Pies

She asked him one morning as they lay tangled under sheets made warm by the heat of their bodies whether he thought pies tasted better right off the pan or served on ceramic plates. He traced lazy circles on her thigh as he thought. Straight from the pan, maybe. But pie does taste better with cream and you always take a slice of pie and put it on a plate before pouring on the cream. She considered that for a moment and said that if it was about the cream then maybe they ought to pour cream right into the pan to have an even comparison. She furrowed her eyebrows as she spoke and he laughed and leaned in and kissed her, right in between her brows as if to get her to stop worrying. She grinned and pulled him on top of her, showering his face with kisses.

He bought apples that evening and dumped them on the kitchen counter. She looked up from her laptop where she was typing up some important letter and grinned. It was going to be a good day.

The shared stories of their days at work as they sat cross-legged on the floor chopping and peeling apples. There was that guy she always saw on the subway, the one that drew buildings and skylines on scraps of paper and on the backs of flyers. There was that lady he met on his way to work who burst out of an office and yelled that she was engaged. He chopped the apples into lazy pieces while she fiddled with the peel. He laughed at the way she held her knife and although she reached out and hit him with the back of her hand, she felt like she wanted to grab hold of that laugh and hug it to sleep every night. Never let go of it, essentially.

Then they realized that they hadn't made the dough and all the apples they had cut would darken and ‘become icky’ by the time they got the dough to rise. She read somewhere that squeezing a lemon over the apples would prevent them from darkening, she said. And he thought that they had nothing to lose (except maybe twenty apples) and went along with it. She kept the lemony, cinnamon-y apples in the fridge and joined him in the kitchen where he’d already begun mixing the dough.

Unlike in all those sappy movies they managed to get the dough ready without breaking into a flour-fight. A fight of pots and pans seemed imminent however, with threats hurled back and forth every time someone opened the fridge to steal a piece of lemony apple. See, it’s a good thing there were so many apples he said. She hit him with a spoon. He chased her around with a cutting board.

She cried when they were all done, with the bowls all washed and the timer set, thinking of all the things they had lost along the way. And how it might just be another month before they got to spend time together like this again. He hugged her until the pain went away and as always she concluded that the long waits were worth it just because they got to do things together once in a while.

She felt better but still refused to let go of him. He made to move to the living room couch but she clung on to him like those little monkey babies you see on Animal Planet. He wanted to watch the news in ten minutes so he thought, oh well, and picked her up and carried her over to the couch where they settled down, him with the remote and her on his lap.

She fell asleep by the time the timer rang so he coaxed her awake, he knew the kind of monster she could become if woken up the wrong way. She woke up and blinked, focusing on the careful expression on his face and smiled and kissed him harder than he expected her to. He looked a little dazed as she leapt off his lap and skipped to the kitchen and his expression made her even happier. He followed and wrapped his arms around her waist as she cut the pie carefully into two halves and then divided one part into slices. She moved the slices to another bowl, and took one in a ceramic plate. The special plates, the ones they bought on her first raise, the ones they only took when they ate together. He let go of her and poured cream all over the slice of pie on the plate.

They argued over which pie they should try first and decided it didn't matter really. They finished the slice and decided that this was definitely better than the strawberry pie they made a few months ago. Apple was more pie-able she said. He tapped her on the nose with the back of his spoon.

He settled into the blankets while she went to get the pie in the pan that they’d left in the oven so it’d stay warm. She poured all the remaining cream over it and crawled into the blanket with him. She said she was too lazy to feed herself and he took turns, scooping up bits of cream and apple and pie crust for her and then some for him.

About two hours later when they had a real dinner and put away all the dishes and crawled into bed, hugging each other so tight that they could barely differentiate whose head was resting on whose arm, they had arrived at a conclusion. Pie tasted better off the pan. No doubt about it. Scraping up all the bits of crust from the pan, with a tiny bit of cream and some of the apple leftovers made making pies worthwhile.

posted from Bloggeroid

Windows

If we could put in a window between our two worlds I would. Because at times like these when I miss you so much that I feel actual physical pain resonating through my body at the thought of you I could just reach over and tap you on your shoulder. And you'd turn around and smile and I'd be okay. Because I fall in love with you all over again everytime you smile. Even harder when you laugh.

