she is so much more than that.
It would take me pages and pages to describe the love affair that I am having with these books & I know that you have things to do, so I'll keep it short. I want to gush about Anna, the penniless Russian countess/maid or Rom, the banished Englishman in Brazil. I want to detail the things I learned about opera and ballet and house keeping in 1919. I want to share the quirky, loveable, human characters that populate her books and especially the grandiose romantic endings.
But I won't because, most of all, I want you to discover these things for yourself. I want you to fall in love with Guy Farnes from 'The Magic Flutes' & Quinton from 'The Morning Gift'. I want you to cheer for Harriet in "A Company of Swans' and your heart to break for Ellen in 'A Song For Summer'.
So do me a favour: The next time you are in the library, let your feet take you to the paperbacks in the teen section. Let your fingers drift over the spines in the 'I's and let one of her books fall into your hands.
You won't regret it.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Hey, you.
Yes, you, you dumbass. Don't try to pretend you don't know who I'm talking to. I know you're reading this, so you may as well give up. Do I have your attention now? Good.
I miss you.
This probably won't come as a shock to you, but I miss you. I think about you all the time. I shoveled the sidewalk yesterday and it reminded me of that time when we brushed the slush off your lawn. I remember the time we rode the bus down town and you counted out your pennies to make up $1.75. I would have sworn that the bus driver was going to boot us off, but you smiled your dimpled smile and we made it with out hitch hiking down 99.
You bastard.
The worst part is that I'm becoming one of those girls. I check my email obsessively, I sit next to the phone and jump when it rings. I've even started going on facbook every day and you know how much I hate that.
And so, after 25 days with nothing more than a 'Hey, what's up, I heard it's cold', I am taking a stand. I am mad at you for making it so easy for me to be a clingy person. Actually, I'm mad for a lot of reasons. But I won't get into that because even though there is no 140 character limit, I'm a novelist, I don't do short stories and you do not want to get me started.
I thought we had something special. I know that I'm not the first girl to say that to a boy, but there it is. I though we had something special, but I guess I was wrong. I may be just a notch in your bed post, but you're just post on my blog.
And, you know, it's not like I'm expecting sonnets. I know better than to wait for Captain Wentworth-esque declarations of devotion from a teenager. All I want is some kind of sign that you think of me when I'm 936 km away.
But wait -
Some people will say that I'm freaking out over nothing. And I do recognize that novels have ruined me, but I still have my common sense to pull me through. Or maybe I just can't recognize a lost cause when I see it. Whatever.
Regardless, I'm going to give this another go. But you are on crack if you think I'm bridging this gap between us. No, you're that one who is gonna take seven steps here.
And even though you shouldn't need incentive - I'm yours.
Don't screw this up, George.
I miss you.
This probably won't come as a shock to you, but I miss you. I think about you all the time. I shoveled the sidewalk yesterday and it reminded me of that time when we brushed the slush off your lawn. I remember the time we rode the bus down town and you counted out your pennies to make up $1.75. I would have sworn that the bus driver was going to boot us off, but you smiled your dimpled smile and we made it with out hitch hiking down 99.
You bastard.
The worst part is that I'm becoming one of those girls. I check my email obsessively, I sit next to the phone and jump when it rings. I've even started going on facbook every day and you know how much I hate that.
And so, after 25 days with nothing more than a 'Hey, what's up, I heard it's cold', I am taking a stand. I am mad at you for making it so easy for me to be a clingy person. Actually, I'm mad for a lot of reasons. But I won't get into that because even though there is no 140 character limit, I'm a novelist, I don't do short stories and you do not want to get me started.
I thought we had something special. I know that I'm not the first girl to say that to a boy, but there it is. I though we had something special, but I guess I was wrong. I may be just a notch in your bed post, but you're just post on my blog.
And, you know, it's not like I'm expecting sonnets. I know better than to wait for Captain Wentworth-esque declarations of devotion from a teenager. All I want is some kind of sign that you think of me when I'm 936 km away.
But wait -
Some people will say that I'm freaking out over nothing. And I do recognize that novels have ruined me, but I still have my common sense to pull me through. Or maybe I just can't recognize a lost cause when I see it. Whatever.
Regardless, I'm going to give this another go. But you are on crack if you think I'm bridging this gap between us. No, you're that one who is gonna take seven steps here.
