Forget About It

by Nelson
September 19, 2014


I'm reading The Blind Side and the kid says,

"People ask me if I ever reach the top will I forget about them? So I ask people if I don't
reach the top will y'all forget about me?"

Forget About It

I said something terrible the other day. We watched a video and I laughed and told the
class:

I don't remember that student's name. I don't remember that student's name. Or that
student's name. And it wasn't a lie. I couldn't think of their names off the top of my head.

So here's how I sleep at night:

Let's just run the numbers. Two classes every semester, that's 70 students. So every year
that's 140 students. After 5 years, that's 700 students. Not to mention the four classes of
sophmores, that's 120 every year. After six years, that's 720 students. So that's over 1400
students in six years.

I mean, my heart is big, but c'mon...

Plus I have to remember my wife's birthday, what grades my kids are in, my social security
number, my anniversary, my address, my phone number, my top 5 favorite movies, my
daughter's voice, to get milk, where I parked the car, when I last mowed the lawn, when I
last wore this shirt, when the next new episode of New Girl is on, to take attendance, what
my brother Josh looked like when he smiled, that God loves me, where my keys are, to tell
my mom I love her, to call my dad on his birthday, my Skyward password,

plus a bunch of other stuff I can't remember.

So if I see you in a Walmart checkout line or in an old video, please forgive me if I can't
think of your name right away.

I promise, I haven't forgotten you.

Your name is just a leaf that hasn't dropped yet. So before a big windstorm comes by, do
something for me.

Remember when we made the dance video with Caden and Tara and everyone? Forget
about it.

Remember Tim's face when he was sitting back at my computer? Forget about it.

Remember when Lexi came back? Remember when Lon got up and read? Remember
when Sarah and Addie's blogs made us jealous? Forget about it.

Remember how excited we all were on the first day? Forget about it.

Remember how nostalgic we were at the end? Forget about it.

Remember how I struggled to get your attention because the girls were just too excited
about everything all the time? Forget about it.

Remember the day we tried to talk about Johnny, but nobody knew what to say? Forget
about it.

Remember how I made seating charts, but mos of you sat where you wanted anyway?
Forget about it.

Remember how fast this year went? Remember Valentine's Day? Remember jumping in
the air on Indie Day? Remember the story about the wise man and the bird and how
everything was in your hands? Forget about it.

Remember this: doo, da, doo, da da da doo doo doo #fancy

Remember trying to come up with a pen name? Remember choosing a blog template?
Remember when nobody knew who you were? Forget about it.

Remember when I told you to fall in love? Forget about it.

Remember the story about the autistic son who typed the words "I Am Real"? Because I
almost forgot about that.

Remember the paradoxes, the contradictions, the top 5s that I missed, the pictures of
journals I never showed you, remember the natives and the tourists, the hearts you saw and
the ones you didn't, remember what your bones said, all the lines from all the songs, and
every blog post you didn't read.

I feel like the girl in The Book Thief walking through the crowd of Jews whispering, "I
won't forget you, I won't forget you."

But I'm sorry. Because I can't stop bombs from falling.

zanny

April 6, 2015

tell me what you know about me.....
it's fascinating to see yourself from a 3rd person perspective
maybe insignificance is plaguing
but I need some reassurance that I actually exist

what are my defense mechanisms?
do I raise my eyebrows or cross my arms like you do?
do I smile as casually as you do?

do I look as bitter as I feel?

when people tell me their problems I love to listen
but truthfully I internalise it and blame myself that I
couldn't help them
because it's crushing to hear you've got anxiety or depression
and the potential that I've contributed to triggering it can
be daunting

but maybe this isn't about me
maybe it's about you

I may hurt a little, or a lot, or carry a lot of sadness
but maybe it's still more important for me to carry sadness
for you



why is everything so confusing
Maybe I'm just out of my mind



ps. rip, floyd :(

Lifeguards

In 1st grade, I was waving. [wave]
In 2nd grade, I was waving. [wave]
In 3rd grade, I was drowning. [wave]

In 6th grade, I was waving again. [wave]
In 9th grade, drowning. [wave]
10th grade, drowning. [wave]
11th grade, drowning. [wave]
12th grade, drowning. [wave]

I didn't become a teacher because I loved high school.

I did it for the money, money, money. [wave, wave, wave]

When I was 12 years old, my mother went to see a fortune teller. The lady told my mom that one day
I would pull a drowning boy from water and that I would spend the rest of my life trying to save
people.

