A tattered green composition book has been the home of my thoughts for the past three summers. None of the following are in order, but they are thoughts I immediately wrote down. I am sharing them now.
I.
Guys hurry up.
Don't smoke, kiddos.
II.
Its dark and I'm alone in the city. A revolution was fought here. Why am I stil standing.
III.
The piano is not firewoods yet but a heart can't be helped and it gathers regret. R.S.
IV.
Wood wood wood
V.
Incredible amounts of mallets. They amass I guess.
VI.
Laundry
Water bottle
F451
Bathroom
Set measures s. 1 2
Dresser
VII.
On. Noise is off. Noises off.
VIII.
My house was a summer camp in the 1950s. I like to think that my bedroom was used as the science or art room. I hope it was.
IX.
Copley to park st
Green
Park street » downtown crossing
Red
Downtown » chinatown
Orange
X.
Ireland
XI.
Jessica was sweet
XII.
I so want to begin to love again but you're still here
I cant really do roman numerals past this point.
13.
It always shocks
Me
To no end
That february comes and goes
That holy spaces
Are found
In any place we want them to be
That her letter arrived
Safe
That my mind doesnt hold stars
That we are so far away
I cant touch you.
14.
Is it possible to love too much
15.
Because I think I do.
16.
We got home at 3 in the morning and you slept on the way
17.
E C
N A
D R
L R
E Y
S
S existance
L
Y
H
U
M
A
N
18.
Please
19.
Always correspond with far away friends
20.
55 e washington. Who did she go to?
21.
They told me to breathe
I'm not
22.
I saw you walking your dog today, except it wasnt you and I was alone on the street.
23.
Am I ok or what?
24.
I'm sorry that I spilled some of me on you. It should come out in due time. It will I promise. Keep walking.
25.
I think I look really cute today but I also dressed up for no one they do not appreciate my efforts none of them
26.
I think today is dedicated to forgetting time
To burning bridges
To churches in Maine
To Amelia Earheart
To those last 17 cents from your coffee
To old pizza
To preschool graduation
To my favorite lighter
To great aunt Marions senior prom
To old socks
To new habits
27.
Old eraser shavings. What did I write?
28.
You left the blood stains on my favorote shirt. I try to forget but these blotches remind me
29.
He kissed me in a hallway
I let him and I kissed back
He held my heart in a lacquer box
And tucked it in hos worn out leather jacket
That smelled like soap
Cigarettes
And nature.
His hands held my hips
And his lips pressed my nose
And he said "I long for you"
(It was a lie)
30.
Maybe she made me feel wanted
31.
Maybe she made me feel unwanted
32.
I'm not sure what it smells like
33.
(I like to think I've moved on)
34.
Naumkeag
Nom keg
Enjolras
Coufeyrac
Baliene
Switched
Baleine
Whale
I'm trying to be articulate, but lord knows how that's going.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Monday, February 2, 2015
Horatio Street
Horatio street is barely what I would consider a street. It can't be more than 100 feet long, and it's location is buried in downtown New York City. I'm talking literal DOWN town, not in the heart of the city. Horatio street is profound to me in the sense that it houses the start of my life, my life of wondering, my life of observation, my life of people watching and fact collection, my life of art and literature, my life of city and surrounding, which I am not quite sure of the meaning, it's up for interpretation. In fact, it's not the street itself that I drawn to, but a small park with a wrought iron fence and a fountain to match.
November 27, 2014, the Ayers' took a trip to NYC. This was our day to explore the city. Along with typical targets like Times Square and Rockerfeller Center were smaller, more local if you will, spots. Places like the Highline park, Chelsea Market, and the Strand bookstore. We took the subway to 14th street and continued walking down, braving the bitter cold and pretending we were happy. I turned to my brother and asked him if I might have a chance at owning the best ass below fourteenth street, to which I was met with a "not a chance, Marquez." I digress.
