I finally have something to write about and expand upon. I can't find the right words. For once, I just don't know what to say.

Good advice is good advice. Bad advice is common. 09/13

I explained and I considered and I evaluated and I analyzed until I couldn’t have possibly analyzed any more. We sat in silence for what seemed like forever and, gradually, I began to stare off into space. Finally, she began.

"God is good all the time, and all the time, God is good! I know you’re hurt, and I hate to point this out, but you knew something like this would happen eventually. What goes around comes around. You can’t tell me you honestly thought you’d get away with it, did you? He might not know what you did this summer but I know and you know, and most importantly, God knows. I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. Aside from a well-deserved backhand from karma, you knew better. You knew exactly what you were getting yourself into. Everyone tried to warn you. They tried to tell you he didn’t like you for you, but you’ve always been so optimistic. Don’t get me wrong! I love that quality about you, but sometimes your brightness and confidence in others clouds your judgment. You ‘made him happy’ whether you ‘were next to him or not,’ but that was easier believed while you were actually next to him. After all, it only took him, what, two weeks to move on and find someone new? Did you honestly believe he’d wait for you? Ha! Put on life through his glasses. An hour is closer than eight hours and twenty minutes is even closer than an hour. I don’t care what anyone says; location is key. But look on the bright side, kid! You’re young. You’ve got your entire life ahead of you. You can’t hold all of that against him. He could have been honest, sure, but you could have been honest, too. You could have vocalized that after all that time and all those fights and all your so-called ‘logic’ you were only inches away from taking the giant leap of faith he’d urged you to take only weeks earlier. He had no idea. He had no idea that if he had just picked up the phone you would have eagerly blurted out, ‘I’m ready!’ You didn’t mean to fall so hard; no one ever does. And now you’re back at square one, again, wondering where to go. Wondering who you can trust. It’s okay to be angry. You were wronged--you were thoroughly blind-sighted--but as Christians, we know that all things work together for good! Right now, you don’t understand why all these seemingly terrible things happen to you, but ultimately, there is a reason. Pick yourself up and dust yourself off. Again. We all know you can do it because, well, you’ve done it before. He’s not the first friend who’s ever let you down. He’s not even the first best friend who’s ever let you down. He’s not the first boy to trade you in for a better looking brand, either, and unfortunately, he probably won’t be the last. Don’t be afraid. Don’t cower in the corner. Get up anyway."

The succeeding silence indicated that it was time for me to tune back into reality. Turn back on. I replaced my blank stare with a respectful smile. I thanked her for her time politely but after all was said and done, only one solitary thought stuck out in my mind: maybe I shouldn’t transfer after all. Maybe I should stay right here, locked safely inside my conservative jail cell, 516.1 miles away from you and the friend you really turned out to be.

Through the wind and the rain, she stands hard as a stone in a world that she can't rise above

But her dreams give her wings and she flies to a place where she's loved

Concrete angel

Stream-of-consciousness as of three o'clock this morning.

: the conscious experience of an individual regarded as a continuous, flowing series of images and ideas running through the mind.