I thought about becoming a lifeguard, but I'm afraid of sharks and I look weird with my shirt off.

So I wear sweater vests to work
and when I see young people waving in the halls,
I look twice to make sure they're not drowning.

Sometimes fortune tellers get it right. And sometimes they don't.

You know what. Excuse me, sir. Would you put your phone away, please? I asked you to hold all
questions until the end. No, you may not use the bathroom. Don't make me call home. Pay attention,
follow along. Don't clean up while I'm talking. The bell doesn't dismiss you, I do. You, in the back, get
your head up. No, you may NOT use the bathroom. Don't make me repeat myself. Don't make me
repeat myself.

(Sigh) Maybe I should've became a lifeguard. Maybe I did.

I mean, yeah, we work opposite seasons. But we have more in common than you think.
Lifeguards and teachers. We got into it for the right reasons. For the children. For the summers.
Parents rely on us and teenagers ignore us. We both have big plans. We're going to save up to buy a
car, we're going to save the world. We were both going to save the world. But we spent more time
blowing our whistles, telling kids to stop running, than we ever did diving in and saving people.

We make less than we should, and everyone thinks we have it easy. Each August adds another five
years to our faces.

But we're not the only ones. No matter what you choose to do with your life, it probably won't go as
planned. Lawyers got into it to find the truth, but they're too busy looking for technicalities. Doctors
got into it to heal people, but they're too busy checking insurance cards. Police Officers got into it for
the chase, but they're too busy filling out paperwork.

We'll spend the next offseason wondering if we're doing what we're supposed to. Then some random
Tuesday, a kid with a shaved head will wave to us, and we'll decided to do it all over again.

Silent Car Rides

by Sarah Michelle
October 31, 2014

You didn't see the chapel scraping to fill halfway,
or the heartbreak of people smiling through tears.

There's something morbid about little girls in a graveyard.
Something about pink sweaters against pale bodies and taking roses to take them,
not to put them on the casket.

I've seen too many funerals in my 18 short years.
The first time I met death was at 7 years old:
and here I thought I paid my dues.

but the painful decay of a hospital is something I haven't learned to deal with,
and I think God will keep giving me silence filled Emergency rooms, until I learn.

the florecent fish in the hallway are the
only things that look remotely happy,
but if you take a closer peek, you'll see
they're just as miserable as the rest of us.
Cooped up like prisoners in this clown house of grief

Oxygen monitors. Complimentary cheese cubes.
Questions and prayers that God can't answer.
If you think your few months of college have seasoned you into adulthood,
wait until you hit the grill.

Heaven couldn't wait for you

by Posh Spice
April 6, 2014

When I was little I thought everyone lived to be 100. Then after that, who knows.

I didn't care.

I was alive and well.

Or at least I thought.

I thought I was invincible and nothing could break me.

Until I was broken.

Until I broke some bones, ripped my skin beyond natural repair and got diagnosed with things I didn't know existed.

I didn't know you could die in car crashes, and sink in a boat, or get trapped in an elevator. Life to me was as simple as 1, 2, 3. But that's because I didn't know about 4, 5, & 6 yet.

I used to know you. We were as young as they come, yet we knew it all. Simple minded beings were all we were, yet it worked. We played on the frosted December grass because it was fun to play outside. We didn't want to wash our hands because we didn't know what germs were. We didn't look both ways before crossing the street, because we didn't know that cars sometimes didn't stop.

But cars sometimes don't stop, Amanda.
Cars sometimes don't stop.

One of the first things you learn is "Look both ways before crossing the street." But I guess she never caught on. I mean it was hard to teach a girl that never listened. It's not even she couldn't listen, she didn't understand.

That's why it was safer to play in the house, cars can't get you there. People can't kidnap you there. Trees can't fall on you there.

But you liked to take risks.

You were my first best friend, because you were all that I knew. I'd wake up and you'd always be there soon enough. We would play tag and you'd always seem to win. We would play Barbie's and you never seemed to catch on that you were supposed to be Ken. You just liked to chew on their feet, or play with their hair.

I'd get mad. "Get that out of your mouth, are you stupid!!?" Then I'd hit you and you'd run away. I was too young to understand life doesn't work in ways you want it to. I didn't know you wouldn't be there till I was 100 playing Twister or scootering next to me.

But you tried to get back at me. You'd make up for it by scratching me, or screaming so my mom would come running in the room for your rescue.

You bitch.

I still cringe to this day at always getting in trouble because of you.

