ouch.

It’s the eight grade. He offers me a mint. Our fi rst names start with R and S; our last names start with S and Q, so I’m put near him often. He grabs my hand in gym. His green eyes flash with rebellion. I’m a sheep. Baaaaa.

He rejects me.
He tries to make me laugh.
He calls me horrid names.
He cannot make up his mind.

I was confused then, but I can see now; he was always destined to choose not me.


It’s the eleventh grade, and what a weird kid he is. The stage lights make him half magenta,
half green while he auditions as a Shakespearian king. We joke about scissors. When he leaves
a room, I can still smell his cologne. He follows another girl who continually rejects him.

He rejects me.
He wants to know, “can I give him a ride home, though?”
He cannot make up his mind.
I see now that he was always destined to choose not me.


It’s the twelfth grade, and I press on. This Sophomore keeps telling me I’m beautiful, “like Angelina Jolie.” Strange. No one’s told me I’m beautiful before.

He rejects me because I’m leaving.
I’m fighting tears so hard, I barely notice he’s kissing my cheek.
I drive home even though I can’t see.
He flirts with me more than ever now.
I overhear him telling someone he got back together with his ex.
He cannot make up his mind.
He was always destined to choose not me.


It’s Sophomore year in college; I finally admit to myself I like him. People think he’s haughty,
but I love the way I feel walking down the hall next to him, matching his long strides. He’s
really just shy, I decide.

His best friend hates me. I’m competition.
He never rejects me. I’m just not as pushy as her. Besides, I’m starting to get the pattern.
He would have chosen not me.


I’m a Senior now. But not a woman.
I’ve always known he existed. I’ve always thought he was cute, since the moment I first saw
him walk into class, late. He would always just smile this huge smile at me when I presented
my work. For some reason I never talked to him until now. We work together, we shake hands.
He tells me, “don’t be a stranger.”
He never tells me about his girlfriend. But I did my research. It’s a small school. I know. He tells me about his brothers; I know his parent’s professions; he likes gears; he’s always late.
He mentions her to Ryan, but he never mentions her to me.

He cannot make up his mind.

I don’t know what to do.
I know what will happen.
I know what to expect.
He won’t choose me.

Why can’t I stop Hoping?
Why can’t I just be content?
Why can’t someone choose ME?

a nonesense

my love is a man who lives in Guam.
His love belongs to another.
Her sunbleached hair is cut just like Mine,
but Mine is dull from the winter.

I Think I'm Writing a Real Blog Now

Now that I've set this up, I've decided, I might actually use it. I've had blogs before (xanga, MySpace, etc.), however, I now realize that I got no enjoyment out of them because they were more about talking to my friends than sharing thoughtful reflections.
So, I've resolved not to tell anyone I actually know that I'm posting here. It will make it easier, especially since most of my thoughtful reflections consist of analyzing the people around me. Art School is the perfect place to do that, too. It's smaller than my High School, which means everyone knows each other extremely well (I'm a junior, so I've been living with these people for two years now.), and every part of the personality spectrum is represented here.
I've always planned to use people I actually know as characters in my stories (which are nonexistent so far), so I might as well record my observations, right? And I think it could spark some good discussion about human nature in general. Or, no one will read this, which is also fine. Philosophical discussions are always useful and enjoyable, but not necessary because I'm really writing for myself anyway.