I wish I could make video blogs. Sometimes, I’d rather say things than write them down. But words are words and so I will continue to blog traditionally.
Nothing new is happening, but I thought I’d take the time to say that since I have the moment to do so. Am I the only one who stays awake at night, taking inventory of my life and realizing how small it is? I suppose a lot of other people lead small lives too, but I feel like the size of my life is considerably smaller than most.
I watched a video that talked about when “life starts” and what that means and when it happens. The narrator was saying how he feels like he’s perpetually waiting for his life to begin, but he’s not even sure what that would feel like. He thought that it would maybe start at a certain age by default or when he accomplished something great. He wishes he could say that his life has started, but he’s still waiting. He’s afraid that his life will begin shortly before it’s over and that he’ll always be waiting. 
I guess I feel like my life has started. I mean, my life isn’t exactly exciting and as I said before, it’s pretty small. However, I do know what it’s like to be waiting for something. I always feel like I’m waiting for something. The present is never satisfying enough and I’m constantly staring at the clock. People are more likely to wish for the future and the past instead of being content in the present. Maybe that’s the reason why a lot of us feel like our lives haven’t begun. We’re waiting to be happy instead of content or something like that. Maybe it isn’t about what we do or how we do it but how we feel about it that makes people feel like they’re living. Or at least worth the space they take up on this planet. 
We could all just be afraid of living because living means dying and if we put off living, we try to put off dying. I wish we knew how silly that is.

Petals and leaves fall
Across my path down the hill.
I step over them.

I am back from the beach. And I am tan. And I am proud.
Yesterday, I was sitting in with my friend on her training session and I was highly amused to catch glimpses of adorable boy’s personality that he usually keeps so carefully away under a strict mask of professionalism whenever he’s around me. I was surprised to see how goofy he is. 
He’s perfect. 
And my heart will always belong to him. 
The job search continues and I am getting more and more sure of my future in stripping. I can’t do another year of mulch and I certainly cannot be unemployed, so I will continue to get into shape and when I feel completely comfortable naked in front of strangers, I will move to the city. Seriously, I don’t think I’ll ever find a job in my field worth having. English Literature was not the route that I should have gone. However, I would have just graduated from college last month if I had stayed in education and I’d have had another entire year of tuition and various other school expenses to pay off. Opportunity cost.
Oh well. I shouldn’t dwell on the “what if” of life anymore than I should dwell on the “adorable boy.” But we all know how well that works for me.

Sprinkles of black sand,
Glued to the back of my shins.
I miss the ocean.

Still feeling nostalgic, I was going back through some entries from 2009 and I inadvertently came across an entry that held a bit of advice that I really needed to read:

“I believe that if something is supposed to be then it will and anything that you do or say does very little to push it one way or the other. If he’s not calling, texting, talking to you, then I say move on. Stop bothering him. He’s obviously not that into you. Or something is not allowing it to happen between you two. Give up. Get out. Wait it out.
I remember what it’s like to be in that strange place where you don’t know what to do with a boy that is driving you crazy. It’s limbo, between holding on and moving on. Part of you wants to forget and another wants to never let go. It’s a terrible place to be. And you feel like you’ll be there forever.
But eventually, you see a sign — someone else, a letter, a smile, a kiss — that let’s you know what you should do. And then, after some time, you’re back to normal. You’re not pining after some boy that’s not yours. And everything is better. You’re out of limbo.
You just have to be strong enough to see what you’re supposed to see.”

My nineteen year old self just helped my now twenty three year old self. I was a wise teenager.
Let me explain here.
That boy that I knew liked me asked me to hang out with him about a week and a half ago. I said yes. It was a nice night. We talked and stayed up all night and I started to really like him. 
He kissed me.
We would talk and see each other and I felt like I had known him for years. It was nice and it was lovely and I was forgetting adorable boy by the day. It seemed to be going quite smoothly.
That is until recently when what I knew would probably get in the way did. There’s a part of his life that I cannot share with him because my interests lie elsewhere. I should have listened to my instincts. But, I did not. Now, he barely talks to me. 
When I asked him about it, he said that he “has a plan” but he can’t tell me about it “because if it doesn’t work out, he doesn’t want to tell me.” I am confused and somewhat hurt and I don’t like people who cannot be straightforward.
I’m tired of playing games. I am twenty three and he is twenty five and if we can’t be honest about what we are and what this is about, then I’d rather take the high road and call it. 
But, yesterday, I was upset and I was wallowing and I couldn’t pick myself up. My appetite was gone and I was falling into that limbo hole that you make when you open yourself up to someone who doesn’t help fill up that hole.
I was in trouble.
I haven’t had very many relationships issues as of late and I am out of practice. I needed to hear from my nineteen year old self who was fresh out of that stage, with a clear perspective of what is good and what is not. She was wiser than I was yesterday and I am grateful that I happened to read what she had to say. 
I wish I could go back in time and thank her for that post. It really helped.
Also, I am back to adorable boy. He wished he a happy birthday approximately twelve times yesterday. We’re getting married.

I need a rain storm
To wash away everything
That gets in the way.

Well, I’m twenty three today. I’m old.
Where to start…
I always end up writing with weeks in between. Looking back through my past entries, there was an entire year that I wrote every day. I don’t know how I managed that. Back then, I had even less time to blog than I do now and I still managed to write at least a few sentences a day, usually a paragraph. Perhaps I just don’t have the motivation to write like that anymore. Thinking about that sort of makes me depressed
Especially now with the announcement that Xanga may cease to exist next month. I’ve had this account since 2004. I was fourteen. It’s almost an entire decade. An entire decade of teen angst, college monotony, and crushes and loves that one day I’ll forget about. An entire decade of eyelash wishes, song quotes, and complaining. An entire decade of weather updates, homework procrastination, and wasting time. An entire decade of loss, gain, and regret. An entire decade of hope, change, and accomplishments. 
I was going through my old entries. I have definitely changed since I first started writing regularly. My thoughts are less disjointed and I feel like I’ve grown as a writer. I mean, I better have given all the papers that I’ve had to write over the years. All that practice had better count for something other than loss of sleep. I’ve been through a lot since high school and I like how my entries here reflect that. If Xanga does shut down, I’ll have to start blogging somewhere else. And, you know, I’d really rather not.
I have a history here. Granted, it’s not my entire history, but a lot of it is here. I came here when I needed a place to tell my story. And my story isn’t finished. I’ll probably donate what I can to keep my story here going. I need to.

It’s funny. People are more likely to blog about nothing than something, but the entries I’ve written mean more to me than anything I’ve written in a journal. So, thanks. Thanks, Xanga. Thanks for that.