Today marks the one month anniversary of falling in love. Even this very minute is close to being accurate. For the past month I’ve been absolutely infatuated and every time I think of a moment we spent together, or ones yet to come, a smile eagerly spreads across my face. I’ve had crushes before, but this one is different. It’s so intense I’ve gone as far as to call it love. His bright blue eyes render me into a puddle every time they meet mine. Every second I spend with him is precious, and every second we’re apart is torture because I can’t help but wish I was spending it with him. We laugh, we practice, he smirks, I smile, we share high fives, I accidentally hit him in the face with my hat (Sort of accidental. I was aiming for him, but not his face, dear me.), I wish I had gotten his number, I wish I could be near him now. I’m dying to tell him how I feel, but I’m not even allowed to date. Telling someone that you love then when you can’t even date is like the kiss of death. You might as well have been best friends, dated, and then had a messy brake up because it’s that kind of awkward. I’ve decided to go all John Watson on the world and blog about everything that happens to me (at least things that concern him). It truly does help. It’s like writing a song or drawing a picture, but what you see here is raw. It’s exactly how I feel and it’s never limited to an 8x11 space or a cleverly crafted and bent in a fashion to rhyme every other line. Call me Jennifer Watson.

I saw him a mere two days ago and yesterday I was already wishing it were Monday. To keep myself going I tried countless things. I had my friend take a video of him while we practiced, not telling her my ulterior motive no matter how many times she asked - It was to show it to my best friend whom had never seen what he looked like, get your head out of the gutter - I tried to draw him, but it didn’t work out because hormones are not a good fuel to go off of. Instead I just decided to be one of those girls who draws his name in a heart, only I sprinkled a little Tumblr on that thang and wrote the name of our shipment. Real suave, I know. After I bugged my mom about it and started crumbling with my head perched on her shoulder, she suggested writing about it. So what is the first thing my horrid, horrid mind thinks of…? A fan fiction - you may want to put your head back in the gutter now. If I ever do come to a point where I hit say, a hundred followers, I think it would be my duty as a human being to post it. Now you have something to look forward to. Aw geez, you’ll understand when you read it. So very, very many facepalms. If you happen to be one of those people with a pulse you probably wondered what that gap of time was all about. Well, lemme tell ya. Every Wednesday I have a voice lesson – I sing, get off it – and for some reason I decided to cram in writing that one little line before I got dropped off. Perhaps just to get me through the next half hour. The thing is, it didn’t help at all. Nothing could have prepared me for what my teacher requested of me. Don’t get me wrong, she’s amazing, but seriously? Are you kidding me? God has an awful sense of humor sometimes. To prove a point and teach me a lesson, she wanted to show me how there’s so many aspects that can affect how your voice sounds, including your emotional state. She wanted me to have more energy when I sing, so what does she do? I’ll tell what she doos: “Now, I want you to think about something that makes you happy, no matter what mood you’re in.” Now guess the first thing that came to mind, just guess. So now every time I practice singing she wants me to think about him. Mk, I sing like ALL THE TIME. Good grief there is no escape.

What does this have to do with my infatuation? So very much more than you know. A fan fiction is like a roller coaster. It goes up and down, sends you in loops, but always brings you back around to where you started off thinking it’d be fun to follow whatever path it had set out for you. Now imagine each of those turns, loops, and slopes as your emotions. If you’ve ever written one, you immediately understand, and if you haven’t, you’re about to. At first you think it’s going to be fun, that it’ll be a great way to get something off your chest, and afterwards you can finally move on. Once you write the first few paragraphs, you’re feeling really good. So far everything has been innocent and you haven’t even gotten to the steamy part yet - wait for it, bro, it’s coming - Once you start the steamy part, you’ll be in just as much heaven as your characters are. It seems like everything they feel is exactly what you’re going through, and in a strange way, you can relate to these figments of your imagination. After you’ve planted your last period on that scene, you’re probably going to go read it over and see how well it turned out - yeah, um, no - The only thing you’ll be doing is questioning your very existence as a human being. This scene has things in it that you yourself haven’t even dared to do with your boyfriend or girlfriend. Even if you’re married or engaged, there’s still going to be things you’ve never even thought were possible, but there they are, sitting on a virtual piece of paper, thought up by your twisted mind and typed by your impossible little fingers. You might as well just go find the nearest cliff and jump now. You can never show this to anyone. Your family will disown you, your friends will stop talking to you, YOUR FOLLOWERS WILL UNFOLLOW YOU AND ALL THE PERVES WILL COMMENCE COAGULATION ONTO YOUR SITE. Is that what you really want? Of course not. You wait a few days, let this whole thing pass you by and wait for all your feels to die down. Then you go back and read it once more. What’s this? Grammatical errors? Room for improvement? You must act quickly. Now your fan fiction has been proofread, and you read it over once more. This isn’t horrible. It aint’t half bad. I actually just might be able to show this to another living soul. A little re-write, that’s all it needed. Haha, okay, keep living your fantasy. I’ll be here, maniacally laughing, watching, waiting for your downfall because then I might actually have some company. It’s lonely down here in exile.

Fair warning, this post was written for school. Expect me to sound a bit too formal as I maniacally laugh, sit back, and think of every reaction they’re probably going to have come from this. The essay’s instructions did say I could write about anything; I’m just abiding by the non-existent rules. As I sit here, thinking on the past, I can only smile. Sometimes, it seems as though God really likes me, I mean really likes me. Maybe I did something fantastically selfless recently to get on his good side because he sees my infatuation, and has taken it on as His own. We now have the same agenda. At first, I was very disappointed by the miniscule amount of lines I had, but I hadn’t yet seen the entire picture. We have a sword fight, the biggest sword fight; a sword fight that requires hours and hours of practice together. Countless time I’ve gotten to see the look on his face that would have me drooling if I weren’t careful (which I’m not most of the time), and there are still countless times to come. This swordfight has to look flawless, and practice does make perfect. Thank God for that truth. Sitting here, thinking about him, I can’t help but love it and hate it. Love it because I love being in love. Hate it because I hate being in love with someone I can only see weekly at best. Here’s where the swordfight and God’s total awesomeness come into play. One fateful Thursday, last Thursday to be exact, I was asked to learn the choreography and practice with him for 3 HOURS. Goodness me was I in heaven. Afterwards he complimented me on my work and I on his, then we enjoyed our hard-earned lollipops someone randomly decided to give us. We talked and joked. I made him laugh which was amazing, by the way, and discovered we were so alike. He goofed off all the while we practiced and managed to snap one of the dowels we were using in half mid-fight. Then of course, overexcited and quite childishly he goes off and tell every other living breathing soul within a 100 feet radius the amazing story of how he broke a piece of wood in half. I suppose, boys will be boys, and that’s his only excuse.