If we could put in a window between our two worlds, it would be nice. I could just turn around and ask for your opinion on something I read or wrote, maybe we could discuss it for a while, maybe we could argue. I could maybe reach out and touch you, run my hands through your hair, touch a thumb to the corner of your lower lip. The times when we want to be alone, we could just draw the curtains on our side and it'd be okay, we know we'll open them up when it's time.

posted from Bloggeroid

This is a Rant. With a Capital 'R'.

Good day. Today I shall rant.
This is applicable to more than one of you so read well. Understand. Weep.
Or maybe not. But you'll be hit by a large moving automobile in the next three days. Yes that's right. I'm talking about you.
And I'm really, truly sorry that I couldn't resist doing this. But this sits and festers and putrefies, it's time it goes out of my system.

--

Hey you there, yes you, the one with the mask on. Does it bother you that your cover is blown? Of all the years of pretending and putting a show on, does it bother you that now someone besides you knows the truth about you?

It’s easy to spout ideas and ideals, easy to talk but not so easy to act, now is it? The challenge is to actually act on what you pretend to believe in. But what I don’t understand is why you do it. So let’s examine that, shall we?

If I were petty (well, any more than I am already) I would launch into a detailed description of just what you did but honestly, that’s not the part that shattered everything I thought about you into tiny fragments. Much like when my phone fell out of my hand and the screen cracked. It’s quite pretty actually, my broken screen that is, not you.

Keeping the actual event aside, let me just say, your mask never was perfect. There was something that you said one afternoon that made me realize that you were not as open-minded as you seemed. Now back on topic.

What I don’t understand is why you have to pretend to be someone you’re not. Maybe it’s not easy to be honest with yourself. Or is it just not easy to be honest with others. Does all of you know what the real you is like, or do you lie to yourself even when it’s just you in a dark room with no place to go and no place to be and no one to impress.

Now that I know the face behind the mask when I meet people who think you’re oh-so-funny or maybe even oh-so-smart I wonder how it’d feel for them when at some point they figure out who you really are. It’d break their hearts, you know. They really look up to you.

What you like and what you don’t is honestly up to you, no amount of arguing or ranting is going to change that and I don't even want to attempt to change your beliefs because I wouldn't want someone to do that to me. However try (for the sake of those who still believe your mask is your true face) to face the consequences when you make a decision instead of deleting accounts and running away because that’s a sure-fire way that they’ll know you for the wuss you really are.

---

Thank you. I have ranted.

Boxed Belongings

Natalie opened her eyes sleepily. For a few seconds she couldn't figure out where exactly she was. She felt an arm around her waist and then she remembered. She focused her gaze on the pale blue curtains, and the light filtering through the crack. She crawled out from under the thick comforter, only glancing behind her for a second at the figure hidden in the sheets. The glimpse suffices, she’s filled with a rush of affection. Her partner, her love, the only one she’s wanted as much as she did right then.

She hummed Emily’s favorite song as she stepped out of the washroom. She pats her face dry with the worn out towel hanging by the door. ‘I really ought to redecorate, now that I've moved in officially,’ she thinks, eyeing her boxes piled by the door, making plans to go shopping later in the day.

She went into their room with steaming mugs of coffee, filling the tiny room with the scent, “Emily, sweetie, wake up.”

“Em. Come on, you've slept enough, love.” Natalie sets the mugs of coffee down on the dresser and pulls apart the curtains. She stands there for a bit, basking in the sunlight. She watched their neighbor cross the street, checking the time on his watch, in a rush to get to work maybe.

She smiled. She felt so calm now. Now that everything was decided, now that they were finally going to begin their life together. 

“So I was thinking we ought to go shopping later? Maybe get a few towels. Do you have milk somewhere else besides the fridge? I threw out the empty cartons.”

