to the tired best friend

To the tired best friend,

I saw a blog post written to the “selfish best friend;” I didn’t make it through that entire post because, well, you know me, I got distracted by the episode of New Girl that was on.

But as I laughed at Schmidt and the lovable Nick Miller and the all around adorable, laughable antics of Jess and her crazy friends, something about that post stuck with me.

I am the selfish best friend.

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jagged metal key

a short story

The door clicked shut behind him. He took a deep breath as he ran his thumb over the cold, sharp edges of the key. He knew the gravity of what he was doing; he understood the significance of this decision. It weighed on him near the point of paralysis, even now, with his mind made up. He paused, leaning against the doorframe, and let his mind run through it all one last time.

They’d met on a Sunday; she talked animatedly amongst of group of friends. He stood on the outskirts of all the conversation, picking at the edges of his now empty paper coffee cup, wondering what he was doing there. The occasional friendly stranger interrupted his thoughts to welcome him to the church and get to know him. Classic church behavior he’d thought, and though he hated small talk, he’d openly shared with each of them some version of his life not quite the truth.

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cold hard bleachers

a short story

Often she found herself sitting alone, in the darkness of her bedroom before the sun came up, or along the edge of a park bench with the chill of the night filling her body, unable to see past the dimly lit sidewalk in front of, no matter the place, or time of day, she always seemed to let the silence get too loud, let the darkness persist too long, and as a result, let the cavernous, empty space inside of her grow even deeper, even wider, further beyond repair.

To say she’d spent her whole life misunderstood would be a gross understatement, a painfully trite banality, feigning even remotely to attempt to acknowledge the depth of her isolation. She’d seen a macabre of therapists to no avail; prescriptions for every antidepressant and antianxiety medication had been prescribed, and still, her insides felt empty.

There was another world inside of her mind, a world even she had only begun to access, but it was that world that kept her from feeling any sense of belonging in reality; it was that world that kept her from relating to others, from forging deep connections with her peers. She knew that world wasn’t real, and yet somehow, she also knew it would overtake her if she weren’t careful.

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bachelorette 11: week 1

A dull and boring title to offset the insane level of excitement within the words of this post.

Sweet baby Jesus, where do I even begin?

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In typical ABC, Bachelor fashion, the higher ups at my most favorite television networked forced fans to cancel two nights worth of plans all the find out who would even be this season’s bachelorette. That was brilliant and cruel on a million levels.

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love, an independent girl: a letter to a man

couple pic

Dear Love of My Life,

You don’t know me yet, but I can’t wait to meet you. I’ve talked about that before, and maybe I’ll talk about it again, but right now I wanna let you in on a few things.

The thing is, I see all these guys that I could be into, and they’re going after these girls that I am just nothing like. And at first, it makes me feel bad about myself, like there’s something wrong with me. It makes me feel like I should change myself to fit the stereotype of what the ideal girlfriend, and eventual wife, should be. Then I laugh. I’m 22 years old, and this is just the person that I am, I don’t see any signs of changing too drastically in my future. I’m an independent thinker; to change myself to be more like everyone else would be nearly impossible. I like who I am, and I know you will too, but I feel like it’s fair to at least warn you anyway.

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