Blech, I think I’m coming down with something. Dear Lord, please don’t make me sick on Monday, I cannot survive another weak. Amen. The only proof I have is the fact that my singing voice sounds totally lifeless and the totally blatant time when I my voice teacher told me I sounded like I was coming down with something. Oh noes. For now I’ve been inhaling vitamin C tablets and hoping my immune system can fend it off at least until Tuesday. On the bright side, even though my voice sounds awful, it did sound a lot better when I sang L.O.V.E. and thought about him just as my teacher advised me to do. I was so happy when I sang it because I felt like I was confessing my love to him and for some reason I assumed he would reciprocate. That’s probably the thing that scares me the most - him, not loving me. Although when I think about it for some reason I don’t seem to feel any preemptive sadness towards my utter rejection of his requited love. It’s strange, and it worries me. Where did my feels go? Must be the cold talking… Now I sort of wish it was the cold, messing with my head, so that I can have the peace of knowing somewhere beyond my sick mind lies a part of me that actually cares whether the person I love loves me back. They say you know you’re in love when all the songs suddenly made sense. I used to think they made sense, but what did I know? I had never actually been in love before. The thing is, it’s not that they now make sense, it’s that they have an impact. Every sad song jerks tears and every happy one leaves me smiling silly. Now they actually have an application, like songs about fandoms I find myself writing all too often. *sniffle sniffle, swoon swoon*

Can we talk about me singing L.O.V.E. more? I kind of want to elaborate on that. L is for the way you look at me I never understood this one before. The way you look at me? What’s so great about that? Well, only the fact that their eyes seem depthless and leave you breathless. They’re so blue, so cold, but they belong to such a warm heart. Do you know what hot and cold make? Steam. *bow-chicka-wow-wow* O is for the only one I see If he’s even in the room I can guarantee I won’t be paying any attention to you. My eyes are fixed on him whenever possible. I never want to miss a smile, a move, a single gesture or laugh. They all feel so important, so fleeting. You regret the things you don’t do. Love is all that I can give to you It’s true. I try to give him friendship, I try to give him casualty, but it doesn’t work. When he’s around you can tell I’m smitten. Someday I hope he realizes it too.

I realize this is the…fifth post I’ve written today, but you have to keep in mind that right about now I’m stuck in between two Mondays. Welcome to no man’s land. Everyone obsesses over their first kiss. At one point or another, someone dull is going to ask about your first kiss during a game of truth or dare. Whenever I’m asked I stick to my one and only kiss…back in preschool. Shall we elaborate? It’s snack time, we’re all sitting around a short, small table as a couple of our peers pass out cups. I don’t remember much, only that this other kid, Jake, and I turned our heads to each other like in those spy movies when they do it at the same time. Then we nodded our heads, also simultaneously, and kissed each other. It was only a peck. The only thing two innocent little preschoolers had ever witnessed through their parents and such. But it was my little peck; the only action I’ve gotten in my entire existence. Seriously, that was the last time I kissed a guy. It’s been…11 years. I think I’m allowed to go through the symptoms of withdrawal now. *Begins writhing on the floor in a puddle of own tears* Kissing is one thing no one can fake. There are companies that exist solely to sell items that grant people sexual pleasure. You go ahead and check their sites and get back to me when you find something that serves as an acceptable replacement for a human being, i.e. something that will actually kiss you back. What’s that? No such thing exists? What a shame, a dang, dang shame.

I think we can safely say that I am now going through the fangirling stage of this thing. Whatever stage that might be. Whenever I see a picture of him, watch a video, or sing a song like I’m singing it to him I manage to squeal, uncontrollably smile, and clap with my clenched fists (Idk why I do that). Nothing is the same anymore. Every school day now seems even more unbearable to get through and sometimes I even find myself drifting and writing these posts almost like some sort of addiction. I can’t stop. My love for writing and my love for him have now joined forces and have become unstoppable. Help me. I’m already fantasizing what a great couple we’d make even though I’m still three years away from being allowed to date. Oh dear please help me. Sometimes I manage to get a hold of my friend and dump all of my feels into her poor ears. One time, she suggested something she thought would help. I thought it was quite clever. So here’s my list of things I like in a guy, not things in him, but the perfect guy: • Sense of humor parallel to mine • A fan of Sherlock, Doctor Who, and Castle or at least willing to become one • 5’6” or shorter • Cute/Handsome • Kind • Energetic • Isn’t afraid to smile or goof off around anyone • A good listener • Strong enough to protect me • In shape • Great hair • Blue eyed • Brunette • Smart • Clever • Witty • Passionate • Loving • Respectful • Nice voice • Tech-savvy • Handy There are probably more, but I’m not going to spend the rest of the night thinking of them. Let’s see how he did: • Sense of humor parallel to mine • A fan of Sherlock, Doctor Who, and Castle or at least willing to become one • Cute/Handsome • Kind • Energetic • Isn’t afraid to smile or goof off around anyone • A good listener • Strong enough to protect me • Great hair • Blue eyed • Brunette • Clever • Witty • Respectful • Nice voice • Tech-savvy He’s 16 for 18 on all the ones I can confirm, and they’re just physical preferences. One of which he could fix (by losing weight) and the other, easy enough to look past (him being an inch or two taller). Well, that didn’t help whatsoever.