They said you were too young to be outside. But I didn't listen. I locked you out of the house when no one was looking. But I watched you just to make sure you stayed in the yard and didn't get hurt.

Couldn't you tell I cared about you?

You wandered farther and farther till you got to the front yard fence, and stopped. I opened the door to let you in because I assumed you had enough.

But then I stopped.

I stopped. Why did I stop, Amanda?

I should've gotten when I did because I knew you. I knew by the way your back was arched and the twinkle in your eye what your next move is.

But I couldn't seem to stop watching you on the other side of my sliding glass door.

It was almost as you looked back at me to give me one last goodbye before you climbed that fence. I didn't know how you did it. You practically jumped over without touching it.

You made it on the other side, and that's when I decided you had moved on. I thought maybe you'd just gone to the neighbors to play with girls your size and same views on life.

I kind of forgot about you for an hour or two. It was weird, because we all did. I remembered you when I looked at my Barbie feet. That's when I was forced to walk in to the biggest mess of my 5 year old life.

The sky was cloudy and the ground was wet, but the sky was finished crying. It told me you were there and it already moved on.

A leaf stuck to my foot just as I stuck to you. I kicked it off and watched it gently fall to the cement as if it were telling me to go back in the house.

The trees rustled telling me not to go over that fence. But I argued with them telling them I'd be okay. Little did I know they weren't concerned for my safety.

As I hopped that fence I saw Amanda. You were so beautiful in the street. Almost as if you were a painting in a museum.

But you were so still. Why didn't you get up?

"Amanda come here!" Nothing.

"Come here Amanda, I'm sorry!" Nothing.

I ran to get her, but she didn't move. She was as still as summer nights. She was so beautiful, with almost a smile on her baby face.

My mom came out and took me back inside.

I didn't cry.

I just asked where she went.

"Heaven."

Then I knew you didn't live forever.

You only lost one life, but Amanda, where did your other eight lives go?

Where did they go?

People lied.

Your kind is supposed to last at least fifteen years. You didn't last one.

You were my best friend, but come to find out

Heaven couldn't wait for you.

You won't even notice that I'm gone

by AndreaLee
October 20, 2014

To him.
You've always told me how I saved you life. We met and exchanged
numbers, but what I didn't know is that you had severe depression. And
your deadline was in 7 days.. you have no idea how happy I was to know I
gave you the gift of procrastination.

We were best friends and you told me everything. We loved each other in
an inescapable way. Basically family. And that's why I wasn't allowed to
love you differently. But I have bad habits, so I loved differently anyway.

My best friend came into the picture and it seems the 'best friends brother'
thing really intrigued her. And again, I have bad habits, so I told her she
could have you. And you loved her. That hurt. Bad habits really do die
hard.

You broke her heart, but her leaving broke you. Literally. You became as
monotone as Mr. Hinton. Or rather, more so. And you never show any
emotion anymore. I tell you I'm here for you. I promised I won't leave. I
love you. And all I get is an 'I know'..

I won't leave   I know
I love you.      I know
I promise        I know
I won't leave..
….I love you..
.. are you even there? I feel as though I'm talking to a computer.. Please,
what's wrong? Just talk to me.. do you even care..?…
Please come back

… please..

You're hardly around anymore, the only emotion I get from you is when
you talk of your unrequited love for her. The rest of the conversation only
consists of one-word replies. You only have questions when they're about
her. And all the answers to my questions circle my numbing body in "I don't know's..

I'm sitting here wishing you would come back. I'd do anything to make you
feel something, even if you hate me by the end.. It would be better than
nothing….

"If I were dying, would you do everything or even anything to save me, or
would you just cry because I was dying?"

"I don't know"

Do you even care anymore? There was a time when you pledged your life in
place of mine. Now you don't even know?

I think the worst thing about this is you mean the world to me. I'd give my
life just for you to live again. I crave your smile more than Nutella. I
think about you every night, worrying about you, laughing at the
memories through the frantic tears. And I still want you, you who no
longer wants me..

They all tell me to let you go. And we both know I should. It would be best
for me to turn away, run, and never look back…

And it hurts, because we both know

You won't even notice that I'm gone.

-JQP

Mix Tapes

by Suzy Bishop
April 9, 2014

One day I am going to forget the way that your skin smells and you're
going to forget the way that my hair looks when its down.

Maybe I'm hypnotized. (I think I am)

Or maybe you are.