And then it was silent on the opposite end and anything that could have been was lost--or at least postponed until it was time to skin the potatoes and prep the giant turkey. No one really knows what they want. Or they have a solid idea or two and they continually mold them and readjust their dreams until they crumble in their hands. That's the part no one wants to talk about. That's the part distorted on the silver screen, unless producers choose to play off the second-guessing crisis as a much-needed plot element ultimately leading to some sort of happy ending. The problem with happy endings is that they don't apply to each character. Typically, only the protagonist and company are spotlighted. But what about the villain who made a mistake? What about the bad guy? Doesn't he deserve to be happy, too, in spite of his faults and errors and shortcomings? People make mistakes. Does that mean they should suffer until karma makes her rounds and they're finally off the hook? What happens when the television is turned off? What happens when the movie ends? Does the happy ending spill over into reality? "Why can't anything in life be simple?" a notably flustered customer asked me weeks back. Without putting much thought into it, I matter-of-factly stated that if life were easy, we would never learn anything valuable. The only thing I'm learning is nothing lasts forever and not every single minuscule event occurs for a purpose. Sometimes, things just happen. Better yet, things happen because people make them happen. Remember? Jon. Tiffany. Fanny. Joy. Tony. Sarah. You? The problem has got to be me. When will it stop? I destroy great things before they have the chance to destroy me. Again. I'm waiting for my happy ending--just like the rest of the planet--but the inner cynic lurking in the back of my mind taunts me with every failure and all the if only, if onlys and all the what ifs. Remember the curly-haired boy with freckles and braces who built robots for fun? The seven yellow carnations, symbolizing a secret admirer, creatively spelling out J-E-S-S-I-C-A? Remember? Did you forget that you made him fall for you--"She's the coolest girl I know, but I have a girlfriend now..."--and then you walked away without so much an explanation, let alone a good-bye? "Yeah, hmm. I've actually been living in fear of relationships and commitment and emotion since I turned fourteen and my dad...." That would have gone over well. You haven't changed much in the years cementing the memories together. Same pattern. Different boy. Different excuse. Same root. Same fear. Remember the older football player every girl at school was crazy about? Remember when he left his long-time girlfriend to fall down at your feet, but it wasn't enough, and you chose to walk away despite his sacrifice? Walking away. The only thing you've ever truly excelled at. (The voice in the back of my mind knows me better than I know myself.) Don't forget Davey. Remember how he could have been perfect for you? Remember how he vowed to treat you like a princess, and you weren't interested until it was too late (and there was no chance of getting involved and therefore getting hurt?) Remember when you cried and cried and all your tears were in vain because it was always your fault for running away? Jon was in from the get-go (the voice in my head reminds me.) Remember how he made you feel? Nothing more breathtaking and nothing more weepingly devastating. Who said that it's better to have loved and lost? I wish that I had never loved at all. Remember when you were never good enough (but your best friend was ideal) for his blameless family, and eventually, he quit fighting for you? Remember how you tormented yourself for weeks upon months approaching a year and you lived in an empty place where no one could touch you? Unreachable. Remember crying yourself to sleep because your revealing prom dress and rotten attitude totaled the best thing that ever happened to you? Remember how he walked away? I know you didn't forget. I know you can't forget. Remember longing for those mere five seconds after waking up before you remembered that your dreams had shattered and that you were completely alone? And then sobbing so hard you couldn't breathe and consequently staying in bed all morning and missing school? Remember pretending? Remember smiling because it felt like the entire town was watching and awaiting your breaking point? (It was all my fault.) (All my fault) (I was to blame.) (I brought this upon myself.) Remember how Tony wanted to give you the world (beginning with the moon) but you were hollow and he wasn't Jon? Remember all the chances you wasted? I know you remember Alex. Remember deciding to give him a chance, and then backing out last minute because your fear of being hurt tremendously outweighed your fear of being alone? Remember how you lost your chance because you were too afraid? Fear is the mind killer. All the truths I try to live without and all the memories I try to erase are powerless against the petite portion of my mind not living in a state of complete and utter denial. What exactly am I trying to prove? And who am I trying to prove it to? Why? For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son...but I know He would have done it just for me. Jesus Christ shed His blood for me, so what could I possibly have left to prove? (That I'm good enough for somebody?) "Think enough of yourself. Think enough of yourself..." I sat in the front row and played the perfect student and took notes and nodded at appropriate occasions. Think enough of yourself. Obviously, I don't, but I never did get those four words out of my mind, nor was I able to shake the emotion quivering in the voice of one of the few people I respected in my life. And now I'm stuck and I'm suffocating beneath the increasing pressure of all the blame and all the guilt and the memories and the mistakes and the laughter and the expectations. Where am I supposed to go from here? How long can a person float, looking at an empty horizon? How long do you drift before you call it quits?

I want to run, but only far enough to make you miss me.

We sit at this table with our hands in our laps and we have a few drinks and we share a few laughs, but now those days have passed and they're not coming back. It's a shame, 'cause that's all that I had.