I think I’ve come to a point where I’ve no longer have anything left to say, but I’ve already taken my next breath so something had to come out. This is basically the result if I were to exhale deeply. To quote Toby Turner: “I’m writing ‘bout the lack of things I’m writing.” There are still feels. They’re always there, but stories to tell and words to type are far too finite in comparison. I could be a normal person, write poems and doodle our names inside hearts all day, or I could pick apart some more songs. Elaborating L.O.V.E. was kind of fun. Today, since I’m writing this in bed with just a pen and a notebook, I can only write what I know off the top of my head. I actually did notice something intriguing about a song I wrote nearly a month ago (a month ago as of the next morning when I’m typing this) only two days after I fell in. Am I too young for love? Am I allowed to feel it yet? I ask myself this nearly every day. Are my feelings even rational? Have I even matured enough to even begin to understand the real meaning of love? I still don’t know, and that worries me. It scares me to think that I could possibly be faffing about, calling this love, but in actuality it’s far from it. Do I really love him? I’ve only known him for a few months. One thing I know for sure is that the answer to the second question is yes. My definition of love may not be accurate, but who’s to say I can’t feel an irrational feeling rationally? I’ll look into his eyes, and he’ll look into mine. Might I bring to your attention the fact that a month ago, I had no idea that either of these would actually happen. We never truly made much eye contact until a week ago when we first learned the sword fight together. Now each time I see him, nearly every second I exchange lines with him, his eyes are latched onto mine and heck, why would I even pass up the opportunity to look straight back into those drop-dead gorgeous thangs. …my heart should ache when I miss him…Now each goodbye leaves me wanting more My heart does ache. Look at it this way, if I were perfectly all right, I wouldn’t even need this outlet. I wouldn’t need to be talking about it. Through my pain and deprivation come beauty, through it came this. Now there’s something for you to chew on a while. Don’t forget to swallow.

Why does music hold so many feels? You give me a circumstance (let’s say The Reichenbach Fall), you give me a back story (the 18 month relationship between Johnlock), and then you add some music it behind it. For me, not a tear was shed nor scream muttered. I felt like such a heartless person. Then, about a month ago I decide to make a playlist of the scores from Sherlock BBC and listen to them while I write. I STINKING DIED. I was screaming at my computer, crying over my keyboard, and clawing at the screen begging Sherlock not to jump. The noble idiot. Why is it that when you take away circumstance, take away any visual, any dialogue, and just leave the music behind, it leaves you empty inside cause your feels blew everything up? Seriously, nobody has any idea why. Scientist have researched this endlessly and never found a single answer. What is it about violins that are so dramatic and sad, why does a drum beat make you want to dance, and how do good lyrics seem to force you to sing along? Is there even a reason? Do we even need a reason? Does anything need a reason? Can feels be felt without an explanation? What even is my point? Honestly, I had no idea where I was going with this when I started and I still don't. Take away from this what you will, but I guess the only real reason would be that there are some things in life we’ve yet to explain. We work towards answering most, but some should rather remain unanswered, like love.

I’m serious about this music stuff. I was just innocently writing and actually getting some stuff done, then “Kiss Me” starts playing by Sixpence None the Richer and SPLRRRRRSSSHHH – feels. Now I must write to expel them and SPLRRRRRSSSHHH all over the interwebs. There’s nothing worse in the world than having feels and having no outlet to expel them, except maybe of course having an outlet and having nothing to say, or having an outlet, having no feels, having nothing to say, and just lying in wait, knowing that as soon as you exchanges your hellos and goodbyes just days from now, this whole shebang will loop. Every week this whole dang shebang will loop. Gaaaahhh, why? I’m starting to question whether my love for him has died. Have I invested time and energy into something that I knew would never be, and am now grieving the death of what never was? Somewhere, deep down, there’s a part of me that’s hoping this whole shebang will eternally loop until I’m old enough to act on it, or, at least find someone else who will ignite the flame even brighter. Though now that I’ve found myself in this situation of infatuation, I almost feel like I’m sinning a deadly sin whenever I even look at another guy, even if he’s middle-aged, married, and lives in England (ahem, totally not Martin Freeman we’re talking about here). Nor anyone for that matter. If I catch myself even mentally complimenting a guy on his attractiveness, I slap my own hand. No touching…but can’t I at least look? My Grandma always used to tell me not to touch anything in the stores unless I was planning on buying it. I was a child, goodness gracious, how was I to learn if not from observation, touch- We’re getting off topic…or are we? Hmmmm?? Let’s just say we were, for all our sakes.

In a metaphorical sense, have you ever met someone that enjoys getting closed boxes just for the sake of opening them? I asked my parents this exact question, and my mom started getting all wise and philosophical on me. She talked about how everything likes opening presents to an extent and that she thinks clear gift bags are the biggest let down. Then I realized, her being her, she chimed in a few words late in the sentence and didn’t hear me say “In a metaphorical sense.” Seriously, she always does that. Good grief. For a further example, take Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He just loved being handed boxes of steel no ordinary man could figure to open. All the fun and joy in his life came from those “closed cases” if you will. Everything he loved was in the journey, and that made him the most human…human being you will ever meet. A shame too. But that’s just it. Don’t you see the reoccurring theme here? The fun’s in the journey, not the destination, in the problem and not in the answer. Joy comes not from the closed box nor the open one, but everything in between. And to think, all this was thunked up because I was answering a random survey I found on Tumblr. I can’t even remember the question, but I can remember the journey, and in it I realized something. Everything I’m attracted to is a journey. It’s a closed box and I just looooove Christmas. For me, the thrill is in the chase. Want proof? No? Toooo bad. • The show Castle – it heavily focuses on a repressive NYPD detective, scared of digging into her own past. • My major turn on –When a guy suppresses his own feelings. Whether it be pain, discomfort, or even actors. • My best friend – I find sometimes she tends to bottle stuff up. Even my sister does that excessively, but I love them both to death. You see the moral yet? I’m attracted to suppression. Why? Perhaps because I lack the ability to achieve it, or, perhaps, I have absolutely no idea. Well this was all very silly, going from there to here and eventually back around to there all over again, but hey, that’s the fun part.