As we neared the old Chelsea meat packing area, my little eye caught sight of a small park with no activity in it. The world moved around it, but inside all motion was stopped. No birds moved, no birds were present, no water flowed from the fountain. I wanted to take a break from the rapid motion I had come to recognize as a city norm, and stepped inside. Nothing impressive happened, I came to no sudden epiphanies, but just for a moment, I was in my world alone, and I am definitely quoting Lorde on that one.
I guess I felt a connection to the park on Horatio Street, I must have if I picked it out of everywhere else. Maybe there was something spectacular and ingrained in me that happened.
Rewind the clock to 1997. Where were you? I was in my mothers womb. Where was she? Living in New York in an all girls residence on
13th street, pregnant with me. After returning from the November trip, she told me that the little Horatio Street park was her spot. She would go there and contemplate life, she would talk to me, she would people watch.
It was roughly the 17th anniversary of my conception, and I was brought straight to the place where I was "from*"
Maybe it was a reminder of human connection, of mother and daughter, of a space in a city that you call your own but was, is, and ever will be shared by so many people, just maybe not at the exact moments as you. Maybe it was a reminder of how even though the universe is immense, that people repeat patterns and are drawn to the same things, of how each perceives everything as different, of a reminder that life goes on outside of your mind, and you can't stay in it for too long.
Horatio Street is a reminder that everything will be ok. From November 1997, to July 1998, to November 2014 to February 2015, everything will work out for mother, for daughter, for father, for son, it will be good.
Thank you, Horatio Street.
*I am almost 100% certain I was not conceived IN the park
November 27, 2014, the Ayers' took a trip to NYC. This was our day to explore the city. Along with typical targets like Times Square and Rockerfeller Center were smaller, more local if you will, spots. Places like the Highline park, Chelsea Market, and the Strand bookstore. We took the subway to 14th street and continued walking down, braving the bitter cold and pretending we were happy. I turned to my brother and asked him if I might have a chance at owning the best ass below fourteenth street, to which I was met with a "not a chance, Marquez." I digress.
As we neared the old Chelsea meat packing area, my little eye caught sight of a small park with no activity in it. The world moved around it, but inside all motion was stopped. No birds moved, no birds were present, no water flowed from the fountain. I wanted to take a break from the rapid motion I had come to recognize as a city norm, and stepped inside. Nothing impressive happened, I came to no sudden epiphanies, but just for a moment, I was in my world alone, and I am definitely quoting Lorde on that one.
I guess I felt a connection to the park on Horatio Street, I must have if I picked it out of everywhere else. Maybe there was something spectacular and ingrained in me that happened.
Rewind the clock to 1997. Where were you? I was in my mothers womb. Where was she? Living in New York in an all girls residence on
13th street, pregnant with me. After returning from the November trip, she told me that the little Horatio Street park was her spot. She would go there and contemplate life, she would talk to me, she would people watch.
It was roughly the 17th anniversary of my conception, and I was brought straight to the place where I was "from*"
Maybe it was a reminder of human connection, of mother and daughter, of a space in a city that you call your own but was, is, and ever will be shared by so many people, just maybe not at the exact moments as you. Maybe it was a reminder of how even though the universe is immense, that people repeat patterns and are drawn to the same things, of how each perceives everything as different, of a reminder that life goes on outside of your mind, and you can't stay in it for too long.
Horatio Street is a reminder that everything will be ok. From November 1997, to July 1998, to November 2014 to February 2015, everything will work out for mother, for daughter, for father, for son, it will be good.
Thank you, Horatio Street.
*I am almost 100% certain I was not conceived IN the park
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
Leave Me Alone
I told you to leave me alone. It's not because I don't love you, it's not because I don't want to be with you, it's not because you did anything wrong.
Fact: I am an introvert
Fact: I have social anxiety
Fact: When these two things combine, things get messed up, I freak out, feelings get hurt, tears are shed, villages burn, total death count rises.
Hear me out, this isn't a comfortable subject for anyone to talk about, much less an awkward teenage girl, but I feel like I need to share because I know there are many other people in this world who are just like me in the sense of being able to be with people, and maybe I want for myself to be validated and connect with them, or maybe I want to validate them and have them connect with me, I really don't know.