Maybe Hypnotists and magicians aren't real. (I hope they are)

Maybe there is such a thing as too much love... But lets not think about
that because I like the way that love feels.

I'm scared to know what the color of being helpless looks like.

Would you make me a mix tape? If you want to know what love is, It's a
mix tape.

Did you know that when we are together, I forget everything else that we
do that day because the only thing that mattered was that we were with
each other? Silly.

It's probably a good thing or probably a really bad thing that neither of
us know how to say goodbye.

I'm pretty sure my soul is on fire and I have lost all hope of getting it
under control. I guess I do Know what the color of hopeless is.

I have to keep my thoughts to myself because there is no way that you
will understand them. I don't like how easily secrets get spread.

July will come and I'll still be here. My Hands will Wait for yours. But
please don't let me hold you back. You'll have to remind me because I'm
selfish, remember?

-S.B.

So basically, I'm a 6 year old that swears.

by pleasefindmehere
February 25, 2014

First day of high school tomorrow. What the hell was I thinking? I went to school to
register and I saw the sophomores over there like "nom nom nom..." Kids are roaming
the halls lie it's a completely normal thing to do during class. And the librarian did not
want to give me my books until the computer system was up and running.

Today I cried in the dressing room again. And I cried when I left treatment today for the
last time. I'm leaking. Like a broken pipe. Like a water bottle you left in your backpack.
Like like like.

Reasons I'm still six years old:

• I like to color.
• I like chocolate milk.
• My mom makes my snacks for me.
• I am picky picky picky about my foods touching.
• I can't cartwheel.
• I look for yellow cars everywhere I go.
• When I think about my "first day of school," I swear I'm not sleeping tonight. Even though I woke up late for the first day of my senior year. I never said it had to make sense.
• I miss my imaginary friend.

And I keep beating myself up even though Nelson told me to carry my crayons with me

wherever I went.

You, you tourist.. You that won't ever read this. You're the one who will tell me I'm not

innocent enough to be six anymore. And you're right. You. You're the life of the party

but you're too afraid of opening up anything but a bottle of beer. BTdubs, your friend

messaged me on Facebook last night telling me you'd been thinking about me. Lies. And

I was upset with all these intrusive memories of you. The day we sluffed seminary and

kissed the whole time in the park. The times you told me I was never as pretty as the

girls you hung out with. The night we... And it all shoved past my careful wrought-iron

gates. Those ones which I had ordered specifically after you. After you had broken down

the cement walls, the brick enclosure, and stumbled blindly, effortlessly into my heart. I

was too broke to order anything else. Well friends with benefits after relationships

never do work, dear... That's why I'm back to building. Erecting more gates. Ha. Erect.

Guess I'm not a six year old anymore.

I saw you at the dance last week, yeah you that commented on my blogpost telling me

we'd find each other. I know who you are. And when I stopped dancing and looked

behind me, I saw you. We even made eye contact, which was kind of a big deal for me.

And I'm sorry I stared. Listen, I tried to catch your eye, thinking if you looked long

enough, you'd see. "Maybe you were looking, but you weren't really seeing." But it's my

insides you'd recognize.

And if you see a girl with a shock of blonde hair that looks like she knows where she's

going, but doesn't want to go there... please be nice to her.

Ten bucks that's me.

I'm scared of the possibilities and of the unknown

Charlotte Rose
October 26, 2014

Fear controls me.
Making me who I am
And who I'm not.
But I can't hate that even though I don't like writing it. Because it's one
of the elements that has made up the parts of me that I am.

I'm afraid of being alone. Of losing my best friend.
I'm afraid of having kids Also not having kids.
I'm afraid of someone saying "I love you. I'm just not
in love with you anymore."

I'm afraid of small talk because I'd rather just skip to the part where
you tell me your life is not easy and neither is mine and sure the
weather is important sort of but your feelings are of more worth to
me. I'm afraid of them not liking me, because I'm too hard on myself to
be great 25/8 and I don't want to disappoint you. Because I'm also
afraid of what that face looks like. I'm afraid of confrontation
and fighting. I don't want to lose you.

I'm afraid of making decisions and change. Because with both of those
things I have only a 50% chance of something good going right. And all
my life they've taught me 50/100 was failing.

It sounds silly and so many can't understand. But...
I'm afraid of not making enough memories. Of not "living life" enough or
fully because they just keep telling me life goes by so fast, and one day
you'll wake up and you've lived your whole life. And that scares me, I
don't want to look back and realize I lived the same year 75 times.

