I am who you think I am.

MEGHAN CROSBY

long live our youth & love

Before you, the thesaurus was my best friend.

You eyes are a sort of mirror, you reflect the good in others with everything you do.

How can I move on if my heart is still with all of you?

I remember

I remember my sister whispering lies to me on Sunday nights, about how my brother was adopted and then she would cuss just to make me cry.

I remember the sunburns I would get in the part of my hair from playing outside too long. My feet always looked the same ways after hours of no shoes and grass and bike rides -- dirty and independent. 

I remember the first time I had allergies, my eyes were swollen and for the first time I hated the earth. Too much Benadryl.

I remember my dusty yellow room window seat and how that was the only place I could sleep on Saturdays when I supposed to be cleaning.

I remember the first time I started to care. My cursive wasn't pretty, I started to speak less, and people started to mention my smarts more than I wanted. I was the fastest girl in the class until one monday when I was slow and awkward and I didn't play soccer at recess anymore. I sat on the swings with the other girls and threw wood chips at the cute boys. And then I stopped singing out loud-- even in front of myself. I started taking naps and I started writing love notes because he started it. I remember the day I prank called him and then he cried when I told him I didn't like him anymore. His mom didn't like me after that.

I remember when she stopped calling me best friend.

I remember when he told me that I could choose to be happy then he taught me how to do the things that I loved more. He gave me books and cards and pep talks. I remember when we learned how to make pottery and then painted together all day long.

I remember laughing so hard we thought the raspberry and cookies-n-cream jelly beans would come out our nose. I remember the night we threw paper airplanes on your roof in the rain. I remember when we had an advice-column and your dog avoided me. We signed our names under the shelf in your closet before you moved. I remember our pill-bug races. We used to dance in your mom's bathroom and yell at your neighbors from her window. I remember the time we promised to still be friends when we are 80.

coming

origami hearts and lanterns before the sun sleeps.
hold my hand before I miss you too much.
let's ignore our conscious and just pretend we don't know anything--all over again.
something about you is like a sunset-- because you're beautiful but, you just happened a little too late.
I don't know if you have enough teen-age fun, but that's kind of cute,
and you're really sincere when you're stressed.
I didn't see you coming and I didn't even see you when you were standing and staring and laughing and looking into my eyes telling me really nice things.

so when I take a step back I try to evaluate if I am feeling or thinking right now.
neither.

I haven't done my laundry in a while.
mainly because the things I forget about disappear.

I hope that happens with you.

because, when you leave, I might wish we had more time together, and that might hurt.

too many things hurt too bad right now.

how to not

1.  never learn how to blow bubbles with your gum--no one cares anyways.
2.  yodel every other Monday
3.  drink water upside when you have hiccups, maybe ask your dad to demonstrate
4.  pretend to whistle when everyone's favorite song has that one whistling chorus comes on
5.  if you really want to not, call yourself a leprechaun and eat some freaking cabbage

you're welcome

can we just talk about now...always?

"I'm feeling that everything is moving and changing and growing. I'm feeling the ending."

(air)

"These things and people seem so important now, everyone keeps telling me, they won't matter soon, soon I will forget all about everything here and make better friends and do better things, they tell me that everything up to till this point in my life has been insignificant, people tell me that but if none of it matters after- why was I not just born at 19?"

And then you finally said something. "19 is too old to start at."

"But no. They say 19 is young, that real life is just beginning, that I've got my whole life ahead of me...but what about the 18 years I've got behind me? Why do I give other people permission to cast-away my youth and experiences, why do people feel like they can insult everything I've ever felt or done with light words like little and early? My life is young, but it's a collection of depth and intimacy--not just immaturity. I wish I could yell that at them."

"Youth is charm. When they are confused at your confidence with the future, look at them with those crazy eyes and yell at them all you want. People sometimes, just don't get people."

future suns

I really wish you were here to tickle my arm in church.
Every time you remember me, we talk.
And when we talk our eyes fight.
You are all easy-going and I'm goal-oreinted, so please only remember the lovely things I said to you.