And even though you shouldn't need incentive - I'm yours.
Don't screw this up, George.
Monday, January 17, 2011
It's cold in Calgary
I know, I know - this is common knowledge. But even if you know it in your head, it is a completely different thing to experience it. Let me delve a little deeper into this subject...
Picture a stereotypical Canadian winter. In my mind, I see a female newscaster, leaning on an expensive looking desk, a bank of TV's as her background. Her face is a mixture of severity and sympathy as she reports the news of the day.
'Another cold snap in Canada this week. Temperatures plummet to -35 send residents into hiding, unwilling to brave the snow blowing winds except for the most dire of circumstances.' The screen then jump cuts to a cityscape, where pedestrians are unrecognizable, even to their loved ones, as they are wrapped head to toe in varying degrees of protection against the freezing winds. These people are hunched forward, trying to wrap into themselves in hopes of avoiding the cold, holding their collars tight around their scarf covered faces as they hustle from one overheated safe haven to the next.
This is Calgary.
It is so bitterly cold that waiting for the bus is like standing outside, dripping wet, buck naked - in Antarctica. Getting on the bus is blissful, but ultimately awful, because the times comes (too soon even for your fingers to regain feeling in the tips) when you have to leave and rejoin the other penguins.
It would be awesome if we could be more like penguins, you know what I mean? How they huddle together, lending each other their body heat as they take turns shuffling around the outsides so that some of them can warm for a little while?
Calgarians don't do that.
On the upside, all the buildings overcompensate by upping their heat to an above average temperature, so it all evens out in the end.
Only, not really.
This is my first impression of my new home. It sounds unfavourable, but I actually quite like it. I haven't seen a lot of the city, but what I have seen, I like. Except the roads, don't get me started on the roads.
This is my first blog from my shared Katima-Computer. My roomies are playing some kind of zombie apocalypse game in the back ground. It's interesting background noise. Anyway, I will blog as often as I find the time... once a week or so. Maybe, if I'm lucky. But I will try to keep you informed of my goings on.
Please don't forget about me as I shiver to death in the Prairies.
With all my frozen love, I bid you farewell.
Picture a stereotypical Canadian winter. In my mind, I see a female newscaster, leaning on an expensive looking desk, a bank of TV's as her background. Her face is a mixture of severity and sympathy as she reports the news of the day.
'Another cold snap in Canada this week. Temperatures plummet to -35 send residents into hiding, unwilling to brave the snow blowing winds except for the most dire of circumstances.' The screen then jump cuts to a cityscape, where pedestrians are unrecognizable, even to their loved ones, as they are wrapped head to toe in varying degrees of protection against the freezing winds. These people are hunched forward, trying to wrap into themselves in hopes of avoiding the cold, holding their collars tight around their scarf covered faces as they hustle from one overheated safe haven to the next.
This is Calgary.
It is so bitterly cold that waiting for the bus is like standing outside, dripping wet, buck naked - in Antarctica. Getting on the bus is blissful, but ultimately awful, because the times comes (too soon even for your fingers to regain feeling in the tips) when you have to leave and rejoin the other penguins.
It would be awesome if we could be more like penguins, you know what I mean? How they huddle together, lending each other their body heat as they take turns shuffling around the outsides so that some of them can warm for a little while?
Calgarians don't do that.
On the upside, all the buildings overcompensate by upping their heat to an above average temperature, so it all evens out in the end.
Only, not really.
This is my first impression of my new home. It sounds unfavourable, but I actually quite like it. I haven't seen a lot of the city, but what I have seen, I like. Except the roads, don't get me started on the roads.
This is my first blog from my shared Katima-Computer. My roomies are playing some kind of zombie apocalypse game in the back ground. It's interesting background noise. Anyway, I will blog as often as I find the time... once a week or so. Maybe, if I'm lucky. But I will try to keep you informed of my goings on.
Please don't forget about me as I shiver to death in the Prairies.