In eighth grade I started to feel this crippling sense of fear whenever I was expected to interact with someone who wasn't in my circle of friends or immediate family. At the time I chalked this up to being 13 and not fully understanding what to do with myself, but four years later feeling the same way means something totally different.
By sophomore year I realized that this sensation might be something really wrong, that now I was getting scared to be with my friends, that I felt a hundred times better alone than when I was with people, that I was working myself up so much hours, days, weeks before a party/date/other social situation that the actual experience rarely felt worth it.
I was "diagnosed" through a series of psychological exams and studies that really just tested my ability to be questioned, with generalized anxiety and depression in 2013. What this really means is that I am scared and sad a lot of the time.
When you ask me what I want to do and I respond by saying I want to go home, I mean it. For me and many other people, when I say I want to go home, it means that I am very close to collapse and need to be alone, whether that be taking a nap, reading, showering, watching TV, whatever, I need to be alone. When I don't answer my phone for a day or two, it's not because I'm dead, it's not because I'm in trouble and it got taken away, it's just because I need to be alone.
To those of you out there who don't know the feeling of needing your own space for a while, imagine starting each day with a ribbon around your lungs. Some days, you wake up and cannot feel it, others it squeezes you from the moment you open your eyes. When you get to school, the ribbon pulls tighter, when your shoulder brushes someone elses by accident, the ribbon pushes more air out of your lungs, when the lunch lady tells you to type your ID number in again, your lungs are being crushed, and by the time the school day is over you can hardly breathe and you really just want to be away from everyone.
This is the average. When there's a big event, say a school dance, it gets even worse.
When you put your dress on, the ribbon tightens, every time you look at yourself it gets tighter, each time you think about the actual dance it gets tighter, and this is all happening before you leave the house. Once you get to the auditorium, where the dance is held, you're so nervous that you just want to call it quits and go home, but your friends insist on you dancing, which pulls your ribbon tighter, now cutting through the skin around your ribs, they drag you onto the dance floor and you are paralyzed. Your ribs are broken, you cannot breathe, you cannot move, you know you're supposed to be dancing but your knees are locked and you feel the tears pooling in your eyes. You would leave but you can't abandon the boy you brought with you.
Finally you get home and you break down. Everything that could have happened in the auditorium happens right now while you're alone in your bedroom. You're shaking and crying and wondering why you have to be like this. At this moment, being alone is dangerous for you. Although you know you need to reach out to someone for help, you are too afraid to, so you're left in your own head to try to go it alone, and this is when my anxiety becomes crippling.
Fact: I am an introvert
Fact: I have social anxiety
Fact: When these two things combine, things get messed up, I freak out, feelings get hurt, tears are shed, villages burn, total death count rises.
Hear me out, this isn't a comfortable subject for anyone to talk about, much less an awkward teenage girl, but I feel like I need to share because I know there are many other people in this world who are just like me in the sense of being able to be with people, and maybe I want for myself to be validated and connect with them, or maybe I want to validate them and have them connect with me, I really don't know.
In eighth grade I started to feel this crippling sense of fear whenever I was expected to interact with someone who wasn't in my circle of friends or immediate family. At the time I chalked this up to being 13 and not fully understanding what to do with myself, but four years later feeling the same way means something totally different.
By sophomore year I realized that this sensation might be something really wrong, that now I was getting scared to be with my friends, that I felt a hundred times better alone than when I was with people, that I was working myself up so much hours, days, weeks before a party/date/other social situation that the actual experience rarely felt worth it.
I was "diagnosed" through a series of psychological exams and studies that really just tested my ability to be questioned, with generalized anxiety and depression in 2013. What this really means is that I am scared and sad a lot of the time.
When you ask me what I want to do and I respond by saying I want to go home, I mean it. For me and many other people, when I say I want to go home, it means that I am very close to collapse and need to be alone, whether that be taking a nap, reading, showering, watching TV, whatever, I need to be alone. When I don't answer my phone for a day or two, it's not because I'm dead, it's not because I'm in trouble and it got taken away, it's just because I need to be alone.
