Krista

23 years old today. Happy birthday. You should have had a special dinner with your family, a cake, presents. Instead I can only imagine how your family chose to celebrate. How do you celebrate someone's birthday when they're not there to celebrate with you?

JD misses you. He tells me you guys never got along really well. I know what that's like; I fight with my sisters all the time. He regrets not getting more time with you, and I think it kills him a little bit to know that you'll be 20 years old forever. Your life was cut so short, and nobody was prepared for it.

I wish I could've had a chance to meet you. I've looked at pictures of you, smiling and laughing. You're beautiful, and your smile shines like a light. I'm told you were a cheerleader, and a volunteer, and so many wonderful things.

He may not have said it, but JD was proud of you. He told me how you used to call him KD...when he talked about you I cried. I cried for him, and your family, and for you. He misses you, and I don't know what to do on the anniversary of the accident, or on your birthday. I don't know what to say or do, and I'm scared to let him know that I would give anything I have to bring you back to him.

I'm sorry we never got to meet.

Happy birthday.

I'm struggling.

For something to write about, something to focus on, some way to get through these days.

They all just seem so pointless.

This is not where I want to be.

Lost

Well, I used to be, at least. And I hit rock bottom, and then I sank a little lower, and then things started getting better.

Things always get better.

Right?

Good, Old Fashioned Rant

Because I need to get this off my chest and I really don't have anyone to talk to.

I hate feeling so fucking isolated. It's kind of self imposed really but the problem is that I just have a hard time caring anymore. I don't enjoy the company of the people I used to and frankly I would rather spend the night alone by myself with a movie and my laptop than I would with other people. I miss my boyfriend severely, having not seen him in over a month (37 days to be precise) and that's wearing me down too. I just discovered there's virtually no chance of seeing him till Reading Week - in FEBRUARY. I said goodbye to him at the airport on August 31. Does anyone else see the problem here? It hurts enough to be away for a couple months, but five and a half? Am I strong enough for that? It doesn't help that he's getting sick and so I know he's going to be kind of out of it for a few days and I can't be there to bring him soup and be the cheesy girlfriend that just wants him to get better. I wish school were done so I could just move out there and be done already, this distance is seriously ruining me. And it's not that I don't think he's worth it, because I do. We've made it through almost a year and a half and if you total it up, we've had...let's see...six weeks actually together? Maybe? Something like that. It's rough, and I spend a lot of time missing him and I'm just tired. I'm tired of feeling alone, like I'm missing something, like someone punched a hole in my chest and tore my heart out and is holding it hostage. I hate this city and I'm tired of living here, I don't want to be here anymore. In all honesty, I can sum it up in four words: I am not happy. I know how to be, and there are things that make me happy for moments at a time, but as a whole I'm not happy with my current situation. There are just too many things I would like to change.

First and foremost, I'd like to stop randomly bursting into tears for no real reason. There's no shoulder for me to cry on anyway.

The Monday Abolishment Movement

I've always been what an ex-boyfriend of mine referred to as a Garfield-girl. No, he was not calling me pudgy or catlike, instead he was referring to my aversion to Monday mornings. As long as I can remember, I have hated Mondays. It's not like they even make a difference to me, now, seeing as how I work on Sundays so Monday doesn't even mark the end of my weekend. I simply always have and, likely, always will, hate Mondays.

When I was little, I started a petition to do away with Mondays. I found it when I was packing to move when I was about ten years old. I laughed at the childish writing, the flawed grammar, and the simple idea of abolishing Mondays.

And then I wrote up a new petition.

I'm not entirely sure what my plan was once this petition of mine had been signed (by every adult IN THE WORLD because clearly they had nothing better to do and the logistic issues with this idea be damned), but I'm sure it probably involved the United Nations, meetings, new legislation, and one less day in the week.

....I was an odd child.

Now here I am, eleven years later, wondering if the ten year old me had it right. Let's get rid of Mondays. Nobody really needs them, do they? And I swear they hate me (like today, I finally managed to catch the bus on time without going like a bat out of hell from my house to the bus station, only to realize that I had absolutely no reason to come to my 8 am class. I COULD STILL BE SLEEPING). (I miss sleeping.)

