Lunch

Today, I met a friend that I had not seen in too long. I hadn't seen Emma since we were in marching band together. We made plans to see each other, but since we didn't excange numbers, we had no way of calling to make sure the plans were still good. Thankfully both of us were punctual. Her dress had embroidered with flowers that made me feel rather underdressed in my black shirt and shorts.
We sat at a nice table with only two seats. Two waiters approached the table, and one told us that the other was new and was practicing. Not that we cared, and actually, we laughed together about how silly they were. He took our order and returned to the kitchen.
I asked Emma about college and her teachers. I told her about the new band that I'm in and how it's still in the "let's see how it works" phase. We laughed at the waiter again--not in his prescence, of course--because he got the order wrong after making sure this is what I wanted.
After a while our conversation became more relaxed, as it can be awkward with a reunion like this. We talked long after I finished my meal and after she nibled at hers. We exchanged stories, so we could catch each other up. We talked about past love interests and the interests of friends. I told her about Anna, Missy, David and his girlfriend, Rachel, and how David is a jerk according to Missy after he got a girl. She told me about how her old boyfriend, Michael, has a rude girl that he met on the internet. We spent hours engaged in stories and we were some of the last people in an empty Chappy's. It was a good day.

Love is blind.

I've always heard that love is blind. They have it all wrong. That's Destiny. Destiny is blind. Life throws many curves, and while they are unpredictable, they make sense in the future.

Love is definitely sighted, however it is the most irrational one I've known. They way Love operates is completely devoid of all logic: anything that can be considered logical cannot be considered love. There is no way to rationalize that emotion. Love sneaks up like a shadowy friend bearing gifts. The gift Love gives is more powerful that any other gift. If you love someone, something, a cause, or an idea enough, the beloved thing becomes the most important, even above life. When one considers life itself less important that what one loves, one loves truly.

Love is also a shadowy friend that can rob one of all affection that it wishes. There is no rhythm or algebra in its motives, and it whittles away at the strongest of connections.

Asking one to explain the reason for falling in, and especially out, of love is like asking to calculate emotions into an organised orderly chart: it is impossible. No one should be expected to recount the causes for the finished love.

In the fits of rage and confusion that comes with a breakup, it is uncommon to understand that there is no cause, no one thing, no fault, nothing that could have changed, and no changing the past if there were anything.

It is uncommon to have a forward-thinking mind, since it is easy to fall back into old habits and to cherish the past. The past should be cherished, but one should make preparations for the future. There is only one life, and that life goes by fast if one doesn't live in the moment. Hold on to old memories, but make new ones, because there is an entire world out there filled with beauty that does not lie in the recesses of ones own mind.

Sometimes there is no closure.

God awful poetry

I am a member of a monthly poetry publication, called The Sheet, since it is only one sheet of paper. The Sheet survives on submissions from members and non members alike. The submissions are voted on and the best ones make it on the Sheet. There is really no censorship on the submission Packet, and we can giggle to ourselves about the rather profane poems, but in the actual publication, there are poems that do not make it for this reason. For three years now, I've been a part of making this happen. I review poems and vote so I can make The Sheet the best it can be.
Thompson, who is at the center of this operation, has allowed not profanity to riddle The Sheet, but he has allowed unkempt sub-poems to be published. Below is the horrendous, sorriest excuse for poetry that I have ever read (and I quote the text accurately):

If Tomorrow Never Come by W. Banks
If Tomorrow never come will she know how much I really lover her I mean these feelings I have never felt Before I just wish 2nite could be our nite so I can look her in her eyes and tell her how I feel because if she look deep in my eyes she can really see all my feelings inside and I wil never have to hide my feelings she will just know how much I feel about her but if tomorrow never come she will never know how much I love her and she will never know she is the only 1 I love but I pray to GOD hoping today is the day all of my dreams come true so she can hold an cherish my love forever

I shudder at the thought that someone, such as W. Banks, is so unskilled with the english language to abjure any punctuation, but include numbers (such as 2nite (the spelling of which is an atrocity alone)). I really want to help his ineptitude, but I don't have any idea where to start. This is a challenge to read, since the reader is not promped to breathe. This poem persuades the reader to speak with the tone of a child. There are numerous angles at which I could destroy this poem analytically, but I can't stand to look at it any more.

I didn't know you take gifts back

A few months ago, my girlfriend of two and a half years and I broke up after I began to fall out of love. My heart was swayed, and I made a mistake of kissing another girl. She found out after I tried to hide it, my attempts at hiding it made her even more furious (protip: don't give your girlfriend your facebook password, ever). I broke her. I regret this more than anything I have ever done. I became an enemy of her friends, who acted like pack-minded wolves, as if I was a threat to the unit. If not for the support of my friends, I don't think I could have handled this, mentally.

She was very creative, and it was a common thing for her to give me things she made in art class. I had tacked several paintings, cards, drawings, and had stuffed animals that she hand-made, arranged on one of my tables in my bedroom. They were a reminder of better times. I was fond of the memories that they represent. I didn't want to just pack all of them away in a box. Since they she was such an important part of my life, I wanted them visible, a testimony of our time together.

She called me, wanting her stuff back. I asked if she wanted all of it...

I packed up everything that she ever gave me, because she wants it all back. I have never heard of taking gifts back from the people you give them to. This will eventually fade my memory of her completely, but I packed her into three giant, overflowing bags. I think it's such a rude thing to do, although understandable, considering what I did. She hasn't even asked if I want my gifts back, the answer to which would be a resounding "no," because gifts are something that are not yours once you give them.

Sex Dream

I dig Sandman comics. Neil Gaiman, the author, has influenced me so that I listen more closely to what my dreams say. I have developed an intimate, no pun intended, relationship with dreams, since they offer me a second life, where I can bend or even make the rules. I live two lives: one while awake and one while asleep. Dreams are very special to me.

I told one of my friends that I had a dream in which we had sex. Knowing her, I thought she would take it lightly, since she's been very open to me, and since she is not one to contain a thought if it entered her mind. She took it lightly, as I expected, for a few seconds... She then turned to face me and asked me if I meant anything by telling her that, if I was going anywhere with the comment. I froze for a moment, and I told her that I didn't mean anything by it. And she let the conversation go, and quickly we talked about other things. However, I can't help but think she could see my face blush when she asked. I felt my face burn with heat from being put on the spot like that. But I got my nerves down.
I would have never asked my friend like that if I had wanted to actually have sex or if I had wanted to start some sort of relationship. It's not because I'm so consumed by having this reserved behavior or anything. I live life and take chances, but I take chances that need to be taken. Furthermore, I don't think that would be a good way of asking for sex (as if there were a proper way to ask).