all in a day's time

There's a real possibility come summer, I'll read the Bible for the first time and get my blood drawn for the first time.

My head is slightly aching from the moment where all I could see was black.  It's nice to know that I can close my eyes to see more black.  It doesn't cost a penny and I can do it whenever I want.  If that's not awesome, I don't know what is.  Because the darkness behind my eyes is so much more welcoming than what I see with open ones.

Lone Peak's library has one copy of The Catcher in the Rye that has been checked out 38 times since May 15th, 1998.  I was one and it's been sixteen ones since then.  Well, I guess I wasn't quite one yet, but I'm going to go with it.  Which means that sixteen ones ago, someone walked the same carpet floors across the media center and picked up the book I was holding in my hand today.  I wonder who he was.  Or if he was a she.  What heshe thought about high school.  What heshe loved about craning heshe's neck up towards the starry night sky.  What heshe hated and made heshe tick.  Heshe must be around thirty by now.  I wonder if there are little heshes running around on hardwood floors and tripping over poodles and not contemplating the meaning of life.  My copy has a worn spine even though it's only been read two and a half times.  The reread now, the past read, and my brother's past read.  I don't like worn spines but I love them too.  My old guitar teacher said that his guitar is his because of those scars upon it.  He remembers most of them but not all.  Mine came with some and I like that it has a history without me and is now making steady history with me.

There was one copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower.  It's been checked out 52 times since May 5th, 1999.  That date is approximate.  I can't seem to remember immediate things too well anymore.  I wonder if the people I associate with the stamps of due dates read it because they had a teacher like Bill.  A friend like Charlie.  Or if they returned it without opening it because they didn't have the time.  If years later they came across the book again and read it.  And read it again.  I wonder if they regretted not reading it years ago when they were in an inferno filled with adolescent hormonal kids who walk past each other never saying hello.

There were three copies of Atlas Shrugged and one copy of The Fountainhead.  It kind of bothered me that I couldn't look up Naked Lunch on the computers without being censored and that there are no copies of Naked Lunch in the library.  I don't know what objectivism is but Atlas Shrugged; daaaaaamnnnn. That's a long one.  I'm debating whether I should make it another one of my firsts this summer because there are 84 $10 000 max scholarships being given away for writing an essay on one of three topics concerning the novel.  I'd be spending months on dissecting it, and I don't think I'd get one of the 84.  So I guess I'm just wondering if it would be worth it to win $0.  I'd like to read it for the right reasons and money doesn't seem like the best one.

There's one copy of the English translated version of The Little Prince - checked out approximately 13 times since January 4th, 2000ish - and one copy of the original The Little Prince - checked out 6 times since October 15th, 2003ish.  I regret not having read it when I could.  Always too busy but I guess that statement has holes in it.  I was waiting for the day when I felt like I knew French well enough to read the original.  I didn't wait for that for The Stranger though.  By that time, I knew I'd never really master French.  I think in language jumping, you lose a bit of that something.  What that something is, I couldn't tell you.  I'm going to add it to my summer firsts; the English version.  But since there's more than one, the indecision's come back.  Instead of choosing a version to order on Amazon a few years back, I'm pretty sure I just ordered The Happy Prince and Other Stories and I never even finished that one.  Firsts are important, but I've got to learn to just dive into it without worrying about about how it's done.

You might think these numbers are pointless and I'd say my existence is pretty pointless and since I have a lot of time during lunch these days I like to spend them how I like to.

I've been thinking.  If I've ever wanted you to know one thing, it's that I'm a friend first.  Albeit, not a great one.  But if I'm not in a trance-like disorientation, I'm almost all ears.  You may have to snap your fingers in front of my face or say my name ten times - sorry Sasha - but I think I am almost all ears.  I may not look like it, but I think I am almost all ears.  I'm a friend first.  I'm not here to judge you if you pick your nose or like corny pop songs.  I'm not here for that.