Nothing occurs based merely on coincidence. Incidents do not unfold because of luck or perchance or by draw. Although I trust we have the ability to control our destiny to a certain extent, I don’t believe "fate" is ever a factor. Events take place because people make them happen. Customers take for granted the fresh milk made available to them daily at the local grocery store, but it’s a rare occasion that someone stops to consider the employee wearing thick gloves and an even thicker sweatshirt smack-dab in the middle of July shelving the milk. Situations don’t just happen; they happen because people make them happen.

Seeking God's will for your life doesn't mean a thing in the world if you don't follow it. Stick to His plan! Similar to protagonist Beverly Donofrio in Riding in Cars with Boys, I "did everything wrong, but got everything right." I don't deserve God's mercy, yet it extends itself further and further every day to cover my multiple, irresponsible shortcomings.

That morning felt like a rollercoaster ride in slow motion. It was too early for my eyes to be open, but that wasn't substantial. Nothing could have ceased the heated argument growing louder every second in the next room. The scene wouldn't have been complete if he hadn't slammed the front door on his way out, naturally, which I took as my cue to relocate myself from the couch to curled up next to you in your Eeyore-infested bed where he should have been. I couldn't understand how the blue-eyed baby slept through the storm. He came back later. My moderate nature causes me to run away from hostility inwardly, so I tried my unskilled hand at mediating. I sat down boldly next to him on the couch, watched him roll another one and inquired about his plans. What kind of activities do you have arranged for today? "Nothing. Fight with my wife all day." The term "wife" still sounded new. Too fast. Too young. I paused and considered my subsequent statement. "But," I began, "the good times are worth the bad ones, right?" His faraway stare and zipped lips told me everything I needed to know. I sat back, bewildered and speechless.

I swear that every word I say, I mean until my dying day. It’s a shame. When I wake, I can’t recall a thing.

This is it. This is your life. Letting men older than your grandfather watch you dance provocatively to pay for the apartment you can’t seem to keep holes out of and basking in the (de)light of your most recent mistake. Life. You gave it away. (You threw your life away.) You’re wasting your life. You’re wasting your life. I love you more than the air that I breathe, but you’re wasting your life.

Fast forward seven days. I sat uncomfortably in a house which previously felt like home, surrounded by colorful, adjective-inscribed balloons and making small talk with a stranger who previously felt like family. You crawled into bed, noticed the tension and tried to undertake damage control, but it was too late. You were too late. "I can't complete with this. I can't compete with her." The damage was done. It's revolting, how much one person can change within the brief time period of three obscure weeks. I was finally eighteen, an adult by most standards. (http://jequalscrack.blogspot.com/2009/01/it-rains-when-youre-here-and-it-rains.html)

Am I at fault for walking away, or should the fingers remain pointed at you for not coming after me? Are we equally wrong? Do you care? Does it matter? I hurt people before they have the chance to leave an imprint on my heart. It’s an ugly inclination. I cause others to fall for me and then I walk away unintentionally because I loved someone once and he walked away. And everyone I’ve ever cared about followed him—literally. I abandon love because love abandoned me. Am I chasing the ghost of a good thing, or is this the real deal? I can't tell the difference anymore. Am I too late? Rather than being stuck between a rock and a hard place, I find myself cushioned amid friends who view me as nothing more significant than a back-up plan and others who would rather wake up next to an empty bottle than me.

Maybe someday I’ll accept my fair share of the blame, but if I’m honest with myself, it probably won’t happen tonight.

I’ve got some problems, but we've got ten dollars. (That’s enough to get us wasted before the night is over.) These past five days I’ve been completely sober, but tonight I’m getting ripped wide open.

P.S. If love really is the bottom line, we’ve all been cheated and fooled.

This essay assignment introduced me to the significance of details.