She turned around from where she was folding her clothes to find Emily still wrapped up in the sheets. She giggled as she crept up to the foot of the bed, her mind filled with almost childish delight at what she was about to do. She grasped the comforter firmly and with a quick tug pulled it off Emily’s body, expecting to hear a slew of curses and whining. Emily didn't move.

‘Wow she must really be fast asleep.’

All she could see from where she stood was Emily’s long dark hair all over the pillow, it was only when she walked over to the side of the bed that she saw.

Emily’s eyes were frozen wide open, her mouth slack, something that looked like dried spittle all over the edge of her mouth and pillow, and her lips the grey-blue color of death.

Natalie's scream resonated through the apartment, filled with boxed belongings and dreams. She fell back and kicked herself away from the bed, collapsing against the walls, pushing apart a bookcase on her way, with soundless sobs escaping her shaking body.

Beyond The Veil

On child brides.

---

You are a 12 year old girl. Your eyes are closed but the sounds are so loud that you wish you could shut your ears and hide in the corner, but you can't. Oh no. It's your special day. You're scared, you're shaking but nobody notices. An aunt asks you to turn, you turn mechanically while you're draped in a heavy red and gold cloth. An older cousin sister combs out your hair, another drapes ornaments all over your face and body. Your mother sits in the corner, being comforted by your elder sister. You remember hiding behind your aunt and watching the same scene unfold just a year ago when she was married. She was 14 then. She was crying, sobbing, black tear tracks running down her face. You're not crying. You're confused. You don’t know.

---

One third of all the girls in the world are married before the age of 18. One in nine are married before the age of 15. India comes in at number 13 on a list of the countries most affected by child marriage, with 47% of its girls being married off before they're old enough to even fathom what being married entails.

Child marriage is banned in India, with the accused if convicted facing up to two years of imprisonment and a fine of Rs. 1,00,000. However in most of the communities where child marriage is the norm, the government and its laws are the enemy and are seen as attempts to inhibit 'the way things have always been.' In such communities, it's not easy to find someone who thinks differently or is willing to act to cause a change. And of course, this change needs to come from within.

Studies show that women who are married before they are 18 are twice more likely to experience domestic violence and sexual abuse than those married after 18. In a country where courts have ruled that marital rape is not 'really' rape, it's alarming and disheartening to know that in a lot of rural areas, there are parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles who set up their children to have to face violence and abuse against which they have no defences.

In many parts of India, female children are married at ages as young as 5 - sometimes to grooms who are a few years older, other times to grooms older by half a century or more. These children in some cases continue to live with their families until they hit puberty after which they're sent to their grooms. Although they live with their families until they are 12 or 14 have severe restrictions on their freedom, with most of them being denied education. Many child brides have stories of confusion, the transition from being a child a few months ago to having children now is not easy to adapt to. Some stories have brides so young they barely know how to take care of themselves when they're suddenly responsible for a family. Others recount being told to never deny their husband sex.

While most cases of child marriage are unreported, the few cases in which girls escape oppressive situations are given much deserved publicity. On examining the reasons behind the change in these cases, it is most often found to be education or employment. Cases where children start working to make themselves 'useful' to the family are heart breaking. In some cases, the presence of free secondary school education in the village provided an incentive to parents to permit their children to remain unmarried.

Modern day feminism focuses on the 'higher classes' of women. Women who have the opportunities to attain an education, women who have jobs. Somewhere out there, there's a terrified 10 year old who is raped on her wedding night. Thousands of voices echo to fight for the rights of women. No one hears the cries of this little girl. And no one will.

Not unless the self-proclaimed feminists of the world are willing to step out from behind their computer screens, take a break from ranting for a second to actually do something that could make a difference. NGOs operating in rural areas with high instances of child marriage have proven essential in convincing young girls to stand up to the community and demand education. It would take time for communities who've been living in figurative darkness for centuries to realize that a girl child is just as valuable as a boy, that women are capable of so much more than bearing children and rearing families. It's about time to fight for something far worse than the injustices we live through each day.