It’s nearly unbelievable how slowly this past week has gone. I’ve done so much and anticipated so hard that if it weren’t for my sanity (and calendars), I’d think weeks had gone by. Last Monday seemed like yesterday, but tomorrow feels like an eternity. To me, it seems as though this entire world hates Monday, no thanks to Garfield of course, but I for one love it. Sure there’s school and work and alarms and rushing again, but it’s a fresh start. Every Monday is an opportunity. Within it lies a chance to set the stage and take the next five days by the reigns. Also, we can’t forget that Castle is on Mondays, I get to see my love, and then there’s that fresh start thing taking a strong third.

It’s Monday, I just got home again from seeing him, and was stupid enough to do something extraordinarily gutsy. Lemme tell ya a story. Today, I carpooled with one of my friends to get to my theatre group. On the way I was informed that my love’s mother’s car had a faulty tire, so the driver was kind enough to go out of their way to pick him up and enable us to start practice ASAP. Of course, I offered to let him sit next me, but oh, what a shame, the empty space next to mere was nothing more than an empty space. It had no seatbelt. So what? I say we double-buckle. How simply devious of me. In the end he sat behind me and we exchanged some conversation amidst the rest. He made a joke and it took me quite a few minutes to get it, dear me, and we were there and ready to practice. Well, I was at least. He’s a real technical guy; so in consequence, he’s the main tech guy there. Naturally he has techy things to do before we start practicing and makes promises and deadlines for himself he never met. And, also naturally, I bug the crap out of him until he’s finished and we can start practice. Not long before he’s finished, he comes over and asks me my opinion on stage lighting…wut? How am I supposed to respond? Was that him, actually trying to show me in an adorable way that he cares what I think because he likes me too, or him, asking me, because I’m likely the second most tech-savvy person in the room. To quote the Doctor: “I’d call you a genius, but I’m in the room.” …Thanks? After our casual opinion exchanging and him and me discussing more techy things, I turn to my friend and immediately ask her how well she can keep a secret. Though her answer’s sort of, I march on and practically blurt it out: I’m really, really like him. Finally, he’s done and we start practice. I internally swoon and drool over his performance all the while and stay near to him when I have the chance. My friend, being awfully subconsciously clever, sits next to him then scooches over as I approach to make room for my arrival. There’s just enough room for me to squeeze into the space on the floor. Now we’re close and I’m dying. We’ve wrapped up the first act, my character’s dead, and now we continue on to the second. I have no lines, and, as if an answered prayer, no assigned seat during the read through. My friend, once again, sits next to him and I now have the liberty to sit behind the space that separates them two. Jokingly I mention my inevitable hovering over their scripts, since I comprehend best through written word, and he hits the ball right back into my court with something witty. I just love it when he does that. He’s too focused on his script to even notice my literal hovering, I might as well have just perched my head on his shoulder. Instead, I merely patted it when he kept fumbling with his lines. That’s a wrap! Our time is up and we commence the clean-up sequence. He’s dashing about, turning all the techy stuff off while I seem to have a magnetic attachment to him somehow. I follow him, everywhere, as I work up the audacity to ask him for his phone number. In there somewhere is also a fear that he doesn’t even have one. At least, I’ve never seen him use it before. Let’s just switch over to a semi-accurate script of how it went down, commentary and all. //He’s walking down the hall, it’s a good a chance as any, and I finally take it// Me: “Hey, you got a minute?” //He stops, turns around and walks back to where I stand: Him: “Yeah, what’s up?” Me: “While I still have the audacity to do this-“ //He interrupts me right there// Him: “You know Audacity’s an audio program-” Me: “Yes, I-“ Him: “It’s free to download and it’s great-“ Me: “Yes, I know I have it.” //Insert internal facepalm here// Me: “Anyways, I was wondering if you had a phone…a cell phone.” Him: “Um I had one, but I just borrowed it and already gave it back. Why, you need to borrow one?” Me: “No, I just wanted your number.” Him: “…Oh.” Let’s take a quick breather to point out the fact that this kid is now a bumbling idiot. Oh how sweetly he could relate to dear Cyrano de Bergerac. One minute he’s energetic, on the move, quick to speak but always listened, witty, and seemed to always know how to bounce back from anything you threw at him, but now he was just a big pile of forgotten words and pressure you could stack up to the heavens. It’s also another unbelievably adorable side of him. *Resume* Me: “…What about a home phone?” Him: “Um, no, we don’t really use that. Ever since we changed our plan it’s always really expensive per minute, but my mom and dad both have cell phones. Perhaps, I could give you those instead.” Me: “No, I was actually looking for something more…personal.” Him: “…Oh.” Yeah, “oh” is right brother. Look me in my eyes and read my soul like you always seem to do. I do not want anyone’s number but yours. Frustration overcomes me. I waited a week to just hear your voice and look into your eyes once more. I’m not about to walk away empty handed Me: “…It’s just that- I’m not allowed to date, but I really, really like you.” Him (now extraordinarily lost for words): “Well I’m not either. I mean- I’m not allowed to date. My parents don’t let me…date.” Me: “Then I guess we’ll just have to be friends.” (For now, mwuahaha) Him: “Yeah…” Me: “Well, I suppose we could just use e-mail then.” Him: “Yeah…!” Me: “Talk to you later?” Him: “Yeah…” //I walk away, grinning ear to ear, but still feeling weighed down somehow// Goodness gracious, is it even possible to end those things casually? You drop the “I like you” bomb and think everything’s supposed to be resolved from there, but everything just blows right back up in your face. My feels: Him | a five foot thick brick wall | Me I find my friend, conversing with another gal quietly behind me, and I open my arms to ask for a hug under any condition. She’s beautifully awkward always and sort of stands there, awkwardly patting my back as she does, and accepts my embrace rather than returning it. Needless to say, that wasn’t enough. I needed a real hug, but before I left to claim it, she tells me that things like this tend to work themselves out. That stuck with me. Though awkward, she’s a writer and always knows just what to say, regardless of her foggy-feverish mind. I quickly part with her and find my mother not a moment too soon. Once I walk through the door I simply stand on its threshold and wait for her phone call to end before demanding her approach. With out-stretched arms she embraces me with all the might I provide for her and hold my arms there as I explain my situation. Thankfully, she encourages me and congratulates my ever assertiveness. She comforts me by mentioning that all guys are pretty much bumbling idiots when it came down to situations such as these. I mean sure, even if I were in his place I’d probably be left just as speechless. Ready to go, I head back to his general location and slowly gather my things. The entire way there and the entire packing process I’ve got a big ol’ smile plastered on my face. It only took me five weeks to tell him, but thank God it’s over. I told him. I really, really told him. Now it’s his turn.

