Alec fucking Bates.

That letter is this page.

Today I saw someone that I never wanted to see ever again. His mere presence brought all of this hatred back into my heart. He is forgiven. His family is forgiven. But they are still despised. It’s hard to let go, and I want to say that I have, because I haven’t thought of it, I’ve clearly moved on, and I am happier now, but the fact that he had the audacity to show up and speak to my loved ones was just despicable. I contained my emotions long enough. Trust me, I know it’s done. I know I’ve moved on. I really have but him bringing himself back into our lives isn’t something I ever looked forward to or saw coming.

Take off your sunglasses and look at me straight in the eye like a fucking man. I know you recognized me. I know you saw me there. I saw you speaking to my family. What are you doing here? Are you friendless? He can’t even look at a child without shaded frames in front of his face. Are you hiding emotions? Are you too weak to face me? To apologize to me? I’d never hurt anyone physically, and I know they wouldn’t either, but emotional pain has been shoved at me up to my sophomore year. I’m not going back there. Stay away.

Pathetic.

I like spending time with my mom. I just feel horrible that she hasn’t been able to rest lately. Grandma is in the hospital, she’s working, she’s barely getting sleep, and she’s helping out friends. That’s a lot to put on one person. My help is limited, because there are things that I must take care of like school work and driving practice and college preparations, and all of these things. I wish I had more time to help her.

My literature class is reading the play Arcadia by Tom Stoppard, and I have been blown away. Thomasina is my favorite character, obviously. She’s so bright and intelligent for a 13-year-old, and I know that all the things I’m saying right now are probably reaaaaalllllly cliché and that other readers of this play probably say things like that all the time, but she really is. When I was thirteen, I liked boys and gum. I didn’t give a shit about math or theories or whatever. She’s so clever, and I guess that’s why I admire her. I’ve always liked clever people. She reminds me of Hermione but with more spunk and snark. I don’t know. I just really like her character, and I’m just really glad that Ms. Maloney chose this play.

My last days of high school go like this:

1. Cap & Gown pick up
2. Door
3. Field Trips
4. Buy yearbook (maybe)
5. Senior awards night
6. Finals
7. Graduation rehearsal
8. Senior Breakfast
9. Graduation rehearsal
10. Graduation

Gah.

Excited and kind of nervous.

Okay, I lied… I’m a lot nervous. Like super duper nervous. Like omg-I-am-going-to-fuck-up-somehow-and-trip-and-fall-when-I-walk-the-stage-and-my-undies-will-be-exposed-and-just-thinking-about-how-nervous-I-am-makes-me-want-to-piss-my-pants-like-it-doesn’t-even-just-makes-me-go-it-makes-me-actually-WANT-to-go-so-like-ew nervous.

So that’s hella.

Wow.

asdfa,dfbajerghkaljerhfzerg”S:er;gfhaIUWlegrl3awigeuhvdlnkzxf

lionsandbaseball:

Stuff demands to be done. Well this stuff isn’t as demanding as it is necessary for various reasons. The things themselves aren’t typically the ones demanding; the ones demanding are typically people who present to you these things such as teachers, bosses, and coaches. Assignments and projects are always going to be handed to you. Whether big or small, there must always be a space left for the next. The leeway time in between projects that allows for a wonderful time of relaxation is very brief. Next thing you know, the next project is in front of you.

The way I see it, people can either see projects as stressors or as opportunities to create, think, and learn. I like the second option.

I GOTTA FINISH THIS FREAKING ESSAY BUT TUMBLR AND TWITTER AND YOUTUBE AND PINTEREST GUH WHY AM I ADDICTED TO PINTEREST GAH

edit: I FINISHED OMG I FINISHED THANK YA JESUS I FINISHED. ALSO HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER. OMG. THE MOTHER. DUDE. YES. SHE. IS. BEAUTIFUL. I APPROVE. I SHIP IT. OTP FOREVER. WOOOO

The end is inevitable. 19 days of high school.

Yeah, I’m trying to write something deep here, but nothing is coming out. Sorry about that.

My life without softball is nothing.