one zero zero zero zero zero zero cruel

Sarah Palin inspires me to spit nails. With my words, of course, as any decent aspiring journalist would.

Please don't misunderstand. I'm a feminist when it counts, and I'll pump a fist in the air to support strong women toppling tradition and societal norms.

But, Sarah Palin? Aleutian Barbie? The walking Lenscrafters advertisement? The hypocritical contradiction? Dolores Umbridge bolstering the Muggle world? Mother of Track, Trig, Bristol, Willow, and Piper? How much is McCain's choice a sincere attempt to change American politics versus a sheer ploy to alienate the American public?

Granted, I still haven't decisively cast my vote. I'll do my additional research and watch the election play out until November. I'll mail my absentee and watch the world unfold.

Change is imminent, but only in terms of gender or race. How much can either candidate truly reshape our nation? How much change is our nation prepared to accept?

I'm sick of bipartisan politics; maybe this isn't the answer. I'm prepared for change, but we're all just riding the median. There's no such thing as an extremist in America. There are those that believe in the American identity, and those that do not. There are the faithful and the jaded, the blind and the blindfolded.

There's no conclusion to my pseudo-editorial. I'm just angry. Maybe soon enough I'll find a better way to express it with words.

If not, there's always Quidditch.

(i'll wait outside your heart)

cross my heart, I would die
shove the needle in my eye
be your sugar, I could try
where's the papers, let me sign
all I want is to be wanted by you

I really ought to ask Cassi to help me update this monster. This delicious, teenage angst beast.

I'm in like again. This rather bizarre preteen crush on a boy I hardly know. But one I'd very much like to.

There's Harry, still.
There's always Harry.

But then there's this new antelope grazing the plain (what a silly analogy!). We'll call him Apollo. Or Paulo. Ech, Apollo. He looks like an Apollo. Or an Adonis.

I'm mumbling and giggly.

I like it. I like this nervous, gaspy feeling. I like feeling insecure (sometimes) and grasping for words to make awkward jokes and panic as I struggle to fill silences that are perfectly acceptable just being.

But, most of all, I like this newness. I like Apollo's quirks and knowing that I don't know him. I'm getting there, slowly, predicting words and jokes and grammatical mishaps. I like the neuroticism (yes! a made-up word) associated with meeting new people, elongated conversations about nothingness and just existing.

In some nine-odd days, I'll hopefully be throwing myself headfirst into this expectational lack of cognizance. Seven-thousand new peers, 100-plus new roommates, 150-odd new classmates...and Apollo just a hop-skip-and-a-bus-ride away.

I'm nervous and excited and nauseated.

And I like it.

my aim is true.

(alison)

I lied. Again.

It's not over. It's not over. It's not over.

I spent part of the day at Harry's, lounging on his couch, petting his dogs (literally, not a figurative sexual assertion), meeting his parents (for the first time in two years, oddly. I think I may have managed to perhaps impress them a bit), stealing his CDs, and channel-surfing between monk (!) and malcolm. Oh, Harry.

It was strange, ethereal, surreal.

I was suffering from this disconnect where my mind wandered with touching lips and my being remained, static, warm, wholly conscious of new haircuts and wanderlust and romantic, yes romantic tension.

As I drove away after a gripping hug-- me, clutching, too tightly-- and promises to keep in touch, I felt an emptiness greater than anything I had experienced prior, and I was overwhelmed by, simply and melodramatically, the immensity of my sentiments for him. My hands drove me away, but my heart boarded the train right back to him.

In all my goodbyes, I never once felt the tug of heartstrings and the stinging itch of tears crowding the ducts in the exterior compartments of my eyes. Until Harry.

Harry.

It's not over. It's never over.

And, if it's not love, it's damn close.

fuck me for letting go of chances. fuck me for not taking a chance.

the pains of being pure at heart

I lied.

Pretty sure it's over.

More exciting posting later about the potentially thrilling new revelation in my life!