With all my frozen love, I bid you farewell.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Adventure Time (not to be confused with Sexy Time)
This is me, chilling in front of the computer. I want to tell you about the crazy business that happened to me last week, so I'm thinking of words to fill it in. I guess it is time for back story (that's one of my favorite parts of starting something new - there is a tonne of back story):
In March, I was in my last 30 days of 17 and I realized I needed some kind of plan to drag me through the weird transition from high school students to certified adult. So I looked into a couple different volunteer jobs out of province, because I like to volunteer and I like to travel. I found Katimavik, something I had heard about in passing once or twice but never thought too much about because I am a child and I don't need to make any real life decisions. But during the last weeks of teenage hood, I rediscovered this program and got super excited about it. The website made it sound like all you had to do was fill out an application and in a couple months you would be living in Quebec, garbling your supposed second language and living with strangers and a million other things with varying degrees of wonder and monotony.
I was indescribably shocked when they rejected my application (yes, I am incredibly vain and conceited, deal). So I cried a few tears and moved on, trying for a few things farther afield. Unfortunately (or fotunately, if you would like to see it that way), I was still on the mailing list, so I received a proposal to apply to another program with them, and at the urging of my mother, I did so. I had since moved past surprise when it came to them, so when I received a second rejection from them, I quickly moved on. I unconsciously buried my memories of that Katimavik nonsense with things like my birthday, summer and life in general.
When the third email arrived, this one asking me to join the wait list, my finger was poised over the delete key when my mom said that I should apply anyway. That insidious 'What's the worst that could happen?' convinced me and I nodded my head in disgruntled acquittance.
I guess that cliche that says the third time's the charm might have some basis in reality.
In approximately 30 days, I will be on a plane to Calgary and commencing my life out in the 'real world'. It's thrilling and terrifying to accept that I will be out of the bed I have slept in for the last five years, away from the bowls from which I have eaten cereal out of, and off the streets that I could walk down blindfolded and find the library I owe my soul to, the biscotti shop that is never open, or the yarn shop that remembered 12 months after the fact that I had ordered something from them. In the last five days, I have applied for a Visa (strangely simple, FYI), gotten a Police Record Check (squeaky clean, thank you very much), clean my closet of the summer things I will not need in the winters of Alberta and picked the five books that will hopefully keep me occupied for the next six months. I had a last ditch slumber party, wrote my Christmas wish list (which included tooth brush heads and wool socks) and tried to wrap my head around the fact that my plans were coming to fruition - even if it was 9 months after their invention.
I guess that I should end this with some witty parting comment, but I've never been very good at that. So I will instead say goodnight and good luck (mostly the luck is for me, but you can have some too).
In March, I was in my last 30 days of 17 and I realized I needed some kind of plan to drag me through the weird transition from high school students to certified adult. So I looked into a couple different volunteer jobs out of province, because I like to volunteer and I like to travel. I found Katimavik, something I had heard about in passing once or twice but never thought too much about because I am a child and I don't need to make any real life decisions. But during the last weeks of teenage hood, I rediscovered this program and got super excited about it. The website made it sound like all you had to do was fill out an application and in a couple months you would be living in Quebec, garbling your supposed second language and living with strangers and a million other things with varying degrees of wonder and monotony.
I was indescribably shocked when they rejected my application (yes, I am incredibly vain and conceited, deal). So I cried a few tears and moved on, trying for a few things farther afield. Unfortunately (or fotunately, if you would like to see it that way), I was still on the mailing list, so I received a proposal to apply to another program with them, and at the urging of my mother, I did so. I had since moved past surprise when it came to them, so when I received a second rejection from them, I quickly moved on. I unconsciously buried my memories of that Katimavik nonsense with things like my birthday, summer and life in general.
When the third email arrived, this one asking me to join the wait list, my finger was poised over the delete key when my mom said that I should apply anyway. That insidious 'What's the worst that could happen?' convinced me and I nodded my head in disgruntled acquittance.
I guess that cliche that says the third time's the charm might have some basis in reality.
In approximately 30 days, I will be on a plane to Calgary and commencing my life out in the 'real world'. It's thrilling and terrifying to accept that I will be out of the bed I have slept in for the last five years, away from the bowls from which I have eaten cereal out of, and off the streets that I could walk down blindfolded and find the library I owe my soul to, the biscotti shop that is never open, or the yarn shop that remembered 12 months after the fact that I had ordered something from them. In the last five days, I have applied for a Visa (strangely simple, FYI), gotten a Police Record Check (squeaky clean, thank you very much), clean my closet of the summer things I will not need in the winters of Alberta and picked the five books that will hopefully keep me occupied for the next six months. I had a last ditch slumber party, wrote my Christmas wish list (which included tooth brush heads and wool socks) and tried to wrap my head around the fact that my plans were coming to fruition - even if it was 9 months after their invention.
