Hope

You have to believe the things you want to change the most will. Because if you don't, you don't have a hope of making anything better or the way you want it.

I've been hoping for so long, working so hard at what I want, and yet everything seems so very far away. It's times like these you have to hope that the things you want will eventually come to you, despite how hard it is to keep the faith or remain optimistic.

My biggest adversary is myself.

I wish I had the heart and determination of some of the people you meet. I've just never been passionate about anything to really just dive in balls deep, despiteless what the tattoos on my shoulder mean. Even on my History exam the other day, I realized that with what I had already written I had earned a B at the very least, so I cut the rest of my answers short so I could leave and come home early to Youtube.

History is supposed to be what I am, it's my major and passion. I read about it on my spare time, study it in school, and know more than most people twice my age. Yet I still have an uncertain future with my degree, where I will finish it, and what I will make of it. The tattoos on my shoulder limit me to the west out of personal paranoia, even though the call to Moscow is like a needle in my heart.

The summer already feels like it's passing me by. I'm looking forward to a month of rain and the atmosphere it brings.

Competitive Nature

I'm stoked for this to come in the mail. How sick is that?

I wish I had a once a weekly outlet of aggression, like road hockey or indoor soccer or something.

Preferably I'd be in the middle of the pack, not the worst or the best but still a relevant threat. I can't believe how different I've become from Evelyn leaving me and being single as long as I have. I'm fiercely competitive over everything deep down, despite how much I may or may not let on. A refusal to back down in the face of oppression or aggression, something totally new to me. I've always been an instigator and had a mouth, but it feels like now if someone were to start with me I would just finish. I'd like to think so anyways.

At 5'11 I've never considered myself short, but I'm always surrounded by taller and older guys with bigger arms and more money than me. As frustrating as it is, it's almost a way of life. I'm unsure of what anyone actually perceives me as. I guess I'm blending better than I used to.

Boo-Tea-Call

I need one.

I get like bad urges. I'll be sitting around doing homework or something and then bam! I'm an animal. Every last bit of my body wants sex and I can feel my heart rate spike as I think about it.

And all these redheads in this city? Murder! I would get on so many of them and leave every one gasping for breath.

I need a goddamn time machine.

Because if I had one, I would go back seven years or so to my first bantam league tryout. I would tip the edge of my stick with a razor blade.

And then right before that fucking inbred cocksucking second year fatass cross-checked me from behind into the boards headfirst I would turn around and cut his fucking leg off. Seriously. I would.

Because that fucker pulled a dirty hit on a hundred and ten pound first year who was nervous about hitting in the first place, not only was I reluctant to hit for the rest of the year I seriously fucked up my back.

My bottom disks are partially fused, so whenever I sit down slouched for too long or lift anything heavy the slightest bit improperly I pull them apart and they go straight sideways. Not only is it excruciatingly painful, it's really hard to try and get them back into place.

All because that dirty bitch-titted ass plunger decided to be a dick and show off to his buddies on the bench. A twenty second play has lasted for over eight years and caused me alot of fucking pain.

The broken bone in my nose from boxing doesn't bug me too much because I stepped into the ring knowing what could happen, but this was totally unacceptable and unsportsmanlike to the extreme. If I ever see you again Cameron whateverthefuck your last name is I'm going to fucking drop you. With a bag of nickles. Or a roll of nickles behind my fist. Or maybe I'll fucking hit you from behind unexpectedly you fucking webtoed cum gargler. Fuuuuckkk you!!!!

I pulled my back at the gym. Now it fucking hurts like a whore. I feel better ranting at that faggot though.

You have to wonder.

All those songs you sing, I understand every single word like you were still whispering it in my ear. I still hear you singing them to me, and the thought of you saying those words to anyone else burns like acid reflex. I may be over you, I may have moved on, but I haven't seen anyone else. I'm still alone and you're gone. You've moved on and you've found others.

And although I'm sure we both know it won't work between us, I still hate the fact that someone else can have you.

You're the reason I've changed. I'm stronger, smarter and fiercely competitive because of you. But I'm also bitter, sullen, and angry deep down at people for having found the happiness I once had.

You may not knock me down for the day with news of boyfriends or off having fun again without me, but I still feel that burn.

What would happen if I looked in your eyes again and found my smile? Would I still lose my breath afterwards and bite my lips in anticipation of being close to you? And if I did, would you still notice and smile? Would we even recognize each other anymore?

The rest of my day will be spent in reflection, a dark anger brewing behind whatever facade I put up. But tomorrow you will be gone until I see your face and remember what I need to do to keep moving. Keep fighting. Keep learning.

I've been revolving like Turnstiles...