I've been putting Fight to Keep on repeat lately.  I wonder why they changed their name.  I really like Monsters Calling Home, it's got nostalgia in the spaces between the letters.  I was just barely listening to John Hiatt's Have A Little Faith In Me.  And I know faith isn't only about religion, but I still can't help feeling on the outskirts if I use the word.

The biggest lie I've ever been told is that I'm here for a reason.  The name Nobody Owens has nice ring to it, I checked all three of my email accounts today, and I love my mom.

Tomorrow I'm the Cheshire Cat at a tea party in the house pulled right out of Up, but today I think Nobody Owens has a nice ring to it, I checked all three of my email accounts, and I love my mom forever.

things you probably don't want to know

Hi.  My name's Samantha.  But don't call me that.  Unless you're Paige or Mrs. Chambers.  I shrink from confrontation.  I've got terrible posture and a river of insecurity running through me.  I mumble, reducing people to think my name is "Sham" when it comes to introductions.  I'm crazily indecisive.  I'm intrigued by Trevor Richard and wish I could have a memorable conversation with him about the malleability of humanity.  I want to be like, "Where have you been all my life?  You're incredible.", but I think I'd get a weird look from that.  Half the time I'm carefree and careless and the other half of the time I'm tense and baffled.  I sneeze loudly but try to tread quietly.  I've got ridiculous ineptitude when it comes to common sense and chemistry.  I love fingerless gloves and music and learning new words.

I'm a 5' 0 Hulk.  SAM SMASH!  I get angry when I look in the mirror.  I get angry when someone asks me a question and I give them an answer and they don't believe me so they ask another person right in front of me.  I get angry when someone addresses a few people but only makes eye contact with one.  I get angry when people forget that a person is a person.  I get angry when people stand in the middle of a hallway like they own the place.  I get angry when people are unnecessarily loud.  I get angry with overuse of the pronoun "I", yet if you count the number of times I use it here, it's overwhelming and hypocritical.  I get angry when I say something to my dad and he doesn't listen to the whole of what I said, but takes one word that caught his attention and talks about something else entirely.  I get angry when people kid around excessively because it has never been funny on the receiving side and honestly I'm just a party pooper prude.  So many things set me off.  The smallest things.  Everything triggers the frustration that I take home with me because I'll never let it out in public.  I'm a freakin' 5' 0 Hulk.  Except there's no superhero in me.  Except a lot of things.  And well, I guess I don't turn green.

I'm a social misfit and I like it.  93% of the time, I'll choose books and music over people.  I wish my favorite authors and musicians were terrific friends of mine and I could call them up on the phone whenever I felt like it.  I like talking to strangers rather than people I know.  Every audition I've ever had, I messed up.  And I never want to give explanations because they end up sounding like pitiful excuses.  I've got eczema and I've got dandruff.  I've always had allergic reactions to prescription medications but you probably didn't need to know that.  Then again, you don't need to know any of this.

You'd never think I love dancing and singing but I do it on Sundays when I'm baking sweets and in rooms with closed doors and I feel safest when I'm in a rowdy crowd at a concert.  I think it's a good universal sign that I got my acoustic on Jason Mraz's birthday even though it wasn't a Taylor or a Martin.

I think I had more imagination when I was 11, but I've never been one for creativity.  I can't draw something unless I look at it and I can't alter it in a way that makes it unique.  I can't call the endless unfinished drawings a time when I had artist's block because it's been years and I can't call myself an artist anyway.  I can't freestyle or solo on my guitar, instead, my fingers play the same major scales I learned years ago.

I cried over an A- but by the time the B+ rolled by I stopped.  Don't talk to me about expectations.  Don't even get started.  I didn't try harder next term.  I like to call myself pathetic because it's true and if I stray away from the depths of indifference, it's not because I put effort into doing it.  I'll let people step over me and talk over me and not get mad about it in the now.  I save the frustration for later.  My passivity is detrimental.