To those of you out there who don't know the feeling of needing your own space for a while, imagine starting each day with a ribbon around your lungs. Some days, you wake up and cannot feel it, others it squeezes you from the moment you open your eyes. When you get to school, the ribbon pulls tighter, when your shoulder brushes someone elses by accident, the ribbon pushes more air out of your lungs, when the lunch lady tells you to type your ID number in again, your lungs are being crushed, and by the time the school day is over you can hardly breathe and you really just want to be away from everyone.
This is the average. When there's a big event, say a school dance, it gets even worse.
When you put your dress on, the ribbon tightens, every time you look at yourself it gets tighter, each time you think about the actual dance it gets tighter, and this is all happening before you leave the house. Once you get to the auditorium, where the dance is held, you're so nervous that you just want to call it quits and go home, but your friends insist on you dancing, which pulls your ribbon tighter, now cutting through the skin around your ribs, they drag you onto the dance floor and you are paralyzed. Your ribs are broken, you cannot breathe, you cannot move, you know you're supposed to be dancing but your knees are locked and you feel the tears pooling in your eyes. You would leave but you can't abandon the boy you brought with you.
Finally you get home and you break down. Everything that could have happened in the auditorium happens right now while you're alone in your bedroom. You're shaking and crying and wondering why you have to be like this. At this moment, being alone is dangerous for you. Although you know you need to reach out to someone for help, you are too afraid to, so you're left in your own head to try to go it alone, and this is when my anxiety becomes crippling.
Monday, January 19, 2015
This Clock
I never was, am not, and never will be a morning person and I made the executive decision to buy the loudest most obnoxious analog alarm clock known to man. It sits behind my head as I type and ticks away the seconds and though it may not seem like much, these seconds are turning into minutes and hours and days and nights and weeks and months and years and decades and centuries and millennia.
Each tick is counting down the moments until I have to pick my feet up and bring them to school, counting up the seconds that I am spending without you at my side. Constantly showing my movement through time, and yes I know a clock shouldn't be this existential but each second passing is another second pushed from the front half of my life to the back half pushing me closer to adulthood and pulling me farther away from childhood and yes that is the epitome of teendom but I'm not quite used to it and oh god I am so much closer to being 20 than I am to being 10.
Each tick is pulsing through my ears like a percussive beat that is moving way too slowly and let's go faster I promise I can beat you in this race if my legs move any faster I might take off come on keep up your legs are longer than mine any ways
Each tick is counting down the moments until I have to pick my feet up and bring them to school, counting up the seconds that I am spending without you at my side. Constantly showing my movement through time, and yes I know a clock shouldn't be this existential but each second passing is another second pushed from the front half of my life to the back half pushing me closer to adulthood and pulling me farther away from childhood and yes that is the epitome of teendom but I'm not quite used to it and oh god I am so much closer to being 20 than I am to being 10.
Each tick is pulsing through my ears like a percussive beat that is moving way too slowly and let's go faster I promise I can beat you in this race if my legs move any faster I might take off come on keep up your legs are longer than mine any ways
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Big Baby.
There are perks to being friends with people older than you, like when they can get you into that R-rated movie (that totally shouldn't be rated that, by the way) (I'm talking Grand Budapest Hotel), when they can provide car rides to the city for you so that you don't have to go with your mom, when they offer you sage advice on how to pass the SAT's.
Then, there are the pitfalls to having just turned sixteen when everyone around you is seventeen, eighteen. They're walking into local coffee-shop shows with confidence, while I stand in the corner like the big baby I am. They're going shopping with the money they earned from work, when you're not old enough to get a work permit. They can wrap their minds around high school, when you can't. Some of these are due to age, some are due to emotional maturity.
I am sixteen years old. My face is eleven, my body is twenty, my speaking voice is fourteen while my singing voice is seven. My maturity is twelve.
Being one of the youngest ones in your grade isn't fun. You're treated as the innocent child even though you are sure that is not the case. You have secrets kept from you because you're "too young to handle them." You're left out because maybe they don't want a kid around them. You're the little sister to the group.