---

So who decides the freedom of the Indian woman? Her family and community who, in the 21st century, still find it acceptable to give up a 10 year old to marriage. Her husband, who is but a stranger until the wedding night to all Indian women who are married in the 'culturally acceptable manner'. And of course, that stranger or that neighbour we all have to impress by being 'normal.'

Of course it's not the woman herself. Preposterous. Who ever thought of such an abomination? The idea that a woman can be in control of her life, her body, her future - ridiculous. Welcome to reality, dear woman. You are but secondary.

The Time I Went to the Beach

The last time I was at a beach, I was with you. We ran around in the sand, I ruined my Converse. We took all those pictures, that one you took of me with my hair flying all over the place. Back when I barely knew you. Back when you barely knew me.

I thought maybe that going to the beach today would make me think about you a lot. That with each wave crashing in I'd think of the way the sun burnt my skin as I sat next to you in the sand. I can't say I didn't. But not too much. I'm doing well.

I was a bit of a wuss today. I didn't want to get too close to the water, didn't want to ruin my jeans. I stayed at a respectful distance and watched. Wave after wave. Ohisashiburi ne. It's been a long time.

The salty wind messing up my hair (which I'd straightened carefully before leaving), making my skin feel like I'd been dipped in salt, carrying the sound of the water that made me want to run into the ocean and keep running until I was waist deep.

And here I stand, at the shore. Too scared to dip my toe in.

A huge wave comes in and I run up the sand. It chases me for a while then stops, laughs, and falls back into the sea. I turn around, laughing, a little breathless. My laughter is drowned in the sounds of the sea.

Hey there, Stranger.

Title: Hey there, Stranger
Genre: Fluff|Drabble
Word count: ~180

He was laughing with his friends when she walked by. He had a nice laugh, one that appeared to originate from his soul, a genuine, heartfelt laugh that made his eyes light up. It made her want to laugh with him. She couldn't look away from the happiness that emanated from those eyes. He looked up and met her gaze just as she was about to look away. She almost blushed, but she smiled. She managed to smile the biggest smile she had in a while and she wasn't quite sure why.

_

A girl smiled at him in the hallway. A tiny girl. She was barely five feet tall, he thought that night. He was with his friends, laughing at something someone said. Some weird magnetic attraction made him look up and he met her eyes. She smiled and suddenly he couldn't remember what he was laughing at a second ago. He smiled at her. He wondered now how long she had been looking at him before he met her eyes. It didn't bother him, it was a nice smile.

_

posted from Bloggeroid

O-Hisashiburi

Starting with a cliche
Of the rain outside,
I wish it would stop
It makes me feel empty;
As though you're not-
But you are.


I roll over, smothering
My thoughts in the sheets,
Lying face down
Hoping the voices shut up.
They tell me you're not-
Even though you are.


They're watching me.
She's not the same.
She's lost her smile.
She's losing her mind.
They tell me you're gone,
But you're not.


A lazy day, an empty room
Save the two of us,
With eyes closed, I know
You're here, you'll be here.
I open them and you're gone
But you're here.


You don't have to
Brush my hair off my face
Look into my eyes
Or smile that precious smile
Just think of me
And I'll know you're here.


I don't need you near me
Or even need to hear your voice
Or feel you touch me
To know you're around
You should know, this 'us' thing
Is all I want.

posted from Bloggeroid

Broken Bunch

A/N: Title credits to the friend that abhors all social networking sites and very recently has given up on instant messaging services as well. His phrase, not mine.