I want to squirm out of most conversations and hugs.  I get "I didn't notice you there" a lot.  My favorite place in classrooms is the farthest seat back.  When I'm at school, I want to be anywhere else.  When I'm somewhere else, I want to be anywhere else.

Procrastination is my fallback for everything.  I watch too much TV; if it's not Chicago Fire, it's Orphan Black, and if it's not Orphan Black, it's The Middle, and this can go on forever.  It's my defense against thinking about deadlines and it's never been enough to know what I'm doing wrong, because knowing doesn't mean I'll do anything about it.

I take things too personally.  Like if the cashier asks the person in front of me in line how their day has been and makes light conversation and then says nothing to me when he or she rings up my items or if someone gives me a dirty look and has an irritated tone to their voice, I jump to the conclusion that they hate me.  Which is ridiculous, but I can't help it.  I get annoyed with sweat.  I work out like I have a smoker's lung.  I love seeing happiness in people's faces when they think no one's watching.  It kills me.

I have this pressing desire to write thank you notes to people.  It's cowardly that I'll write them in my mind and never say those things aloud looking into the person's eyes.  Kindness saves me and it's bad how surprised I get when I see it.  It makes it sound like I think all of you are bad guys and kindness is extremely rare.  But don't get fooled.  There's only one bad guy and it's me. Thank you to the person who kept me from getting trampled and offered to lift me up to see the singers even though he didn't know me.  The person who didn't walk past the girl struggling to pick up her things off the floor because she tripped.  The person who never walks away right after he asks "how are you?" and listens to the response without looking like he has somewhere else to be.  That pisses me off.  How someone doesn't really give you the time of day but it's just kind of a way to keep up appearances.  I'm tremendously more blunt in writing than I am in speech.  I'm really a fake if you think about it.  And I'm no better than the people I get pissed off at.

I want to be able to help others which is ironic because at times I don't like people very much.  Sometimes I dislike them and other times I think they're beautiful and complex.  I know they're beautiful and complex, but I've got an air of negativity that I can't seem to shake off.  I used to want to be a firefighter.  Then I wanted to be teacher.  Then a paramedic.  Then a nurse.  When people ask me the dreaded question of what I want to be, now I say "oncologist".  The occupation has turned into something that I say just to fill the space.

I'm not sure if this is what realtalk is.  I think I'm just rambling, but typing the words is comforting.  I'm sorry it's always too long.  Sometimes typing the words makes me want to pull my hair out though.

y'all. sophomore year to fourth grade

I remember when he stopped wearing tennis shoes and started wearing converse.  I remember how it kind of bothered me but all I could think about were how deeply blue his eyes were.  I remember ninth grade English with Springer momma, sandwiched between him and Alis Priddy.  Her favorite snack was goldfish and he ran cross country and played the trumpet.

I remember fighting the urge to keep my middle finger down behind people's backs and feeling wretched for even thinking of swear words I thought I'd never say out loud.  Ha.

I remember how I thought Lotus Sutra was the coolest, most chill girl I'd ever seen.  Her topic on the controversial English essay was legalization of marijuana and the only one I remember today.  I remember running into Sasha Fierce at American Eagle and talking about American Studies.  I remember when Austin Call beatboxed in our class.  I remember Ken Burns documentaries for extra credit and The Keeper of Time.  I remember the Mickey Mouse pants and our names being drawn.  I remember losing twenty dollars to amethyst wine for a sweatshirt I never got and holding a faint grudge for too long.

I remember moving to Utah and getting stares for saying "Oh my God" and being told to not swear.  I didn't understand anything.  I remember not feeling so judged or alone up until that moment.

I remember having the biggest middle school crush on Dean Wolfe and falling in love with Lloyd Dobler's voice.  I remember French class and how funny he was and how nice he always was to me.  I remember crushing hard on the guy with the kindness and the nose like a ski slope who didn't pick me last for soccer or ultimate on the Wednesdays we didn't have to do dryland.  The artist who I like talking to with a knack for being hilarious with a straight face.  The last still holds true.