Since you've earned the title, maybe you turn into it. You're completely dependant on other people and obviously you cannot function for yourself. The fact that you're graduating and expected to live on your own in two years makes you shake down to your core because the world is a very dangerous place, but you get mad because your parents wont let you ride your bike in the woods at night.
This is why I'm really just a big baby.
Then, there are the pitfalls to having just turned sixteen when everyone around you is seventeen, eighteen. They're walking into local coffee-shop shows with confidence, while I stand in the corner like the big baby I am. They're going shopping with the money they earned from work, when you're not old enough to get a work permit. They can wrap their minds around high school, when you can't. Some of these are due to age, some are due to emotional maturity.
I am sixteen years old. My face is eleven, my body is twenty, my speaking voice is fourteen while my singing voice is seven. My maturity is twelve.
Being one of the youngest ones in your grade isn't fun. You're treated as the innocent child even though you are sure that is not the case. You have secrets kept from you because you're "too young to handle them." You're left out because maybe they don't want a kid around them. You're the little sister to the group.
Since you've earned the title, maybe you turn into it. You're completely dependant on other people and obviously you cannot function for yourself. The fact that you're graduating and expected to live on your own in two years makes you shake down to your core because the world is a very dangerous place, but you get mad because your parents wont let you ride your bike in the woods at night.
This is why I'm really just a big baby.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Sticky Little Fingers
Roll over and close your eyes. Maybe mom didn't just wake you up. Maybe it was a dream. Go back to sleep.
Moan when you know that it wasn't a dream, and that you have to get up. You have to get up to do something that you want to do. You don't want to get up.
Get out of bed. Find that floral dress that you like. Put it on. Spend too much time searching for your blue polka-dot socks. Put your feet into navy blue sneakers. Give yourself a once over.
"I guess you look decent" you tell yourself. You never look good, but today isn't particularly bad. You still need to brush your teeth. You still need to do your hair. You still need to put on makeup. You still need to finish your summer homework, but you can get to that later.
Put your hair into a light pink bow, make your eyeliner look like it wasn't done by a four year old with a crayon.
"You look more decent. Now you'll fit in places that aren't mostly populated by sad teenagers with not-enough-energy."
Destination: Flying Saucer Pizza. Company: A friend from a far off place, and your mother. Time: 12:07 pm.
You are outnumbered. You are the only vegetarian. Are you causing problems? Yes you are. Let them get pepperoni. You are ok with consuming some Coca-Cola and left crusts for lunch. It's not like you're that hungry.
The group settles on a meatless pizza with fig sauce and broccoli. You still feel like you're getting in the way of things, even though your group members seem to be enjoying the choice much more than you are. After all, you feel your stomach expanding with every bite you take.
Destination: Salem Willows. Company: Has not changed. Time: 1:34 pm.
Enter the arcade. Your mother hands you eight quarters. Two dollars. This responsibility makes you feel childlike, knowing that you're going to essentially spend it on Tootsie Rolls. You will later feel guilty for eating these.
You won at least three times the amount of tickets that your friend won. This makes you feel horrible. She came to America and is now watching you be exponentially better at things than her, and that is not a comfortable feeling. Leave the arcade. Walk towards the ice cream stand.
Order a small mint Oreo ice cream in a cone. This is your favorite flavor. You are already full from the pizza, but continue to eat the ice cream. You wish you had gotten a kiddie size.
You walk towards the ocean, carrying on conversation about college in America versus Russia. Your stomach churns with every word. The thought of living on your own and paying for further education makes you feel sick.
"It is only in two years, good luck, bozo." That's the voice in your head.
Your ice cream starts to drip onto your fingers. You can feel tears welling up in your eyes. No, you can't start crying right now. You're in public. You're with two other people. There's nothing to cry about. You've been through worse.
More ice cream drip on your hand. There's sticky cream on your friend now, too. You walk back to the ice cream stand to get napkins. It's time to go home.