When we go our separate ways I hope my face will surface in the clouds on sunny days--not in a Teletubbies way...but like a Mufasa way (with a little less drama and a little more cuteness).

stop it therapy

My heart is a hallway and without permission, you stand there--you're wearing neon and you have a packet of pink slips and punishments to slide to me when I think about you too much.
My Circadian Rhythm is all out-of-wack because you tell me when to wake and when to sleep and you choose if I'm happy or not.
My crush on you only crushes my all-too-eager soul.


So for the good of both you and me:

please stop

(everything you do)

(it's just so pretty)

blah blah blah blackout

------------------------------------------
Find me on the first chest-nut tree.
Just off the grinning late evening, lingering over the night sky.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The real revelation isn't in the stars, but on the power tucked under its skin.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There's been a growing demand for the famous and memories.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Though I've known for many years, I'll confess I was underwhelmed; I anticipated my surprise to notice the one-star friends.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

forgetful follies

things I forgot to bring on my vacation:

-my allergy medication (I have severe allergies to my sisters in cramped backseats)
-my knee pads for roller blading
-my hot tub flirting skills
-my face that pretends that I like family history
-my favorite navy blue pen that doesn't seep through paper
-my conditioner that doesn't smell like herb tea
-my extra 6 fingers for all the buttons I wanted to push on the elevator
-my cool water bottle that I could use when I was pretending to tan by the pool
-my car charger
-my pretty feet
-my cat
-you

lamp shades and side tables

garage-sale blues

gps

my mom used to say my freckles were angel kisses.
but now I know, they are just a road map connecting my heart to yours.

six words

the wednesday before thursday

I keep playing hide and seek with reality.
Real life is approaching too fast. 
I have an ear ache from all my goals and I have an eye twitch because my past keeps moving in the shadows. 

I'm overall, just disappointed--
because,
*I was hoping to be happy by seventeen.

But it has been 515 days since seventeen, and each day I feel closer and closer to the border. The line where happiness starts and loneliness and heartbreak and every other ugly feeling end.

My heart it starting to mold and it smells like 
Aspergillus penicillium. 
I've got to act fast.

I wrote down "MY DREAMS" on a piece of black card stock and I took out a magnifying glass. 
It was Wednesday. And I sat on my curb with my feet on the pavement and my ambition in the clouds.
And then where ever the wind touched the paper I burnt a hole. I did that until I could see more positive than negative.
I did it 
so that
when I hold up my dreams to my mom's perspective and logic on Thursday,
I can maybe, somehow, possibly remember how I got to that curb in the first place.
MY DREAMS. 
My mom says "Reality hurts."
But I say "So do sunburns. And mold."

dragonfly

We are six years old again and you tell me why you don't yell.
Then we play spies in the apple trees and I catch a moth big enough to be a bird.
We make some kettle corn and listen to The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe book-on-tape on my jean blanket.
We used to pretend that every gust of wind was a tsunami and that every car was a kidnapper.
And when it was time for you to go home- your mom would whistle- kind of like for a dog. But it had more charm.
Before you left, we would run to my house and get a butter scotch candy from my mom's china cabinet and make promises about when school was out tomorrow.
And we always kept our promises,
and we promised to never grow up.

hand it to me

Give me some time to panic. I ran out, just a minute ago, and my shoes stuck to the pavement like my thoughts often stick to yours. I was trying to get away from the world. I was casually walking on a dead end when you came and talked to me. You told me how you know me and you tried to make me yours. You reached into your blush colored pant pocket and pulled out a piece of business card stock with all your advice on it. I stared at you because at most I would just use that as a bookmark in an ugly book that I never read. It was that bad. Your murmuring lips watch me read it and the last thing you questioned was my creativity.

I think it's my turn for some helpful criticism, let me just say this: you walk with your butt sticking out and I think I'm allergic to you.

And then you walked away and I stayed there for hours, sitting on a mailbox with a last name on it that sounded german. I made a list of all the things I liked about myself then I taped it to my hand so I won't forget it.

youIuoy

let me just take a second and say
you.

you
are from a different country
and your accent makes me laugh like a gaga adolescent.

and somehow
you.

your puberty-stricken facial hair is wildly attractive
and you only use the necessary amount of words...no fluff or filler.

and yes
you.

so I hope you never know I'm writing this about you...but if you do...
meet me under the mummy moon and we can talk about all the humans we never want to meet.
and we can practice our 'surprise' faces for all of the watchers in our lives.

and yes, I'm talking to
you.

and the galaxy

There were sixty and nine who survived the battle.

