literally IDK

-Why is making out a cool thing

-Why are some people so good looking and some people so ugly
-Why does crossfit exist
-Why is everyone so sad
-Why do dogs do that thing where they bark at some people but not other people that are equally as harmful
-Why do boys think it's okay to do drugs
-Why can't communism work better in real life
-Why don't I have a job
-Why isn't the United States on the metric system
-Why do we have tonsils
-Why is crying a thing that happens
-Why are there cheerleaders for football and basketball
-Why do people argue so much about abortion and gay rights
-Why does the ACT determine which college we get accepted into
-Why do so many people misuse the word "literally"

Hey guys guess what my favorite food is

It's captain crunch.

This isn't a list of confessions

When I was 8 I threw a brick at my sister.

I don't remember it hurting her (I missed and hit the ground) but I do remember the look on my mother's face.

It was a look of surprise and anger and disgust, it was a look that said "why did you do that."

Other than that, I was a pretty good 8 year old.

And a lot of times I think "would the 8 year old me be proud of the 17 year old me?"

The answer is no.

No.

No, the 8 year old me wouldn't be proud of the 17 year old me.

The 8 year old me didn't know that sex and drugs existed.
The 8 year old me didn't know what swear words were or what being gay was.
The 8 year old me thought that every human had good intentions,
and sometimes the 17 year old me still thinks that.
The 8 year old me got dipped in some water and was convinced she would never sin again,
now you tell me was that brain washing or soul cleansing?

The 8 year old me had hope.

The 17 year old me is kinda messed up and my parents know it.
The 17 year old me is happy.

bang, bang you're dead

You know those buttons they make for old people that are like "help, I've fallen and I can't get up"?

yeah, well what if they made those for falling in love?

I don't actually know how the button works, I just assume the old people click it and then help is sent their way.

So we'd click it and then someone would appear, smack us in the face, and yell "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING SCREWING UP YOUR LIFE LIKE THIS?"

We'd get all offended but secretly know that we are screwing up our lives and that we really did need someone to come smack us in the face. We'd realize that we probably aren't falling in love and that we are just falling in love with the idea of falling in love. We'd realize that the person we are falling in love with really isn't the one we should be falling in love with, but then again who even knows who we should be falling in love with.

Oh yeah the person who comes and smacks you in the face knows. They know everything.

Anyway, after a few times of clicking the button and being verbally abused to the point of tears from this genius-know-it-all-guy, we'd realize that we should just should just end whatever we are doing right that instant, because our lives would end up better, we'd end up better, if we just made a few "wise decisions" from the start.

But you know how old people always insist "No, no, I can do it." And then they fall down the stairs and break their hips and end up dying?

We're the exact same.

We'd tell the button guy "No, no, I know what I'm doing. This is love. We're in love. I can't end things now" with so much fake confidence he'd almost believe us.

And you know where we'd end up?

We'd end up all sad,

possibly with broken hips,

possibly dead.

Logarithms and Open-heart surgery, Veins and Equations

I'm suffocating,
and you're standing three feet away,
screaming "learn how to breathe"

I suppose learning how to breathe is a little like learning how to love,
except that teachers can teach how to breathe,
but preachers can't preach how to love.

Now I'm falling,
and you're standing five feet away,
screaming "learn how to stand"

what you didn't know,
is that when I was falling,
it was never the ground I was falling for.

I'm going to end up crying,
and you'll be standing six feet away,
screaming "learn how to love"

and the words will start to shake when they fall from my mouth,

"I can't properly breathe and can't properly stand,
so how can I possibly learn how to love?"

things I still hold grudges against:

• the guy who dumped beer on my beautiful white shoes
• my neighbor for making me feel guilty about doing homework on sunday (ok, like who's business is that anyway?)
• me for feeling guilty about not really feeling guilty
• George Orwell
• the dry-looking paint I touched that was actually wet
• my dad
• the people who invented toaster strudels
• one of my ex-boyfriends
• Lone Peak High School's dress code and also the sign that says "world class"
• my 12 year old "reading buddy" in second grade who called me stupid to my face (yes I still remember your name and yes you made me feel like $h!t before I even knew what that meant.)
• pizza
• barbies for being so flexible
• cartoons for being so awesome and unrealistic 
• the mailman for never delivering what I want him to 
• life in general
• God
• myself

candy is dandy but liquor is quicker

Hospitals smell white and so does your childhood.

You stood and watched as that milk spilled on the floor, dripping down your leg on the way.

You felt those snowflakes clinging to your fingertips and getting caught in your hair.

You cried as your new skin got torn apart, breaking your bones into tiny pieces. 

You stared out of that sheet you cut holes into, wondering if people cared about what was underneath.

You kept getting blank sheets of paper and were told 

"Stay inside the lines, make it look pretty."

Well you thought you were making it pretty. 

They said 

"Darling, honey, sweetie, you can't color with white crayons on white paper, it doesn't work that way."

But what is prettier nothing?

You lit the page on fire with your brain. It turned red, it turned orange.

It glimmered yellow and then you dumped some blue on it to make it all go away.

What you didn't know was that mixing yellow with blue wouldn't make it go away, it just turned it green.

You crumpled your piece of paper up, pouting in the corner.

And you know what they told you?

They said

"Good job! Beautiful! Now this is what we were talking about!"

They handed you your crumpled piece of paper back with a big red A circled on the top.

You didn't want a letter. You didn't want that piece of paper back.

You wanted your white, blank, beautiful sheet of paper with your name drawn on in white crayon. 

lather rinse repeat

I have never been scared of dying but I witnessed a death the other day and now I am terrified. 

I have had exactly two dreams of myself nearly dying since then, both causing me to wake up sweaty-palmed, sweaty-faced, and teary-eyed.

The only thing I am still not sure about is whether it was me dying or if it was part of me dying. 

The naive part of me is already dead. That crumbled off about 8 9 10 months ago when life came and slapped me in the face.

The praying part of me is dead though I wish it wasn't. Sometimes I pray for rain but I always end up with peeling-skin and blood-shot eyes. 

The singing part of me is dead because I don't know how and probably never will.

The honest part of me is dead and was never alive to begin with. 

The early rising saturday morning cartoon watching part of me is dead because my dad cancelled cable and I'm too tired to get up anyway.

Life keeps going and I keep dying, so doesn't that mean I'm alive?

I can find a pulse on my wrist; my heart is beating at 68 beats per second. I'm breathing air into my lungs and know there's blood pumping through my veins. I can feel my hands falling asleep and waking back up to a painful tingling on every pore of skin. 

I can count to one million and one.

I am positive that my favorite color is red, and that love's favorite color is blue.

I know that 2 + 2 = 4, and if O'Brien told me that 2 + 2 = 5 I wouldn't believe him.

I cry.

I have a biggest regret but

I don't regret it quite yet.

I have been broken and mended and shattered and glued back together, and I will probably be dropped again,

but isn't that what being human is?

We're stupid and genius and pitiful to watch, but we are alive.

You can choose to breathe in smoke rather than air, and 

I can smash you and leave you on my hard wood floor but you are still alive.

You can convince yourself that you are a robot, programmed and controlled, but life isn't a sci-fi movie and it sure as hell isn't a romantic comedy.

We are alive because of those boysenberry pies and that $2.50 weekly allowance. 

I am terrified of death, and you should be too. 

-Devastated Daisy