Once you get home, you look in the mirror. Your chubby, sticky hands connect to balloonish arms, clinging to a lumpy back which winds into a bubble of a stomach. You need to change into something that hides this.
The floral dress, polka dot socks, and navy blue shoes come off, and you trade them for old gray sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. You can hide in these clothes.
To start, your day was ok, you looked better than normal, but as the hours passed and ice cream dripped onto your hands, you realized that there are little things that make you want to return to morning, and never leave your bed.
Moan when you know that it wasn't a dream, and that you have to get up. You have to get up to do something that you want to do. You don't want to get up.
Get out of bed. Find that floral dress that you like. Put it on. Spend too much time searching for your blue polka-dot socks. Put your feet into navy blue sneakers. Give yourself a once over.
"I guess you look decent" you tell yourself. You never look good, but today isn't particularly bad. You still need to brush your teeth. You still need to do your hair. You still need to put on makeup. You still need to finish your summer homework, but you can get to that later.
Put your hair into a light pink bow, make your eyeliner look like it wasn't done by a four year old with a crayon.
"You look more decent. Now you'll fit in places that aren't mostly populated by sad teenagers with not-enough-energy."
Destination: Flying Saucer Pizza. Company: A friend from a far off place, and your mother. Time: 12:07 pm.
You are outnumbered. You are the only vegetarian. Are you causing problems? Yes you are. Let them get pepperoni. You are ok with consuming some Coca-Cola and left crusts for lunch. It's not like you're that hungry.
The group settles on a meatless pizza with fig sauce and broccoli. You still feel like you're getting in the way of things, even though your group members seem to be enjoying the choice much more than you are. After all, you feel your stomach expanding with every bite you take.
Destination: Salem Willows. Company: Has not changed. Time: 1:34 pm.
Enter the arcade. Your mother hands you eight quarters. Two dollars. This responsibility makes you feel childlike, knowing that you're going to essentially spend it on Tootsie Rolls. You will later feel guilty for eating these.
You won at least three times the amount of tickets that your friend won. This makes you feel horrible. She came to America and is now watching you be exponentially better at things than her, and that is not a comfortable feeling. Leave the arcade. Walk towards the ice cream stand.
Order a small mint Oreo ice cream in a cone. This is your favorite flavor. You are already full from the pizza, but continue to eat the ice cream. You wish you had gotten a kiddie size.
You walk towards the ocean, carrying on conversation about college in America versus Russia. Your stomach churns with every word. The thought of living on your own and paying for further education makes you feel sick.
"It is only in two years, good luck, bozo." That's the voice in your head.
Your ice cream starts to drip onto your fingers. You can feel tears welling up in your eyes. No, you can't start crying right now. You're in public. You're with two other people. There's nothing to cry about. You've been through worse.
More ice cream drip on your hand. There's sticky cream on your friend now, too. You walk back to the ice cream stand to get napkins. It's time to go home.
Once you get home, you look in the mirror. Your chubby, sticky hands connect to balloonish arms, clinging to a lumpy back which winds into a bubble of a stomach. You need to change into something that hides this.
The floral dress, polka dot socks, and navy blue shoes come off, and you trade them for old gray sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. You can hide in these clothes.
To start, your day was ok, you looked better than normal, but as the hours passed and ice cream dripped onto your hands, you realized that there are little things that make you want to return to morning, and never leave your bed.
Monday, August 18, 2014
Men's Socks
It's very difficult to me not to buy mens clothing instead of girls. No, I don't identify as male, and yes, I am comfortable as a girl, but sometimes blouses and tights become bleak or annoying and change is due.
Considering that I have no impulse control when the summer starts when it comes to cutting all of my jeans into shaggy, uneven, totally not ok to go in public with shorts, each August brings a trip to Old Navy to get more jeans that fit. They also have a mens section.
Old Navy seems to be the only place where I can purchase pants because I have thick thighs, long legs, and weirdly shaped hips. Size six, Diva style, to be exact. Anyways, I went in to buy pants.