"You only regret the things you don't do." It's soooo true. I told my friend exactly what happened yesterday and she totally flipped, her and her sister both, but through all the oh my goshes, laughing, and sitting in awe, she wouldn't stop asking me the same thing over and over, "How can you be so brave?!" I don't know. I was brought up being told I was beautiful and not to listen to anyone else' opinion because it's not going to determine my success. To quote good ol' Doctor Suess: "Those that mind don't matter, and those that matter don't mind." After a while I finally came up with a good enough answer, or at least a better one than "I don't know." I told her I heard a saying, not remembering from where, but ever since I've lived my life by it. Now it's practically my motto, "You only regret the things you don't do." At first, I would swear to you up and down the wall that I was overcome with regret. I had this kid cornered and then I just dumped an anvil of pressure into his poor little ears. But what I didn't realize, is that wasn't regret, it was worry. I began to worry about the consequences. What if he alienates me? If he now spends less time with me because he doesn't feel the same way at all? What if, up until this point, he's been tolerating me rather than actually enjoying my company? But all of that is long behind me. The only thing I can feel now is happiness, bliss even. I waited through an excruciatingly long week just to ask for his number, and I walked away saying exactly what was on my mind, and being rather blunt at that. Now the ball's in his court so now my job is to just grovel in my own bravery, and wait.

Well, there it goes. 12:12 has come and gone and that’s an end of an era. No more triple dates for the rest of any of our lives (unless you live to be spectacularly old). Might as well just trod off back into our menial lives and let time continue to determine what moments should be special during our time on this rock. You have fun, I’ll be here, not letting time be the boss of me (quoting Doctor Who) and loving it. Ever since we settled on emailing each other, I’ve felt like I’m in a chick flick because now I’m worried how soon I should be talking to him, what I should say, how each word could be life or death, and worried that being myself won’t be enough. You think those things are cheesy and stupid, but trust me bro, all that crap is for realsies. It’s rather annoying too. Usually I’m really confident about anything and don’t care much what other people think, even if I do love them (like my friends or family), but now I’m nearing wreckage. I’ve managed to keep myself together so far, or at least probably better than most. It definitely doesn’t bother me as much as I’m making it out to be, it’s just more of a hassle than anything. I will email him today, this I kinda swear.

Mk, I’m about to go somewhere where I might see him (I’m not counting on it), but I will definitely see his mom. I’m kind of really worried that he may have told her. She seems like the really strict type from what I can tell. The first thing I suspect she’ll do if she ever finds out is practically put a restraining order against me. For goodness sake I don’t doubt she’ll do something to that extent. Probably something more like not allowing us to email or Skype…ever. Which in that case I’d probably just huddle up in a corner and curse her SOUL. *meeeh* But his dad seems like a really cool guy so I’m hoping they’re like my parents – the mom negates everything and the dad convinces her otherwise most of the time. That way she can’t succeed in totally ruining my teenage life, for realsies. Plus I did send that email yesterday. I left it open for him to take his time but in actuality I wish he’d just reply, noooow. I feel so desperate, but maybe it’s because I am. There’s so much worry inside of me poking at the possibility that he doesn’t like me at all. Sometimes I can be a real pain, but the fun kind, you know? Okay maybe you don’t. It’s just that I have a sense of humor that some people may take offense to. The kind of humor that’s extremely sarcastic and anyone without the same sense would probably wish upon the fiery pits of hell that I’d die a painful death…or at least something to that extent.

*SQUEALS, JUMPS UP AND DOWN, CLAPS WITH FISTS CLENCHED, OTHER FANGIRLING THINGS* Mk, obviously, I’m flipping out, but only because I gots a gooda reason. Great, now I’m even talking weird. But yes, anyways, I saw him today and- and OH MY GOSH UN-HAPPINESS IS FUTILE. At first I was a bit worried he was avoiding me, or at least it seemed as much, but once the director had us practice a scene together, alone *huh-huh-huh* he totally was cool about it. I honestly couldn’t have asked for a better reaction. For the rest of the day we hung out together, talked a lot, and he finally told me he wasn’t Russian (there was a mix-up about who was the Russian kid in the group but I still insisted he must be). He’s DUTCH. That’ll definitely do. Yeah, I can definitely see the Dutch in him. YAYS Oh brother, I am waaaay too hyped up. Never shall I ever have caffeine for the rest of the next millisecond. *scarfs down ALL THE SODA* Before we progress I must apologize for the totally incoherent-ness of this post. Goodness gracious, it’s a mess. Initially, I was nearly compelled to apologize for how blatant I was and how awfully I put him on the spot, but no, like I told him in the email I sent him - “I’m not going to apologize for what I said. I meant it.” So instead I- Okay, pardon my French, but this is TOTALLY FRICKING RIDICULOUS. I am not tired one bit, I’ve not slept a wink, and I still have that packing thing to do before I leave for Pennsylvania tomorrow morning. No wait, my mistake, this morning. We’re leaving in eight hours, and I’ve not fallen asleep yet. Good grief I swear I could murder someone right about now if it’ll put me to sleep. I’m really going to be dragging my butt today. I hate the world. I hate all the things. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, shall we continue? So instead I thanked him, for taking it so well, and he thanked me right back for even saying it in the +first place. A good sign? Hmmm?? Though I am now starting to freak myself out over the fact that he may not actually like me all that much. He seems to enjoy my company, but definitely not as much as I enjoy his. Maybe he just doesn’t see me that way, or maybe he wants to get to know me a bit better before actually opening up. Well, the only really proof I have is how many questions I ask him versus him asking me. The culprit is like infinity to none. I ask him something about himself, he answers, and then I start rambling about my answer to the question as if he actually cared. Seriously, caffeine is something I do not need. When I had soda today I was a totally blabber-mouth, even more than usual, if that’s possible…At least if I were him, I’d probably tell myself to shut up. Yeah, I was that annoying. But there’s my problem. Being a writer I always find myself putting myself in other people’s shoes to see how they may react and how I should respond to their potential reaction. Spoiler alert: I’m doing it wrong. The problem with me doing that is that I’m putting myself in their shoes, meaning it’s how I would react if I were them, not how they actually do. It tends to throw me off a lot and really limit my options sometimes. Stupid habit is stupid.