I guess that I should end this with some witty parting comment, but I've never been very good at that. So I will instead say goodnight and good luck (mostly the luck is for me, but you can have some too).
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Angst
My computer keeps freezing. It's really bugging me. A lot.
Any way... HI! My sister just told me she's sick of going on my blog and seeing my last post, so I thought I would update while I'm taking a break from my 5K day.Yeah, that's right, I said 5K. And no, that does not mean I am running 5 kilometres today (ha). But I am instead attempting to write 5 thousand words in one day, because I am participating in (drumroll) NaNoWriMo!!!!
That's right, I am doing the time honoured practice of committing to write 50,000 words with the confines of November. I did this last year, so I went into it with both eyes open. Well, one eye was fully open, the other was dazzled by the star-studded excitement and exhilaration of committing to fewer hours of sleep, less of a social life and prospective carpel tunnel.
I started off the month strong, hammering out 3,000 words the first day (twice the required amount) so I was pretty confident. I managed to stay ahead, attacking the keyboard everyday for hours until they offered up 1,667 words and I could go to sleep. Everything was going really well until about a week ago. I got kind of busy and thought 'I have and extra 2 thousand words, I can skip today'. And it did it again and again until I was 5 thousand behind. So today, I decided that I would show the Nano beast that I wasn't a total slacker and that I could beat it and I sat down for the herculean task of completing 5,000 words in 24 hours (preferably 12, because I do like to sleep). I've made it half way and decided that as a break, I would write a blog... about Nano. There really is no escape.
Some might say that I, and the countless others who have undertaken this task, am totally, 100% crazy. And to that, I would completely agree. There is nothing crazier than agreeing to self-imposed slavery to the craft of writing for a whole month. You're willing agree to forsake quality for quantity, intelligent prose for exhaustion garbled sentences that don't make any sense on review. But during this month, you have the ability to crack the whip over your muse and create something that might not make sense, but has the potential to be magnificent and splendid and worthy of your time. There is also the opportunity for soundly trouncing your friends in one of the only way athletically challenged, passably talented nerds like myself can: word count.
I am thoroughly enjoying my vacation from sanity and my fellow (Nanoers? Wrimos?) are enjoying themselves as well.
Best of Luck.
Any way... HI! My sister just told me she's sick of going on my blog and seeing my last post, so I thought I would update while I'm taking a break from my 5K day.Yeah, that's right, I said 5K. And no, that does not mean I am running 5 kilometres today (ha). But I am instead attempting to write 5 thousand words in one day, because I am participating in (drumroll) NaNoWriMo!!!!
That's right, I am doing the time honoured practice of committing to write 50,000 words with the confines of November. I did this last year, so I went into it with both eyes open. Well, one eye was fully open, the other was dazzled by the star-studded excitement and exhilaration of committing to fewer hours of sleep, less of a social life and prospective carpel tunnel.
I started off the month strong, hammering out 3,000 words the first day (twice the required amount) so I was pretty confident. I managed to stay ahead, attacking the keyboard everyday for hours until they offered up 1,667 words and I could go to sleep. Everything was going really well until about a week ago. I got kind of busy and thought 'I have and extra 2 thousand words, I can skip today'. And it did it again and again until I was 5 thousand behind. So today, I decided that I would show the Nano beast that I wasn't a total slacker and that I could beat it and I sat down for the herculean task of completing 5,000 words in 24 hours (preferably 12, because I do like to sleep). I've made it half way and decided that as a break, I would write a blog... about Nano. There really is no escape.
Some might say that I, and the countless others who have undertaken this task, am totally, 100% crazy. And to that, I would completely agree. There is nothing crazier than agreeing to self-imposed slavery to the craft of writing for a whole month. You're willing agree to forsake quality for quantity, intelligent prose for exhaustion garbled sentences that don't make any sense on review. But during this month, you have the ability to crack the whip over your muse and create something that might not make sense, but has the potential to be magnificent and splendid and worthy of your time. There is also the opportunity for soundly trouncing your friends in one of the only way athletically challenged, passably talented nerds like myself can: word count.