---

Scratching at skin that's a little sore already. The only thing I hear is the sound of the water that keeps flowing, I turn it off. It doesn't care much. I keep on scratching and the skin breaks. There it is, the first tiny blemish, it's just a single spot of red. Don't stop, it's not done yet. Keep going. It spreads to a line, a thin line. But it's still there, even if just barely. I can't stop yet, I press it against my skin harder. The sharp end against my sore skin. It's a few lines now. I take a deep breath. It feels good. So good. I'm done. I step into the shower and the water washes over me. It stings when droplets strike against the cut up skin. But I stay there, trying to suppress the feeling that was threatening to take over me. I wanted to feel it again, that blinding, dizzying moment when it felt so good. When I closed my eyes and leaned back into the cold, hard wall and let the pain just wash over my mind. And so I do. I pick it up again, the object that brings me salvation. My hand slips a little this time, it's harder to get it right now that my skin is damp. But I keep trying because it feels good. Stop. Now. Right now. Just stop. So I do. I wash up, dress and then go back to where I was, surrounded by all those people. No one knows anything but that I had a shower. It's alright. I know better.

posted from Bloggeroid

And we all come crumbling down

Title: And we all come crumbling down

Word Count~900

Genre: Speculative Fiction

A/N: Another piece from my NaNoWriMo attempt.

It is a cold day. The sun is almost directly above my head and the clock shows half past twelve. It is supposed to be the hottest time of the day and yet it is the biting cold that dominates. If there were any form of precipitation, it would have been snow, but there wasn't any. It was a cold, dry day. The icy wind blew strong, forcing the chilly air to engulf the body, gnawing at any exposed skin. My hands hurt. My face stung. I kept walking

It is almost as though time had stopped. There's not a living being in sight, not even an insect. No movement. No sounds. It is a dead city. It is almost ominous, the silence. As if to warn of the coming of the new age, of the approaching apocalypse that must precede any rebirth. After all, a phoenix wouldn't exist without a fire. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. And we all come crumbling down.

He walks down the street. I know he's coming for me. There's a purpose in that stride. An intention in each step. Each movement is calculated, the degree at which his head is tilted downwards, the angle to which he swings his arms. He doesn't look like the biting cold affects him. He makes me feel like a child. As though each of my movements are spastic, as though I have no sense of bearing or self respect. As though I ought to crumple at his feet and beg for forgiveness.

He stops right in front of me. 'Let's go inside.'

I nod numbly.

He walks me to a door. 'Aren't you feeling hot?'

I look up at him, my eyes blank.

'I mean, aren't you dressed a little too warmly for a summer day?'

The door opens and a blast of warm air hits my face. I'm greeted by sights, sounds, smells, a little too much to take in at once.

It's a restaurant I used to frequent once, then had stopped when I got bored. They've renovated, I notice. The curtains were never this dark, they are now a dark wine red, like the curtains I have at home. The tables are sleek and made to look like they are made of some fancy wood. The floors are shiny, there are flowers on each table, surrounded by rose petals floating in a bowl of water.

The waitress takes us to a table at the back. I hear the sound of the 'Reserved' card being lifted off the table, of forks and spoons scraping against breakable plates. Sounds of couples talking, some in heated arguments, some whispering sweet nothings, some talking about how all they wanted was to be in the other's pants. I heard the chair scraping against the floor as he pulled the chair out for me, pretending to be a gentleman. I heard a scream in my mind as I smiled, pretending I didn't see through his pretences.

I smelled food. I smelled rose petals. I smelled the hair product on the man sitting on the table at the other end of the room, with his hand high up on his wife's thigh and his mind on the breasts of the woman at the next table.

---

I felt fear, I felt pain, I had tears rolling down my face. The tears stopped, but the pain remained long after he left. He loved me, he said. I felt spent. I felt used. I felt dirty.

I stood up gingerly, clutching the bloody sheets around my naked body. I walked up to my mirror and looked. I looked at my bruised eyes, my torn lips. My arms were marked all over where he held me down while he rammed into me. My stomach was bright red on the side, where it hit the bedpost when he threw me on the bed, it would be purple tomorrow. My thighs were bruised. Fuck.

I limped to the bathroom and turned the shower on. I dropped the sheet I was holding around myself into the corner and stepped under the warm water, soothing my sore muscles.

I stepped out, dripping wet. Wrapped a towel around my hair and pulled on a robe. I went to the kitchen and boiled some water to drink. My throat was sore. I leaned onto the counter, my body hurt too much to sit or lie down and sipped my warm water.