For shizzles, every waking moment I find myself wondering what to do, I choose to think about him. Just this morning, during the no-sleep-whatsoever-time, not a single other thing crossed my mind – only the thought of how much I was thinking about him. Oh, and I’m in Pennsylvania now, fun fact, because obviously everyone cares which state I write these things in. It’s such a strange feeling though. The feeling you get once you begin to realize that if one of your friends went to your house, you wouldn’t be there. In fact, you’d be hundreds of mile away from where you told them all to find you. It sort of makes you a liar. Still in Pennsylvania and am about to see the play I came down here for. It’s a mighty long one and I’m a bit worried it won’t live up to my expectations – not that I’m really sure what to expect. (btdubs, it was awesooome) Moving on, I just found out Thursday that his birthday was yesterday and sort of felt obligated to get him something. Needless to say, I found something while we went out tourist shopping, but not for his birthday. I’ll just save it for Christmas since it’s right around the corner anyways. It’s nothing big really, but just big enough to show him I care. Plus I get to see that flustered little face of his again when he admits he didn’t get me anything. That’ll be a present enough. Oh yes, I am an awful, awful human being.

There are times I want nothing more than to gently fall asleep with the sound of his voice. Although too tired to speak, I’d be awake enough to listen. It’s just so soothing hearing him breathe and mutter. I spend all day wondering how and what he’s doing. Lying there, knowing, those are perfect moments. I wish right now was one of those moments. Oftentimes he starts reading off incoherent strings of numbers, but I never mind. I love the comfort that comes with knowing he’s all right. If assurance is found in strings of numbers, then it should fit right in with the rest of this incoherent life I lead. But then again, I do lead this life, don’t I? Time ultimately leads me to my death, but for the time being I lead my life wherever I choose. I could lead it to success, failure, happiness, stress, bliss, tension…it all depends on how I perceive it.

I think an apology is in order. I am sorry (my love) for beating you five times in a row at arm wrestling. I’m sorry for doing it in front so many of your friends. I’m sorry for giving you (and myself) the impression that I’d inevitably lose, then beat you those public five times. But truth be told, it’s totally your fault. *End of apology* In the midst of those five attempts people began to scatter and eventually leave to the point where I was the only one left besides him and his mother, whom always chaperones. We talked a bit about his phone that’s everything but a phone, and then, after the fourth attempt…there was a pause. A pause that was filled, as were his ears, when I thanked him. It was one of those short and sweet moments that indubitably ended awkwardly, but I had a plan. For the fifth go I gave him one more chance, and for the fifth sweet, dear time, that boy lost to a writer chick. A writer chick with no muscles and, ahem, whom is a chick. Then, today, something so very sweet and filled with uncontrollable glee happened its way across my computer screen – his first reply to my emails. Of course, he had excuses to why he took so long, all very logical, and then he commended me on that “one-sided conversation” we had just last Monday, as he called it. Within my emails I asked if he minded me calling him by a rather girly nickname which was just a shorter version of his, and to my surprise, he allowed it. But the best part was, that his littler sibling also went by that nickname, which he happened to mention. Then he said he’d “share my sister’s nickname for you.” Fangirling was in order, and fangirling is what went down for about the next 20-30 seconds. Just me, sitting in my moon chair, alone, in my room, squealing, jumping up and down in my seat, and, as always, clapping with my fists clenched, for 20-30 seconds. It was truly a beautiful moment. That and he called me a “really cool person.” Minor fangirl attack also occurred right then. I love this kid, this kid’s the best.

Oftentimes I find myself wondering why I ever fell for this kid. He can be so mean, boastful, egotistical, destructive, obsessive, and purposefully at that. I just find it strange that the people that care about him the most are the ones he treats the worst. Although, I can’t say I’m all that innocent. I don’t bring any physical pain to him…often- but I make a few exceptions because there’s a difference between people I love, and people I straight up don’t like. I sarcastically insult one group, and make it sound like I’m sarcastic with the other. I may not tell the people I don’t like that I don’t like them, but I’m not afraid to speak my mind because their opinions don’t matter to me. On the other hand, with the people that know I love them no matter what, I say things we both know aren’t true. I tell both my mom and my Beau that I hate them, which is obviously false, and sometimes I tell them how awful they are, except with my Beau I usually mean it. The more I think about it, the harder it is to forget. That E-mail is due any minute, any hour, of any day. It’s positively nerve wracking.

Beau, I know you were a bit disappointed that everything didn’t go according to plan, but just remember that God’s plan is bigger and nothing happens for the heck of it. We all make mistakes. Even your ratio of stage time to mishaps is far smaller than any other’s. I forgot my cape, broke my hilt, and waltzed onto a scene about 10 seconds late during what little time I was given. My ability to make mistakes so rapidly is truly amazing. But hey, nowadays I hear people call it learning. I still can’t stop laughing at that one little mistake you made off-stage though. I’m about to foil your genius cover-up, but you totally admitted to having watched The Golden Girls out of your own free will. Might I just say, cleverly disguising the fact that you lent me the first season on DVD as having borrowed it…wasn’t your finest hour. Of course, you didn’t actually realized how horrible of a cover up you made until I chased you down 100% delighted at the realization myself. You do realize that borrowing The Golden Girls is just as bad as actually owning it? And there you went, stiff as a plank, blank as a slate – realizing your fluke. After telling me to “SHUT UP!!” rather childishly, you proceeded to stomping off with whatever dignity dared follow.