----> over-dramatic and over-calculated.

That's what humans like,

we like to count and figure and limit.

That's why we like definitions and answers 

but the problem with that is:

Definitions are too definite 

and answers could go on and on.

So let's give the people what they want.

Because every human wants to know.

And every human wants time.

And every human wants love.

So let's give them all of God's knowledge. 

Let's help them drink from the fountain of youth. 

And let's hand them that love potion. 

But they won't be wise enough to comprehend that genius. 

And that fountain of youth is just poison.

 And that love potion is just alcohol.

Here, take my hand. 

I will sprinkle a little fairy dust on that battle wound. 

And then we can look into space together and

let our mouths hang open in awe 

as we watch the galaxy shift. 

they clapped

she walks forward on a livid slab of lies
and she dances around the ashes of her wicked past
and she smiles at the crowd because she likes the attention.

but she started out shy and she was always a worrier
but then she changed from being known to not.

she is somewhere between Thoreau and Oprah in people skills
and people are drawn to her long braided hair.

where ever she walks there is a flurry of rattling leaves that follow her
and she goes around destroying and taking and hurting.

she used to never care about the whispers of the whirlwind
but now she only trusts those who can't be trusted.

and then the crowd embraced her
and then her aftermath faded from sunshine to evening.

wardbacks

I'm sitting here writing this.

But now I'm awake and 

I don't listen to anyone when they try to wake me up.

so no one could wake me up or even find me.

Sometimes I wish I slept under my bed 

I'm going to listen to what my parents say more.

And I estimate those five seconds of courage paid off. 

...that raises my self esteem like 4 points.

much sugar and lots of people tell me it's good

So I make a smoothie with too 

through a couple more hours of videos and competitions. 

and I haven't eaten and I'm tired so I sit

And then the middle is filled with tears and lots of shakes

I hope they stop judging me before I die.

and I'm in awe.

and I stare into eyes of fraudulent compliments

Five seconds of courage is all they say

Then I sit there on a mantle of fear.

of feels all acidy and stuck in my throat.

as the capsule I swallowed with no food so it kind 

The grumbling in my stomach hurst almost as bad

I walked upstairs and prayed.

Start. I brushed my teeth and my hair and my eyebrows. 

step inside, my mausoleum

I will stop my nightmares.
Or my nightmares will stop me.

And I was sitting there wearing a skirt too short to wear to church and it was black and tweed and menacing. I was sitting there folding programs with an end and a beginning and there was a face that looked all too familiar. He was buried in a mausoleum. Right then, I was bombarded with messages of death and I decided, right then that:

I have been to too many funerals and
I don't want to hear or say or read about death anymore--

Because death gives me nightmares.
The kind of nightmares that after, I wake up coiled in my Ikea bedsheets.

Maybe sometime between this nightmare of death and this daydream of life there will be a little less hurt and a little more sleep.

shadow play

Your echoes keep bouncing off the walls of my brain and I'm feeling sick to my heart.

Sometimes I wish you could read my brain like you can read my eyes and my words.

If my brain were a projector...

You could catch every "Oh Snap".

You could shadow play on the wall of my brain.

You could watch me like you watched Cast Away.

You didn't watch Cast Away.

You could begin to understand why I take too long to eat breakfast.

But mostly I wish my brain was a projector because then the important things wouldn't get lost in translation.

Then maybe when you see me, you would stop looking at me like I'm an intruder.

Then we could sit together and make birds and dogs and bunnies shadows with our hands.

You, me, and my brain.

a verse or two for fear

Inside me there are lots of thoughts,

around me there are lots of people,

who walk &

          talk &

          gawk.

Their words are fast.

Their words cook fast.

Their words burn faster. 

I keep looking over my shoulder. 

Until I finally learn to master

my sweaty

     palms &

        feet &

        brain.

Because I'm nervous.

I'm afraid.

To talk to you and to look at you and to love you.

Because there is BBQ in your belly.

