Day 1:
Any girl less mature would probably have left you a hundred petty text messages or voice mails wishing you a slow death at the hands of rabid zombies. You, sir, should thank the heavens I'm not a psychotic lunatic of that sorts. By that same hand, I am a girl, I am over-thinking this, and you are kind of a dick for doing this. Just so you know.
And I can't say that without feeling like a total bitch/psycho. I mean, you may very well be a dick and all, but I have this tendency to prefer to assume that you've just got a lot on your plate. And you do. So maybe I'm being ridiculous. I try not to let it show but dammit, I really can be.
Shit. This isn't even the right place to start. Welcome, readers, glancers, trolls, whosoever you may be that have stumbled upon this journal of sorts. Welcome to my mind, welcome to my blog of sorts. It earnestly has no other purpose than to chronicle my summer mind-set and progression. Why, you ask? It's simple, really. It's because of Neil. Neil, the boy who decided to keep a blog of his final season in drum core before he returns to his chaotic, vicious, break-down inducing life. Neil, who wanted to get away for the summer and not think about anything. The same guy who promised me he'd come back more himself, less shut-off and happier; the one who made me promise him that I'd do the same during the summer. The guy who made me agree that we would fix ourselves during this long, hot, miserable season.
Neil and I haven't spoken in over a week. Of course it's not like I'd expect any sort of communication just yet, I mean, he is going through the equivalent of hell, although it is self-induced. No, I'll text him in a month or so. Hopefully. And that brings us to part one of my summer goal: Grow a pair.
Don't get me wrong, I generally don't give a damn about what people think of me. That kind of rolled about after the end of my first serious relationship. Take me as I am, or fuck off. Don't like the fact I've got a few piercings and a tattoo? Your problem. Don't like that I curse like than a sailor? Too bad. Religion? Let's not even go there. Got a problem with the minor detail that I've had serious boyfriends and I've slept with them? Grow the fuck up. I don't care what you think of me. But I do care about keeping people around. I am afraid to say how I feel sometimes simply because I don't want to lose a friend. Like Neil. I was afraid to tell him I wanted him as more than a friend, and that I have for a while. I don't want that fear when he gets back. I want to be able to say what I mean, say what I feel.
Neil is going to come back a little... different. Maybe mentally, hopefully a bit more stable; but physically he's going to change. And it's going to be for the better. Not that he needs to, but he's going to lose some weight; he's going to come back tan; he's going to
Any girl less mature would probably have left you a hundred petty text messages or voice mails wishing you a slow death at the hands of rabid zombies. You, sir, should thank the heavens I'm not a psychotic lunatic of that sorts. By that same hand, I am a girl, I am over-thinking this, and you are kind of a dick for doing this. Just so you know.
And I can't say that without feeling like a total bitch/psycho. I mean, you may very well be a dick and all, but I have this tendency to prefer to assume that you've just got a lot on your plate. And you do. So maybe I'm being ridiculous. I try not to let it show but dammit, I really can be.
Shit. This isn't even the right place to start. Welcome, readers, glancers, trolls, whosoever you may be that have stumbled upon this journal of sorts. Welcome to my mind, welcome to my blog of sorts. It earnestly has no other purpose than to chronicle my summer mind-set and progression. Why, you ask? It's simple, really. It's because of Neil. Neil, the boy who decided to keep a blog of his final season in drum core before he returns to his chaotic, vicious, break-down inducing life. Neil, who wanted to get away for the summer and not think about anything. The same guy who promised me he'd come back more himself, less shut-off and happier; the one who made me promise him that I'd do the same during the summer. The guy who made me agree that we would fix ourselves during this long, hot, miserable season.
Neil and I haven't spoken in over a week. Of course it's not like I'd expect any sort of communication just yet, I mean, he is going through the equivalent of hell, although it is self-induced. No, I'll text him in a month or so. Hopefully. And that brings us to part one of my summer goal: Grow a pair.
Don't get me wrong, I generally don't give a damn about what people think of me. That kind of rolled about after the end of my first serious relationship. Take me as I am, or fuck off. Don't like the fact I've got a few piercings and a tattoo? Your problem. Don't like that I curse like than a sailor? Too bad. Religion? Let's not even go there. Got a problem with the minor detail that I've had serious boyfriends and I've slept with them? Grow the fuck up. I don't care what you think of me. But I do care about keeping people around. I am afraid to say how I feel sometimes simply because I don't want to lose a friend. Like Neil. I was afraid to tell him I wanted him as more than a friend, and that I have for a while. I don't want that fear when he gets back. I want to be able to say what I mean, say what I feel.
Neil is going to come back a little... different. Maybe mentally, hopefully a bit more stable; but physically he's going to change. And it's going to be for the better. Not that he needs to, but he's going to lose some weight; he's going to come back tan; he's going to