I am thoroughly enjoying my vacation from sanity and my fellow (Nanoers? Wrimos?) are enjoying themselves as well.
Best of Luck.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
I Want My Life Back, Holly Black
So, I read this book. It is a book I may or may not have read on my own, but we chose it for book club (yes, we are old ladies who knit and drink tea whilst talking about Jane Austen. You know you’re jealous) and my sisters both told me it was great. I was lured in by promises of epic writing and alternate reality Jace (I don’t know what this means, but I NEVER saw him!) and I began to read. If you're looking for a more descriptive review check this out http://thecornernotes.blogspot.com/
This is what I thought:
This is what I thought:
(Please be aware, spoilers may be contained in the coming text, you may want to avert your eyes)
White Cat let me down. Yes, it was well written and the plot kept you guessing and the characters were diverting. All in all, an exemplary novel. But I was disappointed by the story.
Nothing good ever happened to a single character in the entirety of the novel. You might find this hard to believe, but it’s true. Chapter after chapter, Cassel (the main character for those who have no idea what I’m talking about) revealed one more horrific thing that had happened to him or that he had done. And there was nothing you could to but watch the train head toward the cliff and pray that somebody would pull the emergency break in time. I kept reading because I was convinced that something good had to happen to SOMEONE, and at the end, Holly Black dangles the coveted carrot in front of you and says ‘Here’s your reward. Enjoy.’
I grabbed the thing with both hands, but upon closer inspection realized that it was rotten and nothing but a dirty trick.
Don’t ask me what I was thinking. I’ve read Holly Black before, I should have known better. The thing is I wanted to be fooled. I wanted to read something that was poetic and thrilling and beautiful and ended well. I was conned.
The thing is, I’m sick of having to choose between reading books that engage you with the writing, but leaving you with a story that makes you want to smash the book into a thousand pieces (literary fiction), or books that have an okay story, okay writing and a happy ending (romance novels or chick lit). I’m tired of people looking down their nose at me because I like Twilight, but if I said Wuthering Heights was my fave, that would be perfectly okay, admirable even.
I read those novels because they are full of love, and I believe in love, mostly because I have to believe in something. But White Cat made me want to believe nothing at all.
I wanted to throw this book at the wall, go hide in my room and cry. Honestly, this book made me feel worse than any book I ever read.
Maybe I missed the whole point of the book and maybe you can help me. But, to me, White Cat was just another portrait of how fucked up everything is and I don’t need that kind of shit.
So, thanks, Holly Black, for giving me absolutely nothing but bad memories. Guess I’ll know better next time.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Novels have ruined me.
Dear Diary,
Today, I watched Pride & Prejudice, the new version, where Darcy tromps across a field, while Elizabeth looks on in raptures. It occurred to me that this is very unlikely to ever happen to me. And no, I don't mean the petticoats and a guy named Darcy. I mean the ethereal, charged, passionate connection between Lizzie and Darcy as the dawn breaks over the misty field. Then I thought of every other romantic book/movie I had ever seen/read and realized that I probably have unrealistic expectations. This made me equal parts sad and angry.
Why have novels built up these standards and fairy tales about love triumphant over misunderstandings and social expectations and family obligations and, yes, sometimes evil? Why does the guy always end up with the girl and they have a emotionally stirring scene in which they both realize they are cracked and stumble over themselves to say they are in love? Where are the novels about how things really are? About a girl who has no romantic prospects and continues this throughout the entirety of the thing? In which everything is broken and their is no snap-your-fingers fix?
It occurs to me that these books do exist; I have just steered well clear of them. Is it better to be blissfully deluded or shockingly disillusioned? I think perhaps the former, and that may be the reason I write: to further cart myself into delusion. So I shall through in my hat for the corruption of todays youth and give your this little thing that I have written. Maybe we can fool each other for just a little while longer.
Hey you. I know you.
You're in every movie I see and every book I read. I swear, you were in that last episode of Vampire Diaries.
You're in ads on the bus bench and in the articles of my local news. I rarely bother, but sometimes I see you in a classified or an opinion piece and I know it's worth it.
You're there when my mother clips coupons and when our basket fills with organic milk and Smart Food, you're there too.