I woke up face down on the kitchen floor, the cold tiles acting as a cold compress on my bruises. I pulled myself up. I stumbled to my balcony and sat down on the floor, leaning against the metal railing. I reached over to the table and took the last cigarette from the pack. Lit it, put it to my lips and inhaled. I closed my eyes and focused on the sounds of the traffic below rather than the throbbing of my headache, or the pounding hatred in my mind.

I finished my cigarette. I slowly stood up and walked into my room. I stripped the bed and rummaged through my cupboard for fresh sheets. I tossed the ruined sheets to a corner, I'll burn them later. I climbed into my freshly made bed, smelling of laundry soap and fabric softener and slept.

The Time I Put Salt in My Coffee

Title: The Time I Put Salt in my Coffee
Word Count: 250 [Someone give me a medal :D]
A/N: This was a topic we thought up for a story writing contest in college and since I couldn't participate this is something I thought up in ten-odd minutes during math. And after that, I went to sleep.

---

The time I put salt in the coffee instead of sugar was the day I killed my husband. It wasn't very hard to kill him. He came at me with his precious signed baseball bat and I ran and hid in the kitchen closet. I tried not to make a noise while I breathed, but it was difficult. Tears poured down my face and my breath came out in gasps. I clasped my hands over my mouth and looked around. My eyes fell on bottles of wine, chili sauces and other condiments. I spotted his mother’s prized possession, a precious heirloom she called it, a huge ceramic vase sitting under a shelf. I opened the door and peeked. I saw him standing at the doorway to our bedroom, baseball bat still clutched in his hand. He was turned away from me. I sneaked up behind him, raised the vase over my head and slammed it down on his. He crumpled forward. I didn't really have to check his pulse to know he was dead but I did it anyway. I washed the blood that had spattered on my arms and face and picked up the phone and dialed 911.

“I killed my husband” I said. I gave them my address and hung up. I walked into the kitchen, cold mugs of salted coffee still on the table. I poured myself a mug of boiling water from the kettle and dropped a teabag in it.

I've always preferred drinking tea anyway.

---

Lazy Saturday

10:45 am

25 Jan 2014

So today's going to be a long day. The crowd I usually surround myself with have all got things to do, so the thought numbing distractions that I usually immerse myself in are all gone. It is too early in the semester to have anything to do but the stuff I have to do, I don't have anything to do it in so I can't even if I wanted to. My remaining roommates both have things to do, a friend has class, a friend has dance, three are at their homes, the others are inaccessible. You guys sure picked the right day to shut down the electricity in this part of town, the day my phone is on the verge of being lost into an empty-battery induced coma for the rest of the day.

Anyhow, it sure has been a while since I wrote something on paper with a pen and I had quite forgotten what my handwriting looks like when I'm thinking faster than I can write. Maybe I should teach myself shorthand. My t's have changed. I wonder what that says about me. So have my d's.

I really should use this time to do something productive. But it is almost like everything around me has decided to have a 'Do Nothing Day' so everything has aligned itself in the world's 'Lazy Saturday' setting. Even the wind is lazy. The trees outside my window don't even move. Not even a millimeter. Oh wait, I think I see a movement. Nope. Just a crow.

The point of this narrative is that the last thing I want right now is a Lazy Saturday. I feel somehow motivated and maybe even driven. Maybe I should try to fix my new jeans. I left a pen in my pocket and I'm consoling myself with 'At least they weren't gray like the last time' or maybe even 'At least they weren't the ridiculously expensive pair I'd set my heart on'.

Maybe I need to get a new pair of jeans. Maybe this time I'll get the ridiculously expensive ones.

Gratitude

I haven't been on here in a while. Not since last month when I put up an unfinished chapter of an attempted novel as a pathetic excuse for a blog post.

So, today morning when a friend sends me a message with just a number followed by an exclamation point '3999!' I'm not quite sure what he's talking about.