I don’t know how much I can write about this E-mail when my frustration comes from not having the faintest idea of its contents. I am so confused. I tried to show him the arch in the garden last night, but when the time came, he said that the E-mail would make me not want to show him anymore. …What the heck?! What could he possibly say? I can’t think of a single thing that would make me change my mind about something so miniscule as that. Either it’s worthy of awe or simply horrifying. Not knowing him, I have no idea which one to expect. I have a notion though. Today is the last time I’ll be seeing him face-to-face for a couple weeks. I wonder if he’s purposefully held it off this long so he wouldn’t have to face me until it passed over. If so he is a coward and I’m not ready to forgive him for that. I don’t care what the stupid E-mail says. He owes me a lot more than that. Or perhaps he’s just lazy and hasn’t even finished it in its entirety yet. It’s fairly possible, but, I mean, he’s had six days. He said himself it would take a few days to write, not six. Although, he did let the word “letter” slip on more than one occasion. Either he’s being lazy about his choice of vocabulary like he often is, or the delay is due to a battle with his adorable, messy handwriting.

Thank God I can finally say that the E-mail is real. He is in fact writing it, and he is planning to send it by the end of the week. Though I’ve waited twice as long as he initially said and I have quite a ways ahead of me, I’m somehow a little more at peace. Of course now that my worries of it being a hoax are gone, the worries of what this real danger could say have made themselves quite comfy…so not too much more at peace. Though, when I asked for at least of hint on whether it’ll be devastating or uplifting, all he did was say it depended on my opinion of what good or bad was and told me the title. At least he told me the title. It’s something I expected all along, but at least it didn’t turn out to be any worse. Let’s face it - it could have been a lot worse. He calls it, “Congested Notes.” It’s certainly not the most elegant title, but then, he’s not the most elegant guy.

Yet another person’s suspicions were confirmed this past Monday. If you pay the least bit of attention to how I treat my Beau, it’s fairly obvious that he is indeed my Beau. Especially the quiet ones. The quiet ones are always the sneaky ones. My gorge friend Candle mistakenly asked me of all people on what she should draw next. It only took about a three second pause and that twinkle in my eye for her to give me a “…r u serious?” glare. Well yes I’m serious. You draw beautiful things. It only makes sense to have a beautiful muse. I can see the eyes rolling now. But then, it bugs me when they don’t. Eyes rolling = old news. It bugs me when people find out about us this late in the game. I feel cheated out my own sensation. They all water it down to a crush, yet no matter how hard I try to convince them how deeply I feel for him, they all giggle and say how adorable it is. It’s not a crush. What I feel for him is not “adorable.” I don’t care if you call me adorable for saying so. Just stop calling it a crush.

Okay, um, I am really confused. Late last night my Beau told me he didn’t like my attention. Correction – he called me then told me he didn’t like my attention. For the past week or two he’s been begging me to play video games with him. I’ve just been so busy with school and work that I’ve had to decline. My first reaction was of course one, big, internal “WHAT?!” but since then it’s broken down into a few sub-what’s. The first being – WHAT?! That’s something you never tell someone if you have half a brain. It was downright rude. Secondly – what? Flirting with someone you know likes you is one of the most fun things ever. Seriously…who doesn’t like flirting? And lastly…wut? Dude…what attention? Lately I haven’t given you a shred you didn’t ask for. I only ever talk to you anymore unless I have to talk a matter of business or you start a conversation. I’ve even stopped hugging you as a goodbye because I thought it made you uncomfortable. I don’t see how there’s any room for unwanted attention in this arrangement. Admittedly, CallMeJW may be a certain kind of indirect attention, but it’s only attention if you pay attention. Before you snooped and sought it out, as far as you knew, it never existed. The only way my attention could be unwanted is if you gave attention you didn’t want to give. If that’s the case, then cut it out. Quit burdening yourself with pain I already bore. I can’t even stand to know you accidentally hit your hand on something when there’s nothing I can do. With this there is something I can do, but you have to let me help. Do not give me more attention than I deserve, do not kiss me on July 8th if you don’t want to, and do not call me if you don’t want to talk. The last thing I want to do is make you unhappy or stress you out. Don’t worry about anything between us. If you are worried about it, then simply tell me. The solution always lies within the problem itself. I am the problem; therefore, I am the solution. Say something you idiot. -- Okay, so turns out it was a mistake. As I had hoped, you didn’t realize you had said that, nor did you mean it. Thank heavens. Other than that, there are some things I’d like to talk about, but ever since CallMeJW has gained popularity among my friends, I’d rather not say anything until I have a story to tell. Believe me, I’ll have a story.

I cannot concentrate. I am going insane from all this waiting. For a girl that struggles with patience, having ten things I need to wait for dumped on me all at once is horrible. It’s awful. I want to punch someone in the face. I am beginning to loathe this whole ordeal. I want to go back to how things were on November 4th. On November 4th I didn’t give a crap about this kid. I didn’t know his family, had never seen the inside of his house, never heard a random thought, and he didn’t have to ability to drive me insane without even trying, nor know just how to do it if he tried. Life was sooo easy on November 4th. I didn’t have to worry about work, school, and I didn’t have this god forsaken kid to deal with. But then November 5th had to come around, didn’t it? That stupid, stupid day. I wish I could go back in time and slap my 15-year-old self across the face. YES. He’s a great actor. Get over it. YES. He has drop-dead gorgeous eyes. Get over it. YES. He’s the perfect guy for you. Get over it. Because NO. He won’t make your life easier. He’ll only make you happier on occasion. The rest of the time he’ll make you miserable. You’ll make his life harder too. You’ll stress him out and make him answer questions no 14-year-old should have to answer. So stop it. Just stop. Walk away. This is your last chance. WALK AWAY. It’s either that. Or stay. Stay and grow. He’ll change you. You’ll change him. You’ll make each other better. You’ll make life-long friendships. You’ll find inspiration. You’ll finally begin to understand so many things adults should. So stay. Wait five weeks…then go to him. Just go. Take a chance. You may regret it. But that doesn’t make it a bad decision.

I am flipping out. Every time I see I have E-mails in my inbox, I actually wish that none of them are from him. I’m terrified. Don’t get me wrong, I’m looking forward to hearing what he has to say, but it still sends shivers down my spine just thinking about it. I’m off to work now to worry my last eight hours of oblivion away. See you on the other side.

I’m scared, worried, anxious…and happy. I don’t recognize this feeling.

