The Horrible Boy Who Made Me Laugh

I fell in love once, just once, just the one time. At least it was as close to love as I thought I would ever get, I still think it is. You see, I fell in love with a boy who had a mind full of thunderstorms, hands like roses, and a silver tongue that stung.

He was not like the sunset, although his eyes did turn molten gold in early morning light. He wasn't an Adonis, and neither was he a Hercules. But his wit was as sharp as the arrows that flew from bows in the stories of myth, and his laugh felt like the rain on a day when the sun would shine so hot, the sidewalks seemed to melt. He was a horrible person, really. Spoiled and overly self-confident, he took his intelligence and used it as a weapon. He was underhanded and mean spirited, and made me feel like shit half the time.

But he made me laugh, and that was very important for me, at the time. All I wanted was someone who made me laugh. I felt horrible about myself already, anything he said, or did, did not hurt, at least not so much. He also read the same books I did, and as a teenage bookworm in an age where the boys thought reading was uncool and nerdy, he was a Godsend. He was opinionated, and unafraid to say what he thought, which, most of the time, was what I thought as well. He made me question things, he made me question everything, and he pushed me. Well, he pushed me away in the most hurtful way possible, but apart from that, he pushed me to do things I never would have. He challenged me, literally. When I'd tell him I wasn't sure of doing something he'd say "I'm doing it, so I guess if I get it I'm going to be better than you." He didn't get it, I did. Because he told me to.

He also intimidated me, and that is no mean feat, I may have hated myself, but I knew my views and my opinions and I knew how to voice them eloquently. I could intimidate the best of them, but him, I couldn't. He'd brush it off, and laugh in my face. It was refreshing. He had scathing retort after every scathing opinion, and he hurt my feelings at least three times every week, but he'd come up and wrap an arm around me when he knew he'd gone too far. He never said sorry, the unapologetic bastard. All he would do is sit next to me on the bench, and put an arm around my shoulders, or lean on me for a few minutes, transferring some of his warmth; and for some reason, I didn't need his apologies, I didn't want them. We'd sit there in silence, with him sometimes nudging my shoulder with his, or poking me in the ribs until I cracked a smile or pushed him away. He liked when I pushed, he'd laugh and then do it again until I started talking to him.

He read my poetry, and gave me constructive feedback, he drew at the back of my notebooks, and made me feel safe enough to say what I really felt, in the language that I could express myself best. He UNDERSTOOD. I could get lost in the stories he would spin, the way we talked about books and movies, and people we did not like. Every day would find me waiting for him because for once in my life, I valued someone else's opinion over my own. He slowly started to feel like home, like a white picket fence and a small two-bedroom house. I fell in love with him. I didn't realize it then, but I was.

Needless to say, he broke my heart and it felt like a punch to the gut. I was winded. But I didn't show it. I knew, you see, I knew. I was not his type. I was the furthest away from his type. But, God, do I miss the bastard. I don't hear his laugh anymore, we don't even talk. He's too far away for that, and I've pretty much severed that connection. What was the point of remaining friends if he still made me feel like shit at least three times a week, and he wasn't there to put his arm around me anymore?

I grew up, I guess. I love myself more now, and it's taken me 22 years to do that. I'll be damned if I let some boy bring me down again.

No, My Darling

Orange Sunsets

I've always wanted a guy whose favorite color was orange. I think it's because I am so in love with the color purple (obviously), and sunsets. That doesn't make any sense, but let me explain. See, purple and orange only look good in sunsets, and sunsets are my favorite thing in the sky. Because I'm not just saying wispy, light purple and the peach tones of a sunrise; I am talking about the flash of bright, strong orange against the darkening purple sky as the day ends, the majesty of the sun's exit, how it is all bright and dark at the same time, it ushers in the night with such brilliance every day without fail.

Now to have the color orange as a favorite color isn't really a big deal, you know? I just think it would be a nice... well I just think it would be nice. It's one of those little things that don't really matter, but if it was there, it would make you a bit happier, you know? Anyway, so, yeah, the color orange, and sunsets.

I rather do like endings compared to beginnings. I mean, if you start something, it's so much work, you lay down the foundations, you build it up, revise, attach, create, add, continue slowly, oh so slowly, so that you don't mess up. It's the same with sunrises, don't you think? It's slow, and sweet, and light, then it builds up until it's high noon and the sun is blazing above and making you sweat and swear. But with endings, oh, the ENDINGS! Aren't they just marvelous? Every single thing you have done, you have worked for, culminating in a giant blast of color only to suddenly turn black. The drama, the theatricality, the beauty of it all! And you can choose! It's either bright oranges and dark purples, and Pomelo pinks with tinges of bright yellow, or dark blues with ribbons of yellows and oranges fading into the violet sky.

I like endings. I don't know what that says about me, I am pretty sure there's a psychological something or other about this, but I don't really care and I am not inclined to find out. I just like the color purple, and the way it blends so beautifully with the orange at the end of the day, that's all.