*Warning - Nonsensical, emotional drivel coming up. I'm a little emotional right now. As you can see from my dramatic single line paragraphs.*

It's been a year and a little more since I started this blog. And along the way everything has changed.

So here I go, I'm not sure what to say really. I have loads of thank yous to give away. Maybe I should make a list.

To all of you, who have been there from the very beginning. Those of you I tagged in that very first story I put up as a note on Facebook. Any of you still out there reading this emotional drivel, thank you. My TP sister, my coaching-math-tuition-eminem-rapping-bestie-who-wrote-an-entire-sleeve-on-my-last-day-shirt. And all you people. I can't think of funny enough names for each of you so I'm just saying My.heart.will.go.on.nigga.

All of you who read my version of KangMin, thank you, I love you guys, K-Pop brings the world together, Fighting!

To you people who support me silently, reading the stuff I link you, occasionally checking in on your own, it means the world to me. When you tell me to keep writing, it makes me feel alive.

To each of you who's played a little (or big) part in any of my stories, thank you. As long as you don't sue me someday if/when I get published, I'm grateful. I couldn't have written it without you.

To you few people who tell me that I've (partly) inspired them to blog, you make me feel on top of the world, really. As though somehow we are all a part of something so much bigger than just you, me or the people we meet. You there Ninja, Retard, Dummy-who-tried-to-hide-his-blog, and you-with-the-long-hyphenated-words-who-turned-out-to-be-such-a-hypocrite-and-a-prick-I-hate-you-I-really-do.

You, who read the blog and got my phone number from God-knows-where and texted me, thank you. I may have responded differently from what you expected me to, and for that, I apologize. I'm wary of random texters. I have been thinking about that story suggestion, just playing around with it, hopefully I'll put it down on paper soon.

To you, the one guy who read both my blogs in one sitting, you mean a lot to me. No matter whether all the plans we make are ruined or whether we have our differences and haven't spoken in ages. Thank you. And I promise you, that sometime in the next few years I will buy you that Kit-Kat shake :P

To the guy who abhors all social media but tells me that maybe people can be reached through just words, the guy who reminds me to be ridiculously optimistic, thank you. (The first two things I mentioned in this sentence are mutually exclusive, I just put it in to make identification a little easier.)

And you. Had we come to a conclusion about a substitute for 'Nice arse'? I don't remember. :P

To those who tell me that my writing is bold or along those lines, thank you. I'm not all that strong, I pretend to be. When you tell me I appear stronger than I am, it helps.

To my epic roomies who see all my drama and live in my mess. A special mention to 'you' with all our crazy plans and 'fantasies.' :P I love you guys *kisses*

To dad, mom and my baby. I've been framing this sentence since I started thinking about this post but I haven't yet. So yeah. I hope all these unsaid things get to you.

To everyone who put me down and stomped all over everything I ever thought my own, I guess what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. I don't bear any resentment, apathy feels a lot better. I wouldn't have had things to write about if it weren't for you. Thank you.

To you who told me I had one view to get to 4k. I don't know. I'm just giving you a mention :P Then again, I probably should say that this person pays more attention to this blog than I do. And if you consider everyone reading this and me to be separated by this black and grey keyboard I'm tapping on, this person would be this swiveling chair. Or the table the keyboard is on. You get my drift. Anyhow, you're on this side of the keyboard, I mean to say. And I'd swap all my girl kids for your boy kids if you wanted me to. :P So there, you bum and a half, thank you for everything :)

And to you, last but actually the furthest away from being the least (:P) the one who knows me the best, the one who I used to run every decision past, it's been a couple of years, I hope we have this sort of whenever-you-need-me thing going on for a lot more. I couldn't have been me without you. Also, the person I mentioned just above, definitely has a crush on you. I love you more though. :P

*end of dedications and ridiculous PDA*

*for now*

New year resolutions:
1. Stop skipping breakfast.
2. Write more.
3. Read more.

I don't know why I'm being so ridiculously emotional. Maybe because I LOVE YOU GUISE! :P

*sobs*

Kbye.

posted from Bloggeroid