Birds are like Stars

We have these wishes of things we can't say or can't want. We can't decide if we really even wish it literally, but we do anyway and we can't say it so we just wish it and fold paper birds as we try to catch the wish. We try to fold paper birds and hang them up in front of our faces- but the only way to hang a bird is by its neck between it's mouth that speaks and its wings that fly. Wishes can't be hung.

Self-Diagnosed with a Blood-Brain Barrier

If my heart cells and my brain cells all contain the same DNA, then why do they want such different things?

There is an angel on my shoulder and a devil in my foot and I’m told what to do, but go somewhere else. I can’t keep running from my ear, because that is exhausting. I just haven’t figured out how to untie my laces yet.

But maybe my soul's all right but my body's all wrong.

 

Song of the Little Cripple at the Street Corner, Rainer Maria Wilke

The Someone's that made me

My dad can never remember song lyrics and neither can I.

Like my mom, I smell books before I read them and close my eyes to feel music.

I like science like my sister, but she will always be better at it than me.
My other sister and I both had really weird friends as children… we were probably un-admittedly friends after all.

My brother hates cutting his nails and hair like I do.

I am passive-aggressive just like my grandma.

I have the same sense of humor as my aunt and stubbornness as my cousin.

My chin, hair, eyes, chest, and politics all come from my mom’s side of the family but I get my pop culture, feet, and hobbies from my dad’s.

I was made before I was born, with bits of me here and bits of me there. In my long ancestral line, somebody before me donated their kneecaps to my legs and their love of words to me. I am a coalition of all that is past, a representative of all the Thems. If Ethel and Wilmur could just touch me now, they would know that they were real too.

I ran out of Pixie Dust last week.

This is me, this is all you get. Shadowed eyes, twitching foot, wrinkly hair, hypochondriac, colorless lips, this is what I am.

She is not spiritual enough, so they give me guilt. She’s not charitable enough, so they give me checklists of community service. She’s not rich enough or fulfilled enough, so they give me a job. She’s not smart enough, so they give me too many classes and all of them are too hard for me. She’s not musical enough, so they give me opportunity. She’s not kind enough, so they give me impossible people. She’s not happy enough, so they give me stress and money. She’s not wise enough, so they give me stacks of unfinished books by my nightstand. She’s not alert enough so they give me an earlier alarm clock. She’s not skinny enough so they give me mirrors and food. She’s not strong enough, so they give me a backpack to put all the things in and they say here, this will strengthen your muscles. Yesterday they found a girl collapsed on the side of the road and she was wearing a backpack.

It’s 11:34 and I am so tired. I could probably stay awake for several more hours given a few Oreos and warm socks, but I have never been so tired. I am behind in everything and am stretched so thin. I feel as if I can only give half of myself to any endeavor and that everything I say is a compromise on something else. I feel like a failure in every direction and my schoolwork is definitely not conducive to real life, which is obviously something only an American teenager would claim. First-world problem #57: I have too many opportunities. I am so exhausted of this pace. Nobody wants to hear me complain either because I chose all of these things. I hand picked them every one. While my idealistic mind wants to experience everything, my body is too tired. I don’t want to drop something, I just want help.

I can’t do anything more: this is what I am, this is where I am. But what if I knew that I was so close? That if I just tried a little harder, I would be enough?

Pumpkin Eater

I don't believe in writer's block, but I kinda believe in exhaustion or whatever. If you are a male, please read the following:
  I would like to get married one day, so if you 1) want to live in London someday and 2) enjoy cheetos and 3)honey on toast and 4) romantic era composers and 5) semi-sarcastic eyebrows, I'm your girl. If you don't mind cheesy fingers or sticky counters or concertos or passive-aggressive communication, you, similarly, are my man.
My little sister thinks she will marry before me and she is most likely correct.

Ode to the most exhausting week, ever, which is next week, in which I don't intend to sleep.

A Poem: 
(*)There are 81 days until graduation.

snap snap snap snap.

*this is the first time I have been excited. I am still terribly sad. I'm feeling a bit BEREFT already, you know?

Of car keys and vulnerability

I lost my invincibility on the corner of 1100 North and 5300 West. 

I slammed doors a little harder and turned a little sharper before that with my back to the tax collectors and the price of gasoline. Back then I didn’t wear sunglasses when I looked at the sun, but now I have to use them for the moon and the stars and ice included. It’s too bright, and the light burns my eyes the way that gasoline and air bags burn skin. I make sure I walk heel-toe now. Heel-toe, heel-toe, like my dance teacher said. Because otherwise I might trip. I swear I read food labels more, too- just never the ones on bags of Cheetos. And don’t ask me how many bottles of toothpaste I have gone through. It’s a personal issue these days.

I thought I had it going on with my clipped finger nails and curled hair and car keys. I drove myself to the bank and cashed a pay check. You can bet I was on the top of the world. I thought that maybe this was courage and I was sure it was maturity. Everything the sun touched, I could touch and it didn’t matter how sharp it was. I mean, my skin was tough and I don’t really feel anything anyway.

I swear the grass would turn towards me when I walked outside the way that it grows to the sun. Everything I touched could turn to gold- sharp or dull, bright or dull. Obviously that was true when I ate Cheetos or whatever because those are already gold… but I knew it could happen to the piano and the novel and the scan-tron and the audition too. I had power in my fingertips and my eyelashes and probably down to my leg hairs. Nobody could stop me.

And then on the corner of 1100 North and 5300 West, I stopped myself and I said: what? why? how? And that is the day I became breakable.

To Whom it May Concern

Your refrigerator is in Alaska.

In the mean time, please try this recipe and tell me if it is delicious. I have a recent fetish with Cheetos. 

1 cup butter
1 cup white sugar
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup clear Karo syrup
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
16 ounces crunchy Cheetos cheese-flavored snacks

Directions:
Bring butter, sugars, syrup to boil stirring constantly for 5 minutes while boiling.
Remove from heat and add vanilla and baking soda. Stir well.
Add Cheetos.
Spread out onto ungreased cookie sheet.
Cook at 250°F for 45 minutes to 1 hour -stirring every 15 minutes.
When cool enough to touch, break into pieces.

It looks supersick but I think it might be good.

[Recipe found from http://www.food.com/recipe/richys-exceptional-cheeto-dessert-345017/photo by ~~**Amanda**~~. She has other delicious recipes on her page :) ]