While I was there, I had to hunt down my brother. He was taking too long in the tee-shirt department. I was looking for a middle school boy, I found fox socks and blue socks and red socks and striped socks. On sale.
There might have been something weird to my mother about her teenage daughter coming up to her in a dress and saying, "Mom? Can I buy these men's socks?" But come on, they were fox-socks.
Aside from finding these socks to be the most comfortable thing ever, I wear my brothers clothes a lot. Not really pants, but a lot of shirts. If my house had transparent walls, you could often see me pulling boys tee-shirts on, trying to see if I can cut my old pajama pants into boxers, and letting my feet swim in my brothers size 11 socks (women's size 12. I'm a size 8). This annoys him a lot.
I have a distinct memory of wearing my brothers sweatshirt one February morning, and making pancakes to surprise him when he got up. The scene went like this:
"Take my sweatshirt off."
"No"
"Yes. It's mine, you're a girl anyways."
"No."
"Take it off."
"Fine."
So I did just that. My brother (twelve at the time) was standing there in sweatpants and no shirt, so why couldn't I?
Thankfully neither of my parents were home, and no one rang the doorbell, because I don't think anyone (besides the one person who did, and that was involuntary), wanted to see a half naked fifteen year old girl.
I didn't grow up with sisters. I grew up with my one younger brother. I hate his guts, but I've picked up habits from him. There's two bathrooms in my house, and my mother has offered countless times for me to share her bathroom with her. I always decline. The shower's too small, and she'll probably use my shampoo. Instead, I share the smaller bathroom (that has a bathtub) with two boys/men. This is probably why I have no modesty, because guys generally don't. I don't have a problem with someone brushing their teeth while I'm showering, as long as their not brushing their teeth in the shower with me. That would be weird.
Really, all I want in life is to ditch my floral dress every once in a while, and become a dirty boy. But while still being a girl.
Considering that I have no impulse control when the summer starts when it comes to cutting all of my jeans into shaggy, uneven, totally not ok to go in public with shorts, each August brings a trip to Old Navy to get more jeans that fit. They also have a mens section.
Old Navy seems to be the only place where I can purchase pants because I have thick thighs, long legs, and weirdly shaped hips. Size six, Diva style, to be exact. Anyways, I went in to buy pants.
While I was there, I had to hunt down my brother. He was taking too long in the tee-shirt department. I was looking for a middle school boy, I found fox socks and blue socks and red socks and striped socks. On sale.
There might have been something weird to my mother about her teenage daughter coming up to her in a dress and saying, "Mom? Can I buy these men's socks?" But come on, they were fox-socks.
Aside from finding these socks to be the most comfortable thing ever, I wear my brothers clothes a lot. Not really pants, but a lot of shirts. If my house had transparent walls, you could often see me pulling boys tee-shirts on, trying to see if I can cut my old pajama pants into boxers, and letting my feet swim in my brothers size 11 socks (women's size 12. I'm a size 8). This annoys him a lot.
I have a distinct memory of wearing my brothers sweatshirt one February morning, and making pancakes to surprise him when he got up. The scene went like this:
"Take my sweatshirt off."
"No"
"Yes. It's mine, you're a girl anyways."
"No."
"Take it off."
"Fine."
So I did just that. My brother (twelve at the time) was standing there in sweatpants and no shirt, so why couldn't I?
Thankfully neither of my parents were home, and no one rang the doorbell, because I don't think anyone (besides the one person who did, and that was involuntary), wanted to see a half naked fifteen year old girl.
I didn't grow up with sisters. I grew up with my one younger brother. I hate his guts, but I've picked up habits from him. There's two bathrooms in my house, and my mother has offered countless times for me to share her bathroom with her. I always decline. The shower's too small, and she'll probably use my shampoo. Instead, I share the smaller bathroom (that has a bathtub) with two boys/men. This is probably why I have no modesty, because guys generally don't. I don't have a problem with someone brushing their teeth while I'm showering, as long as their not brushing their teeth in the shower with me. That would be weird.
Really, all I want in life is to ditch my floral dress every once in a while, and become a dirty boy. But while still being a girl.
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