… I think I’m falling out of love. I’ve wanted to tell him this, but I fear it would interfere. I’ve tried to tell him this, but I just couldn’t. I know he doesn’t love me, but knowing that someone stopped loving you without rhyme or reason- hurts. I’m not going to post this until after he sends the Email. I don’t want to interfere. I just want this on record. Deep down, I’m praying that something in his Email will revive this dead feeling in my heart. Anything I felt a week ago was simply a feeling I felt a week ago. That’s why I want him to send it so badly, and that’s why it bugs me whenever he puts it off. I need this Email. I need something to remind me why I fell in love in the first place. I am truly scared- terrified of the potential of what I’m feeling in this moment. I want to love him, but I…can’t…I don’t…not right now. He said some things he says in the Email will make me happy, and others will disappoint. Wow, disappointment. I didn’t see that coming. I feel so guilty for being miserable. All he ever does is sacrifice his happiness for mine. He said that even though he wasn’t okay with the kiss, he’d go through with it just because he wants me to be happy. Imagine a boy willing to sacrifice his first kiss for some heartsick girl that’s been following him around for six months. I just…it’s not fair how good of a person he is. I question whether I even deserve him. I know CallMeJW does help settle dispute between us, but he’s never happy when he can tell I’m crying over my keyboard while writing a post. And when I’m not happy, he’ll try to give me all his happiness. If he ever does give me all his happiness, then he won’t be happy and I won’t be happy because he won’t be happy. It’s a vicious cycle with only one combatant. There’s only one way we’ll both be happy in the end, but we all know that’ll never happen. But the thing that scares me the most – even more than falling out of love – is wondering if I was ever really in it. I started gradually feeling worse and worse once I found out the kiss wasn’t going to happen. That scares me. For a while, I think I may have fueled my drive on...lust. I feel sick, twisted…defeated. I let something so stupid control something so precious. I am so sorry, Beau. I am so sorry. If you do want to kiss me, date me, or even love me, I’d be happy to hold up my end of the deal. But I’m not counting on it.

So let me get this straight. I need to get this out of my head and in front of my face. I’m a cheater. I’m cheating on my Beau. I have a crush on someone else… can I do that? I don’t see it going anywhere. It’s just flirtation for now – which is super-duper fun. I met him at my job. He just started there a week or two ago. He’s super buff, about 5’4” to 5’5”, blonde, cute, teases me, makes me laugh, and always helps me when I look lost or hopeless amidst all the cartons, cups, and pre-packaged food. He’s just…ugh. I don’t know. Something about that smile is contagious. Sometimes he just stands there and watches me work when he really ought to be working too. I love it. The more I talk about it, the happier I get. But due to our probable religion and political boundaries, I don’t see it going anywhere. If he happens to be in sync, then…well…I don’t know. I can’t like two boys at once. Can I? Well, my Beau is still a boy, but this guy’s a man. He’s nineteen and working towards his degree. I’ll have to ask him what he’s going to college for next time I’m see him. I’m quite curious. Plus he has such a nice name…Jareth. I love it. My Beau’s name is prettier, I have to admit, but I suppose you’ll never know since he’s too nitpicky to let me say. Like anyone’s going to track him down using his first name and a picture Candle drew as a reference. I don’t know about that kid. Then again, I don’t about this new man of mine.

Okay, you know what? Screw you. Screw. You. I am tired of this. Four days have passed where I’ve felt like this. You just want me to happy? Well I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’m not happy. For the past 15 days I have been everything but. I have been worried, terrified, confused, ticked, and devastated - but not happy. In fact, I haven’t been happy since you told me you just want me to be happy. Really? That’s all this is? I know I should be grateful, but I feel played. I feel like everything you’ve done is just to make yourself happy. Like the only way you can be happy is if you at least try to cure my heartsickness. Hey genius, the only way you can make me happy is to love me back. That’s it. Sympathy hugs don’t help. They just make me feel guilty. I don’t even want to see you, talk to you, or think about you anymore. Everything hurts. Even though you’ve never denied that you like me too, I feel rejected. Even though I know that “not right now” and “no” aren’t the same, every “I don’t know,” “it depends,” and “not right now” is another dagger to my heart. You’re fifteen years old, yet you don’t even possess the vocabulary of a toddler – yes and no. Just choose one- SAY one. Please. I have torn my hand away from the keyboard every time I’m unhappy. I’ve typed four or five messages to you but deleted them all because I chose to wear that fake smile of mine instead. Knowing that me being happy makes you happy, I don’t have the heart to be heartbroken anymore. The only way you won’t be able to notice my pain is if I totally avoid you as I have been. I can’t fake it anymore. So yes, I’m sad that you keep breaking your promises. I’m confused when you tell me you want me to be happy then put off an email for 15 days as I sit here torturing myself over it. I’m not worried about it anymore. I have myself totally convinced that it’ll be 100% bad news regardless of what you said. I just can’t imagine anything I want to hear come out of that mouth or typed by those stubby fingers of yours. You know what I want to hear? I’d like to hear you say, “Katie, I love you.” “Katie, I think you’re beautiful and amazing and amazingly beautiful.” “Katie, you’re a part of my life I never want to lose.” “I’ve just been too afraid to say.” “You know I can’t date you right now…but I’d like to.” That’s not going to happen. Those are just fairytales. Just look at Pinocchio. He was an idea - an enigma of a boy – but all he ever wanted to do was be real. Fairytales ache to be real. My heart thrives on fairytales. But it’s fake food. I can’t shovel imaginary meatloaf into my mouth day in and out and not expect to starve to death. My heart is dying. I need something to survive. You don’t even have to say a word. If you love me, take my hand. If you don’t want to let go, then stay by my side. I know you can’t predict the future. Whatever the crap you feel now most likely won’t be what you feel in three years. We’ll be different people with different friends and personalities. I’ll be over you before you can make up your mind. To tell you the truth, I think I’ve already begun. This would be the grieving stage of losing you. Correction – this is the grieving stage in which I’ve assumed I lost you. Then again, a straight up “no” would make my life so much easier. I could finally rid myself of the part that rocks back and forth in a corner whispering, “it could happen, it could happen” over and over in my head. I know you’re busy tomorrow for a good part of the day, but Saturday, please, for the love of God- Send that stupid email.