I remember playing with my neighbor up the street everyday in the summers not caring about sunscreen or the time or really anything at all.  We made up dances on the trampoline to songs by Taylor Swift and Cascada and sang to Rascal Flatts and rocked Guitar Hero and laughed nonstop and watched movies and pigged out on Milk Duds.

I remember wearing my Green Day beanie to Westfield and Corrine Bailey Rae said I should wear that on St. Patrick's Day.  I remember Westfield singers and square dancing with girls because there weren't enough guys.  I remember track with Destiny Preach, the sweetest girl I've ever met.  Emma Kay, Destiny, and I ran with the cold and the wind then the sweat and the heat and our shin splints that I complained about incessantly.  Emma always ran alongside me even though she should have run past me.  I've never laughed as long or hard with anyone else since then.  I remember our underwear showing through our compression shorts and guys with see-through white speedos.  I remember the necklace that said "friendly" on it because I'm boy crazy and they're friendly.  I remember how her races were my favorite thing to watch, especially the last half. I remember confusing card games on the bleachers with Elijah Kimball.  I remember wanting to be kyyy's friend and the admiration I had for her and being in awe of her speed and dedication.

I remember singing "Tomorrow" in Scarlet White's room.  She sang "Picture to Burn" at Ridgeline's talent show and Charlie L Rose danced.  I thought it was the most beautiful voice I'd ever heard and the most beautiful dance I'd ever seen.  I remember walking the halls of Timberline with Charlie when the bus dropped us off thirty minutes before school started.  I remember how sweet she was and how lucky I was to have a friend like her.

I remember asking my dad for help on school art projects and him taking over.  I remember barely getting a word in and a grade I didn't deserve.  I remember when I stopped asking for help.

I remember LLACIE PAIGE and her glasses and Mr. Barker's eighth grade algebra class. I remember Krispy Kreme doughnuts and the Woodbury art museum. I loved Mr. Barker and Mrs. Springer more than anything but I haven't walked up those stairs to visit them in years.  I remember the first day of health class when we played the dreaded introductory name game and Sky Trillion said L for llamas.  I remember how Abner was nice to me.  I remember art class with Dora Wyatt and the masks we made with our Vaseline covered faces.  I remember when someone slammed a door and it crushed Sage's toe.  I remember the blood soaking through her Keds and how she stayed strong even through the pain.

I remember cheating on KUMON and crying from being yelled at.  I remember my best defense against hurting and looking into someone's eyes is silence.

I remember the first day of high school when a friend and I helped GRAY EVASION and his friend open his locker.  They made me excited about school because I thought that if everyday I'd meet people like them with the bright smiles I'd be so happy to wake up in the morning and go to class.  I remember the swing set and The Little Mermaid and comparing Tom Wallish to a Greek god and my friend saying how she wouldn't mind being licked by him like the dog in the movie licked the prince.  I can't believe I just typed that.

I remember when the local church came to help fix up our yard full of overgrown weeds and how I hid inside the house, terrified of talking to anyone and promising myself that I'd spend hours the rest of the summer working on the yard to make up for being a stupid coward.

I remember walking into Shep's room for the first time and falling in love instantly.  It was like a Disneyland of eccentricity.  I remember hating being drawn in figure drawing even though we all had to go up there.  I remember how Shep made us take off our shoes so we could draw our feet and discovering DiMiTRi Snow's fear of them.  I remember track with Wolf Boy and enjoying the times we talked even if they were few.

I remember listening to Tommy Miller's cover of Skinny Love over and over and feeling inspired.  But when I tried to sing along I ended up with a broken string on a guitar I didn't know how to tune alternately.

I remember yearbook with Ruby McCall and wanting to talk with her but never doing it.  She was pretty and kind and quiet and awesome.  I remember the beauty in pleasefindmehere's smile and how she played tennis with my friend at Ivory Ridge.  I remember Isla Kirie and her smile too and I don't know anyone who could forget it.