And there is a pot roast in your head.

And it's cookin'.

And it's burning.

It's a pattern.

I'm scared, then I'm sweaty, then I'm hurt.

       I'm

       Near

       The 

       Ledge

       And 

       I'm

       Going

       To 

       Forge

       Into

       The

       Uncertainty. 

Because fear isn't going to control me anymore. 

people problems

There are three types of people at Lone Peak High School (or the world)

Type 1: people who like what is popular
Type 2: people who like what they like because they like it
Type 3: people who refuse to like things because everyone else likes those things too

So before I go any further I'm just going to throw something out there.
I think my favorite singer may or may not be Rihanna today.

For today I am listening to all of Rihanna's songs and I don't even care.
I'm replaying Take A Bow and Hate That I Love You and Stay.

Today I'm going to be Type 2.
I don't even care today.

But most days I try too hard to be a Type 3 and then just end up being a Type 1 because the groups of Type 1 and 3 are almost the same... although they would never admit it.

Did you follow that?
Sorry.
Sorry for all those 'Type 1' and 'Type 2' references.

Sometimes words get in the way of what I'm trying to say.

Some things people will never understand about me.

Like what I day dream about in my study hall class instead of doing my statistics homework.

Like what I think about those moments of half consciousness right before I fall asleep.

Even though people say they get it, they never will fully understand what I was trying to say when my words came out tangled.

The scary thing is words are really all I have. Words are the total sum of all that I  think and want and dream and feel. I write or whisper or blabber or blog or talk or type. And then I hope what I say has a relationship more with just than air or paper or a screen.

So I'm just going to listen to a little more Rihanna,
and be a little more Type 2,
and loll around in my thoughts for a few more hours,
until I'm tired enough to do my homework and return to real people and real life.

everything started to hum

Every time I think about you I think about how you might be thinking about me.
It's a tempting thought.
But I wonder what you think about.
Is it me?
It's probably her...
You seem kind of deep so you probably only think of things those types of people would think about,
like:
Old Age
and Money
and Death
and Dreams
and Laughing
and Forever
and Love
and Me.
I bet you think about me.
At least once in a while.
I bet you think about me when your favorite song plays, the one you played for me over and over again and told me I should like.
I bet you think of me when you scroll through your old text messages on three day weekends and see my name.
I bet you think of me when you wake up before the world and it's empty and quite and dark and you can just think of me all you want.
I give you permission.
It's okay.
I bet you think of me when someone has my same name but spells it differently.
Do you remember how to spell my name?
I bet you think about that time when we shared this mutual nothing, according to you.
But I bet you don't know how when I met you my world started to hum.
The trees were humming when I'd walk to church.
The snow was humming when I'd watch it dwindle to the ground.
My love sick music would hum in my head hours after I'd turn it off.
I would hum in the car to no specific song.
Everything in my world started to hum.
And then everything stopped.
It's probably because you stopped thinking about me and started thinking about her.
It's probably because you forgot how funny I am.
You probably forgot how small my hands are.
You probably forgot how I hate to dance but not with you.
You probably never knew how much I liked you.
And how much I thought about you.
But I have better things to think of than you.
I'm kind of a deep person so I can think about things
like:
Old Age

and Money

and Death

and Dreams

and Laughing

and Forever

and Love

and Not You. 

But sometimes when I do think about you, I wonder if you ever think about me.

I bet you think about me.

haters

After watching one too many episodes of the lame T.V. show I'm addicted to lately I'm feeling distracted.

After cleaning my room I don't want to clean it again.

After laying in my bed listening to all my friend's favorite songs I feel like less me and more like them.

The thing about me is I wish I hated or loved more things. I'm always neutral. Either that or I'm too logical. I even have trouble deciding if I like or absolutely dread things like the rain, snow, sunshine, wind...and that's not normal. Right?

I wish I could throw around harsh opinions like 'I hate her. I hate him. I hate chocolate chip cookies. I hate fish. I hate the color red.' But I can't. Because I like chocolate chip cookies if they have enough chocolate chips in them. And I like fish but only rapped in seaweed. I like the color red, but only if it's light and paired with blue. See the issue. Me too.