But then, I guess, that would make Tuesday the new Monday and thus, the most hated day of the week and since Tuesdays have never caused me any offence, I cannot wish this gross injustice upon them.

On Procrastination

Saturday is my only day off in a week. I go to school Monday through Thursday and I work Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. This has led to a rather childlike love of Saturdays. You know, where the world seemed all bright and shiny because it was the start of the weekend, people. No school! Going out with friends! Granted, it's a more adult (see also, rather teenager-y) version, but still. (No school! No work! Sleeping in!) So, I planned to actually get some work done today, ironically enough.

I have three assignments due in the next week or so. They're not, as far as I can tell, the most strenuous or time consuming assignments, but they do need to be done. And since I had the whole day to myself, I figured I'd make some juice, pour some cereal, and get my ass in gear.

That was ten hours ago.

Here's how my day went:

8:00 a.m. Wake and go upstairs. Let dogs out to eat and pee. Go back to bed.

11:00 a.m. Wake groggily from odd dream involving cake and cheese. Note time, decide to get up and get going. Put on bra, as sleep topless, and go upstairs.

11:01 a.m. Note presence of strange men working on stone on house. Note absence of shirt. Hurriedly throw on boyfriend's hoodie so as not to provide free show for strange men.

11:05 a.m. Turn on TV and eat breakfast. Lament lack of quality television available late on Saturday mornings. Tell self will eat and then hit the books.

12:00 p.m. Try to convince self to move from comfortable chair.

12:10 p.m. Use cat sleeping on lap as excuse to delay work.

2:00 p.m. Engage in short lived insult exchange with idiot former classmate. Remember how much fun feeding internet trolls can be.

2:30 p.m. Turn on Fellowship of the Ring (Extended Version). Swear to do homework. Fail. Miserably.

6:00 p.m. Sister comes home. Do barn chores, bring horses in.

7:00 p.m. Watch Hell's Kitchen for second time.

9:00 p.m. Turn on The Two Towers (Extended Version). Swear to do homework. Instead lament missing boyfriend as he lives 1000 km away.

10:00 p.m. Decide to update blog.

10:30 p.m. Wonder when stopped using modifiers when typing.

So yes, clearly I lead an amazingly exciting life. Don't you wish it was yours? I'll probably hammer out those assignments at about 2 a.m. Sunday night/Monday morning. Because I'm good like that.

Sanity, where art thou...

In the Beginning

When I was little, I used to sit on my dad's lap in his big green La-Z-Boy recliner and read to him. We had (and actually still have) these gigantic volumes printed by Disney. They're big, beautifully illustrated anthologies of children's stories. I was little, mind you, and although the memories are vague I recall stumbling my way through them while my dad patiently listened. While a part of me is amazed at his patience throughout this (I mean really, listening to a little girl falter and stumble her way through a book, refusing to accept help and determined to figure out what the big words are all on her own...is that anyone's idea of a good time?), I'm quite certain he enjoyed every second of it.

It's funny, really, I always wanted to read to him. I asked on almost a nightly basis if he had time for a story before bed. And I'm hard pressed to remember him ever saying no, even if he was bogged down in a case that had him up to his eyeballs in paperwork. My twin sister would sit and listen, but only very rarely read. It's the same to this day, really, I love books and reading, and she's really not a fan. There's the occasional mindless chick-lit novel she'll read when she's bored, but I devour books by the likes of JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis, Christopher Paolini, and Terry Goodkind. Books were my friends growing up, replacements for the friends I didn't have from school. When I read The Neverending Story, I could relate to Bastian. I know how it feels to prefer to hide from the real world, so lost in the story that it becomes your reality.

I've found books to be a constant in my life. Where everything else can be so uncertain, and terrifying, and change at the drop of a hat, the written word is safe. It is a constant companion, and gives you somewhere to go when the rest of the world turns its back on you. I find myself trying, time and time again, to write something, anything, that means something to someone. Even if it is just one person, I want to know that something I wrote made some small difference in someone's life. My journey started with those Disney books all those years ago, and while my taste in authors and material may have changed, their presence in my life has not.

So here I sit, in my dad's big green La-Z-Boy recliner. The difference is that now, instead of losing myself in someone else's writing, I'm trying to lose myself in my own.