I remember cosmetic surgery and resistance to lidocaine.  Sleepless night guilt but going through with it anyways.  Never feeling better about myself before or after.  Making lists in my head of what was Before and what came After.

Sorry this isn't chronological but that's not the way memories come back.

I remember finding out your names and loving the small parts of everyone that I'd never realized were there before.  I remember the respect I felt and the love I wanted to send your way.  I remember Juliet saying "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet" and reading a comment on the Prayers for Jordan Facebook page that said "She has touched my heart without ever touching my hand".  And it finally sank in.  Because I've always had the hardest time with people saying how much they love someone they never knew or know.   But it's never been about the degrees.  It's not a competition.  It's not a monopoly.  One of the weirdest things is walking past you without having the guts to say anything.  And I've wanted to say I love you since, but it's probably way too soon and too creepy and we've probably never spoken in years or ever at all. The love isn't like how I love my grandparents or how I love John Green or how I love Huntington Beach.  It doesn't have to be.  It's how I love you, and though I hate using the word perfect, it's a perfect kind of love.  A different, but perfect kind of love.

I guess I'm trying to say I remember y'all among the fragmented memories of my past.  And you're important to me, because in all the little things I remember, you've been in my life for better or worse.  The little things maybe you don't remember mean something to me all these years later.  So thank you.  It matters.  You matter.  I'm learning that I matter too.  We all do.  I know you've changed since then; gotten a little taller, a little angrier, a little wiser, more confused, more scarred, more sunny; that you're so much more than the little things I do remember.  I'm sorry I couldn't mention everyone.

All in all, sometimes the little things are all I need.  Because with them, I know life is good.  I know life is worth it.

young and unsightly

what am I afraid of?

boys and speeches

bees and leeches

rotting knees and hairy peaches

if I'm an anomaly for dreading high school

then I must be an Oompa Loompa in Oompaland

and the clouds must be raining skittles

what have I learned?

no one teaches you how to cope with yourself

the years in my years teared at sixteen

the sound was obnoxious

I've always cringed at loud noises

so I ignored the ripping

oblivious that small doses of arsenic

will kill a person slowly

sixteen just held such better days?

days when I still felt alive?

I'm a cliche of a vessel

and the nothingness inside of it

fluttering wingless in hours of wasted time

I'm a cliche of a forlorn teen

and the angst that rages inside like a misunderstood bull in a bullfight

yet it's not the red that's aggravating

it's the staged movements

I'm a cliche of a hypocrite

pushing for things I've never done, not likely to do

with my collection of inspirational quotes

a desire, and no willpower to change


and it's hard to remind myself

that I can be happy

Jimmy Ruffin makes me smile

but he tells me that happiness is just an illusion

everything good seems to be these days

I fell in love with Hate at sixteen

we flirted with each other for years

dancing around the inevitably in what was bound to happen

dancing around pretty flames hungry for more

"enough" a foreign word lingering on an itchy tongue


I fell hard

he quenched the lights so appealing before

made darkness my home and my refuge

kept me unmoving on a cold hard floor

licked my insides clean of sense

kicked the stomach I was sucking in

and told me I deserved it


I told him I hated people

I told him I hated school

I told him I hated life

I told him I hated the world

but he nudged me to tell the truth

so I told him I hated myself

that I loved him

and that's all he wanted to hear


everyone's always said

there's beauty to be found in pain of destruction

what an implicative black and white perspective


I was the record on repeat

and I listened to my self-deprecation all the time

the music was bloody and raw

I swear it tasted sweet

but it wasn't funny

it never was


my heart

my soul

that's what he wanted

it's what I wanted too

he left when he found out they were both missing

what have I learned?

no one teaches you how to cope with yourself

what am I?

still sixteen

falling out of love with hate for myself