Bully.

To make a long story short, I began this year with a roommate for whom I was really poorly suited. We didn't get along by any stretch- I quietly put up with her neurosis and rebelled when necessary, she hyper-scrutinized my every move and gossipped about me to anyone who would listen. It was bad. I moved out. It got better.
To make a long story long, I wrote this after moving out. I was going to give it to her, but I'm a coward.
So instead I'll just post it on the Internet.

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I remember everything I’ve ever done wrong. I know who I’ve hurt, how it hurt, why it hurt. I know it. I hate it. I feel it every day. I’m haunted.


I remember everything ever done wrong to me. I remember the one time you and then she said and I remember the look on your face and the tone of your voice and every damned word that came out of your mouth. I remember how it hurt, where it hurt, how long it hurt. I feel it. Still. I’m haunted.
I can’t forget.


I bear the scars of my every wrong, of every word, action, thought that defies my better nature. I labor under the shroud I make myself out of other's weakness, their ignorance, their fear, their hate.
I remember every time I closed the door and was flooded with a million things to say that I should have said could have said if only I’d said but I’d never say it.  I never say anything. I remember every blow you dealt with your words and with your actions and I remember every muscle in my body struggling to break free of my self control and make your body remember to never talk to me that way again. I never did anything.

I don’t say anything. I don’t do anything. I don’t, I won’t, because, as much as you hurt me, as angry as I am at you, as worthless as you are to me, I know how it feels to be hurt and I know I’m a stronger person than you. As much as I want you to feel the pain you make me feel, to have the burning inside your heart that tells you “This Will Never Go Away,” to think to yourself how bad it is, to think to yourself it could never get better, I won’t let you be crushed under the burden of emotion that I know I can bear better than you.

I may hate you. I may want you to disappear. I may want to burn this building down so I can know I’ll never run into you again. Your personality, your ideas and ideals, your values, your beliefs, your choices are all repugnant to me. I despise the thing you choose to be, I hate the role you choose to play. I hate the thing you’ve told yourself you will be. But I can’t hurt the human in you. I won’t do it. Because I know that no matter how worthless you are, how terribly you treat me or how much poison you spread around my life, you have value that deems you worth respect, if only on a biological level. You are alive so I will not hurt you. Say what you will about me. Think what you will and run and tell all your friends.  Fight with who you think I am, scream at who I wouldn’t be to you, loathe my assumed persona and see me as you want to see me. Rally away, beat it down. You’ll only be hitting at a ghost.

I’m haunted. I can’t forget.


But you’ll

never

 win.

Conflicted, with a scholarly aftertaste.

I knew from the beginning that I’d be going to college. My parents made it very clear, as did my school system. Every level of education stated that their purpose was to prepare us for the following level- first grade prepared us for second, second for third, so on and so forth until senior year, preparing us for the pinnacle of academia- college. The issue was, I had (and to be honest, have) very little idea why I’m here. I’m aware of the necessity of having a college degree to get any sort of white collar job, and doubt that I’ll ever find myself regretting a college degree, but I balk at the idea of accruing such an immense debt all for- what? For a piece of paper that says I was able to keep my head down and get through four years of processed learning? Maybe I’ll get a second piece of paper, on with a big fancy Master’s on it, but even then, where will I be? I have lots of interests, and I genuinely want to learn, but I don’t know that any of my interests are truly worth a couple ten thousand a year. Sure, there are plenty of jumping-off points, but I’m not entirely sure I’m really setting myself up to make the best of this huge investment. I’d rather be here than working at an ice cream shop at home, but what’s to say that this education is really going to establish a viable enough skill set to make me marketable in mainstream industry? Especially with artistic interests- will a BA or BFA in an arts discipline make me a better artist than someone who didn’t go to school? Maybe I’ll learn a little more technique, or network more, but at the end of my days, will I look back and think to myself- Gee, that extra thousand dollars worth of busy work and credit hours really made a difference! Not to sound ungrateful, but I doubt it. I’d rather reminisce and be able to recognize the countless points in my life where I grew as a person- where I heightened my life and the lives of those around my through experience, not just what was on my resume.

If only education were as free as its results are freeing. I do believe in education; I think it’s vital to being a better human, but I’m not quite sold on the extremist of a university degree.

I always found public expressions of personality to be sort of off-putting.

I, like nearly every other girl in my fifth grade class, kept a diary under my pillow, tucked away from the prying eyes of my sisters and little brother. My mother advised me against this public-secrecy- as a writer, she understood the power of words, and the incredible compulsion to put them to paper, but as a sister, she knew the dangers of writing your innermost thoughts and storing them anywhere your siblings could find them. "Be careful what you write, Irene. It never goes away." Needless to say, she was never a big fan of the Internet.
When I first started writing on Internet forums, I thought I'd only do so out of support for my other friends who blogged. I'd make a Wordpress, a Tumblr, what have you, and, when reminded, would log on to read their inanities and occasionally post some of my own. I never really wrote anything worth mentioning until I realized I could blog on Myspace- and once I realized that, there was no stopping me. My rants ranged from familiar spats to full on hate-letters to friends I had lost, loves I had never had. The Internet became my own personal dartboard; I would hurl anonymous hatred out into the vast expanse of  URLs and HTML without any repercussion. That is, until my mom found my blog and so soundly kicked my proverbial ass that I was scared to look at a QWERTY again, let alone implement it.
I would hope that somewhere in all that mess I would have found a sense of stability in my writing, but alas. My Moleskine can only hold so much, my emotions can only last so long without an audience, my self-awareness will only allow me a few minutes at a keyboard before I think to myself,
"Who am I kidding? No-one's going to read this anyway." And yet, here I am, the proud owner of a blushing blog. Hey Public, nice to see ya.

Mao Zedong had a Five-Year Plan, too.

Ah, the ever-popular bucket list.

This year
I will get into my desired major
I will lose fifty pounds
I will learn how to swim
I will get a job
I will do No-Shame
I will become a Resident Assistant
I will drink more water
I will go someplace new at least once a month
I will watch a new movie or read a new book once a week
I will pray every day

Within five years
I will get engaged or married
I will open a bakery
I will get my own house or apartment
I will travel to Spain or France
I will learn to speak Spanish fluently
I will knit everyone in my family a sweater
I will run a marathon
I will swim in the Pacific Ocean
I will go someplace exotic for vacation

Within my lifetime-
I will own a big dog
I will shake the Pope's hand
I will shave my head for a cause
I will go on a cruise
I will learn French
I will fly an airplane
I will write a book
I will meet royalty
I will paint all of my childrens' rooms like their favorite storybook
I will learn how to play the banjo and harmonica at the same time
I will skinny dip
I will attend and awards show
I will give a speech to a crowd
I will take piano lessons
I will write an award winning screenplay or direct an award winning show
I will, after turning sixty, engage in progressively more dangerous things until I die doing something extraordinary, or
I will die peacefully in my sleep next to my husband.