And contrary to what i previously just said, in that life. I'm afraid of
the start of things and I'm afraid of the end of things.
(I know please don't laugh, I'm very much indeed a difficult case)
Afraid of graduating because that's the end of something. And afraid of
college/life after high school because that's the start of something.

   BECAUSE:   hellos take courage and so do goodbyes.

And honey please do not tell me fear is just a feeling and I can get over it. Indeed I
should accept the fact that there is both beautiful and terrible things in this world.
but I'm fearful of the light and the dark. Because I can't get myself to trust the
unknown.

So maybe I'm lacking everything in bravery. But i checked my report card in the
subject of "FEAR"
I have an A.





I hope to have an A in bravery too....


someday.

I'M A PEACH

suzy e.
April 6, 2014

There's a Pit in my stomach that no one wants to deal with.

I'm not sure if its there because I only have 5 days to finish that online PE class that's required for me to graduate,

Or if it's the fact that I might not graduate.

Or it's there because I'm probably going to graduate.

It's also very possible that its there because I'm worried about all the attendance schools I have to go to because I hate going to school.

But I only went to half a class yesterday.

    So The Pit must not be that important if all it takes is two            girls, one red jeep, and thirteen books to make me forget               that it was even there.



stay gold,
(and peachy)
suzy e.

Writing to Save Yourself

by Soap
April 6, 2014

Saturday night, I got in a fight with my parents. The screaming match was more than I could handle
and memories memories memories were pushing to the forefront of my eyelids. I slipped into my
room and quickly realized the futility of tears, so I dug under the pile of clothes that had become a
carpet of their own. And I found my wallet. And I left.

I still don't know why I took my wallet.

True to form, they hide the car keys before I had a chance to take them. I walked for a directionless
hour along SR-92 heading west. And I was sobbing walking along the curb. Not one car stopped. Not
even the ones screaming music from inside the rolled up windows. I laughed. Why did I think cars
would stop for a teenager walking alone in the dark? I'm not celebrity.

My shirt was thin, and my hands were cold. And I called but you didn't answer. You didn't call back.
You were probably making out with your girlfriend. I just wanted to ask if you could drop off a
sweatshirt, preferably with some pockets. Or ask if you could help me find a way to sneak into the
church because I hate asking to spend the night.

The headlights were starting to make me self-conscious.

And i thought about how I should have taken a shower before I started this pilgrimage because my
hair was sticking up weird.
I laughed because teenagers think they are significant.
But that only made me cry harder.

And I know you can't freeze to death in forty degree weather. But if the grass is wet, and your
sleeves are short, you just might.

And I know that you will never know what it is like to have to police called to your own house to
assess property damage from punching a hole in your own wall.

Or what it is like to have the police call your cell phone.

And I know, I know. The breakthrough is finding about that connection that's more than brushing
fingertips. The breakthrough is reading a raw, bitter post about love when you're feeling raw and bitter
yourself. That breakthrough is writing about your sloppy first kiss and getting ten comments about
your peers' sloppy first kisses. Writing about LDS general conference that I did not watch. Writing
about praying and disappointing two sets of parents.

But sometimes writing is about talking to the computer screen so you don't punch another hole in the
wall.

See I want to punch another hole in the wall, but I wrote this instead. Now I'm jogging instead of
sprinting. Now my fingers are moving a little faster than when they look for channels on the telly.
Now my breaths are a little less jagged and sharp. The music of my heartbeat is a little more soft
and a little more even. Like the intro of a ballad.

I didn't write this for you. I wrote this for my heart. She needed a little breathing room and space to
talk.

Yellow.

pleasefindmehere
March 23, 2014

For all this talk of wanting to be found, there are points in my life when I desperately

want to get lost.

And Nelson, you told me not to write a post about death in light of what's happened. But 

Nelson, I just can't get it off of my mind. Maybe I have to write in order to gather my

thoughts. To sort them into nice, neat little categories before I can push them aside to

the remote corners of my brain. But these categories are hard to label. The taste of

charcoal. The smell of the yellow walls. Incoherent. Asking for water. Asking for water.

Throwing up. Looking for love on the whiteboard because of the nurses' promises, and

staring at the <3 for what it was instead of a pain management goal.

Because I was the Titanic and Monday was just another unassuming iceberg floating

along in the Atlantic.

What came first? Learning the "F word" or forgetting how to share? Earning my stripes

or my stretch marks? Screwing boys or scaring you shitless? I didn't start swearing

because I have a small vocabulary. I started swearing because I have a large vocabulary,

and swear words are an additional ten.