Elongated days and warm weather would soon come to an abrupt end. Chelsea and I decided to take advantage of this seemingly perfect day and ride my brand new, bright orange all terrain vehicle around the many acres of land of which my backyard was composed. In all the days of my life, I found nothing more exhilarating than feeling the fresh breeze blow quickly across my face while laughing hysterically with my best friend. As we approached my favorite land ramp, I sped up faster than a fireman rushing to a burning building. But I must have been driving too fast because I lost control of the machine, and the 4-wheeler betrayed my trust and flipped us ruthlessly into the lake. The extreme weight of the 4-wheeler caused me to sink immediately. Chelsea tried to help me escape, but I was stuck between the 4-wheeler and the coffee-colored mud on the bottom of the lake. I started to panic. It became very obvious to me that I might not be able to escape the deadly combination of the 4-wheeler that kept pushing me further down into the earth and the dirty water which would soon fill my lungs. I was dizzy. I needed air, and the grainy mud swirling around me was starting to burn my eyes. "Please help me!" I silently prayed. That was the last thing I remember, thus beginning my long lucid dream that medical experts refer to as a coma. I woke up four weeks later. Doctors in long white coats patiently explained to me that I had been underwater between ten to fifteen minutes, but I didn't understand. I recognized my mother in the room with me, and there were a lot of teenagers with her. I didn't know any of them, but they seemed to know who I was. Two days later, my body began battling against me. I suffered an intensive stroke that left me completely brain dead. My parents made the executive decision that day to kill the machines pumping life into my body. My name is Emily Downey, and I died thirty-four days after I drowned in the lake behind my house on that seemingly perfect day.

Hard days made me. Hard nights shaped me. I don't know; they somehow saved me.

I didn't have time to finish the assignment. I forgot. Fido ate my homework. My flash drive couldn't open my finished paper. My locker wouldn't open! My brother colored all over the worksheet. I brought my French book home, instead. It was stolen by the homework fairy. My assignment is being held ransom and I refuse to pay for it. The librarian thought it was an overdue library book and took it. The printer broke. And then ran out of ink. And then my kitchen caught fire. And then my Uncle Joe died. And then...

Irresponsibility is an ugly implement. Foolish behavior like that indicates immaturity, ignorance and a basic lack of sense, not to mention it insults the intelligence of those you embellish to. Excuses are my biggest pet peeve personally. I don't care how legitimate they are. Maybe the printer really did break, but try these on for size: I should have had a back-up plan. I should have been more prepared. I shouldn't have procrastinated. Instead of waiting until the last minute to print my paper, it should have been ready days ago. It's my fault; it's my bad. Apologies also tend to work well. I'm sorry. It won't happen again.

I hate excuses, but unnecessary blame is a more scandalous crime. And, sure, credit is limited and blame is endless and the grass always seems to be greener on the other side, but you know what? It's not my fault. Sometimes, that needs to be said. More importantly, it needs to be heard. It's not my fault.

I made my dad a mixed tape for "Valentine's Day" in tenth grade. In reality, I just wanted him to know how deeply he hurt me. He carried himself in such a "can't-tell-me-nothin" manner that I compiled a playlist describing how I felt exactly in twenty-five songs or less. (I ran across those songs by mistake tonight. Oops.) (I should have labeled the tape.) I remember so clearly the guilt I felt after delivering the music. He misconstrued my angry flag as a heartfelt gesture, bless his heart. He thought I made him the tape with love, that it would consist of a balanced combination of both of our favorite bands and songs and beats. Wrong. He took his girlfriend out to a movie that night to celebrate the so-called "holiday" while I watched some romantic, non-relatable television marathon with my mother. Laura--what kind of name is that, anyway?--picked him up at the end of the street, which annoyed and insulted me because we all knew exactly what was going on. I hesitate to say my family didn't care. (Obviously, I cared enough to make him a mixed tape.) We were just immobilized and uncurious. Disgustingly apathetic. A week later, we discovered the two-hundred-dollar coat Laura bought Dad in the backseat of the car on the way to church. Mom ran it over--twice--and left it tattered and torn in the snow-covered street. It's kind of funny, the memories we choose to hold onto.

It wasn't my fault then, and it's not my fault now.

"I followed you, Daddy. You told me that you weren't leavin'! You lied to me, Dad, and now you make Mommy sad. And I bought you this coin; it says 'Number One Dad.' That's all I wanted. I just wanted to give you this coin. I get the point--fine! Me and Mommy are goin'!"
But, baby, wait!
"It's too late, Dad. You made the choice. Now go out there and show 'em that you love 'em more than us."