In the spring, you're in the tress (you know, the ones I think are cherry blossoms, but never produce cherries?), when the balmy breeze throws pink petals into my clothes, I feel you there. And when the pink petals turn to red leaves and the balmy breeze turns to brisk wind, I hear you tell me you'll always be here, no matter how the world changes.
When I put on my clothes, I try to pick thing you'd like, which is near impossible, given your revolving tastes. And if i go out, I put on a pretty dress and take special care with my appearance, because I want you to think I'm beautiful.
While I write this, I'm waiting for you. I wait for you every day and every day you keep me waiting. I wait for you like an alcoholic waits for a liver transplant - I know I don't deserve it, but if you showed up, I could turn it all around. I could give up my not-so-wonderful habits and make myself worthy of someone like you. Or I could at least fake it until YOU started seeing ME everywhere.
So I'll keep putting on pretty dresses and I'll keep waiting for you so that one day, I can say 'Hey, you. I know you. You're every sappy song on the radio and every time my lungs turn oxygen into CO2, I'm taking in a little piece of you (because, did you know that we're still breathing the same air as Jesus?).'
So, I guess I'll content myself with that while I wait. Because I want to say 'Hey, you. I know you. Maybe you know me too?'
Maybe it's my own version of middle child syndrome, but I'd like to know that someone is listening to me. Maybe it's too early to ask, but if you want, leave a comment or something.
Bye.
Today, I watched Pride & Prejudice, the new version, where Darcy tromps across a field, while Elizabeth looks on in raptures. It occurred to me that this is very unlikely to ever happen to me. And no, I don't mean the petticoats and a guy named Darcy. I mean the ethereal, charged, passionate connection between Lizzie and Darcy as the dawn breaks over the misty field. Then I thought of every other romantic book/movie I had ever seen/read and realized that I probably have unrealistic expectations. This made me equal parts sad and angry.
Why have novels built up these standards and fairy tales about love triumphant over misunderstandings and social expectations and family obligations and, yes, sometimes evil? Why does the guy always end up with the girl and they have a emotionally stirring scene in which they both realize they are cracked and stumble over themselves to say they are in love? Where are the novels about how things really are? About a girl who has no romantic prospects and continues this throughout the entirety of the thing? In which everything is broken and their is no snap-your-fingers fix?
It occurs to me that these books do exist; I have just steered well clear of them. Is it better to be blissfully deluded or shockingly disillusioned? I think perhaps the former, and that may be the reason I write: to further cart myself into delusion. So I shall through in my hat for the corruption of todays youth and give your this little thing that I have written. Maybe we can fool each other for just a little while longer.
Hey you. I know you.
You're in every movie I see and every book I read. I swear, you were in that last episode of Vampire Diaries.
You're in ads on the bus bench and in the articles of my local news. I rarely bother, but sometimes I see you in a classified or an opinion piece and I know it's worth it.
You're there when my mother clips coupons and when our basket fills with organic milk and Smart Food, you're there too.
In the spring, you're in the tress (you know, the ones I think are cherry blossoms, but never produce cherries?), when the balmy breeze throws pink petals into my clothes, I feel you there. And when the pink petals turn to red leaves and the balmy breeze turns to brisk wind, I hear you tell me you'll always be here, no matter how the world changes.
When I put on my clothes, I try to pick thing you'd like, which is near impossible, given your revolving tastes. And if i go out, I put on a pretty dress and take special care with my appearance, because I want you to think I'm beautiful.
While I write this, I'm waiting for you. I wait for you every day and every day you keep me waiting. I wait for you like an alcoholic waits for a liver transplant - I know I don't deserve it, but if you showed up, I could turn it all around. I could give up my not-so-wonderful habits and make myself worthy of someone like you. Or I could at least fake it until YOU started seeing ME everywhere.
So I'll keep putting on pretty dresses and I'll keep waiting for you so that one day, I can say 'Hey, you. I know you. You're every sappy song on the radio and every time my lungs turn oxygen into CO2, I'm taking in a little piece of you (because, did you know that we're still breathing the same air as Jesus?).'
So, I guess I'll content myself with that while I wait. Because I want to say 'Hey, you. I know you. Maybe you know me too?'
Maybe it's my own version of middle child syndrome, but I'd like to know that someone is listening to me. Maybe it's too early to ask, but if you want, leave a comment or something.
Bye.
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