So from now on...
I'm going to decide to hate some things.
Like probably the scrapping of forks on plates.
Like high school drama.
And I think I hate it when people can just hate whatever they want.
Because lots of people are haters.
Haters are like a whole species of peerless humans who are super good at deciding what to hate and sticking with it.
So I'm okay with my list of three things that I hate for now. Too bad my list of 'hates' ended on an odd number, because I hate ending things I hate on odd numbers.

love lock down

I’m sitting on my art easel contemplating love.

I’m sitting indian style.

and I'm thinking...

I’ve never been in love. I don’t know when I will be in love.

What I do know is that it took me way too long to define something I’ve never experienced. But I think that’s understandable.

So here goes my best attempt at pretending to know what I’m talking about.

I’ve collected flashes of love, from movies and parties and weddings and this is what I’ve calculated. This is as close as I can get. 

LOVE is young.

I’m sitting and drooling and remembering second grade when I was barely old enough to paste paper hearts to my valentine’s day box but I was old enough to hope for, want, and anticipate that special note from that special someone.

I didn’t really care who that special someone was as long as he brought sleeves of Oreo’s and good treats for his birthday to class.

LOVE is my Aveeno lotion.

My skin is so dry when I rub it on it just sort of stings. A sting that reminds me of all those days I tried to ignore the dry patches forming on the part of my elbow I could only see in the mirror. Aveeno lotion only lasts 24 hours anyways. Those dry patches will last longer than 24 hours. Lifetime warranty.

LOVE is Ziploc.

My goldfish taste like Ziploc.

My left over pizza tastes like Ziploc.

Ziploc. Zip lock. Love lock. Love lock down.

Love contaminates ordinary life. Love pollutes logic and scratches out all sense.
Well that about sums it up. I will probably feel differently when this so called 'love' grabs me by the feet ands swings me over the mountains of my ignorance. But for now, this is as close as I can get.

Love is for suckers.
Love is gullible.
Gullible is written on the ceiling.
Don’t look now but so is love.

shut up and listen

(my) existence goes a little bit like this:

mondaze
tuesdaze
wednesdaze
thursdaze
fridaze
saturdaze
sundaze  

Some daze I just feel like I'm Mia Thermopolis. Like from Princess Diaries. But mainly from the one part in the movie when someone sits on her at lunch because she's invisible. I feel like that. Also I feel like her friend Lily who has a talk show and always gets stuck with some lame guy who does card tricks that no one cares about. Lily's show is called 'Shut up and listen'. I think that's kind of, sort of funny and I feel like if there could be a theme to my life it would be that. 'Shut up and listen'.

I don't want to sound snotty like "I hate everyone", although sometimes I do get annoyed with people (especially on mondaze). I also don't want to sound like "Everyone should stop talking because what I have to say is more important than your petty words." I'm actually quite the opposite, I think I could be diagnosed some sort of disease thinking no one cares what I have to say. Is that possible? I'm going to google that right now...(go to google) (type in 'disease when you think no one cares what you have to say') (and then the first thing that pops up says something with bipolar in it) (I laugh a little bit) (I really don't think I'm bipolar).

I just like the whole 'Shut up and listen', because I find it refreshing. It really is satisfying to just stop talking and listen.
    ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Also I don't feel like I had enough big words to suffice all you who are looking for some intellectual post. Well I would consider two words in the last sentence to be adequately large so I hope all is well.

a cat nap proves humanity

I will prove to all of you that I am human...

So, I think it's only appropriate I prove my humanity by a nap log. Here is my reasoning...only humans can/need/want to nap and robots never rest; therefore, proving that I nap proves that I am human and proving I am human proves that I'm not a robot. I find that logical.

monday                              2:45-6:07
tuesday                              3:07-4:56
wednesday                        3:48-5:42
thursday                            4:04-6:22
friday                                 N/A
saturday                            3:12-5:56
sunday                              (hasn't happened yet but I'm guestimating
                                          it's going to occur roughly between the
                                          the hours of 2-5)

*The above log may suggest the following:
           #1 I have no life
           #2 I'm pre-diabetic
           #3 I'm so humanly

the Repetition of (my) moments.
the Sequence of (my) days.
the Pattern of (my) existence.

my RSP