Eyes don't tell you near as much about a person as their skin. How much they're

showing and how much they're not showing. And my pants kept slipping down and my

gown slid off my shoulders, but I was too sick to care.

Yellow was the color of my hospital room. Yellow was the color they painted the walls in

the name of no more suicide attempts. The color of the bins at UNI. The hat. The suicide

note I should have written. Trapped.

White was the color of the flowers my grandparents sent. The color of my face. The

color of the Tylenol.

Green was the color my grandparents wore when they flew from Colorado to visit me

for my birthday. That night they told me they would love me no matter what. That night

my grandma hushed my grandpa for talking too loud in "a place like this." The color of

the courtyard, barred in. Birthday money.

Blue. The bruising from the IV's. The scrubs. Waking up in the hospital on my

eighteenth birthday.

Pink was the color of the bins at Primary Children's. The first suicide note I wrote. The

shirt my aunt sent.

Black was the color of the charcoal. The color of the pills rising to the surface. The color

of the druggies' words they spit. Drug references, suicide references.

God's given me a second chance. But all I can think about is what I've done with the first

chance. Hope was the water before the fall. The shout before the break. God tells me to

marry the light, but the darkness is still so alluring. Even though I've learned Death's a

bitch when she gets close. She's seductive as hell from a distance, and when she's got

you in a committed relationship with no way out, she takes off her makeup, she takes

off her heels, she forgets. She forgets you only fell for her because you were chasing a 

mirage. Her lips bruise your throat with the faintest touch.

I can't tell you a lot about what Death is, but I can tell you a lot about what Death is not.

Death is not kind. Death is not a peaceful way to go. Death is not yellow, but I learned

she is not all black either. Death is not feminine with her hands wrapped delicately

around your throat, but Death is definitely a woman. Death is not satisfied by a suicide

attempt.

I don't know a lot of things. I don't know why I'm waiting for God's number to appear on

my contact list. I don't know why Warren Buffet keeps offering his billion dollars when

he knows no one will submit the perfect draw. I don't know why we have two hearts or

why one heart beats out of my chest in response to my other heart or why we cry over

spilt milk. I don't know why I keep asking bones questions expecting an answer or why

they answer in question format. I don't know why the sky is blue or why the sun is

yellow or why I see colors instead of black and white. I don't know why you're stuck in

my dreams and I don't know why I wake up wishing you would get the fuck out of my

head. Because they're such pleasant nightmares.

And the world was ending, and no one cared. And we found indifference one blank stare

at a time. But I couldn't remove my doubts far enough from my mind to achieve the

same blank stare. But I tried.

Maybe everything I write is meant to be depressing. Maybe those neon painted

fingernails are really stars and every time she pounds the keyboard, she's making her

world go round. She's interspersing sex and dying with the sounds of laughter and she

doesn't know any other way to survive. Maybe she likes to be surprised by her smile.

Maybe  she likes to be surprised at the little things.

And swallowing those pills still didn't teach her who would show up at her funeral.

The Elephant in the Room

by Harold Miner
April 5, 2014

I didn't get into this to become the enemy. The villain. The bad guy. I never wanted it to be them vs. me. Kryptonite isn't cheap, and I'm not even in the market anyway.

I like teenagers. If I start hating them, I probably shouldn't be a teacher.

But look at me. Telling these young whippersnappers to get off my lawn. Sitting in this computer lab shushing kids like a librarian stereotype.

Shhhhhhhhhh.

Keep it down.

Shhhhhhhhhh.

I effin' hate this.

It's spring break in 20 minutes and I'm asking them to focus.

I remember being 15. I hated school, I hated teachers, I hated adults. It was YOLO before Drake could even walk. It was trending before hashtags. I just wanted to have fun. No sir, I don't have a hall pass. Yes, sir, I'll go back to class. No, ma'am, I don't know where that came from. Yes, ma'am, I'm sorry.

Now look at me.

The enemy.

Maybe I'm just bitter. Maybe I'm taking my baldness out on them. My sore ankle. My lost adolescence.

There's an elephant in this room. They call him The Future. He's wearing sunglasses and knows everything. He's the coolest kid in the neighborhood, with the whitest teeth, but everyone's too intimidated to look him in the eye.

We all know he's there, but I'm the only one who's taking him seriously. These kids are too busy giggling and No way, are you serious? and Shut up and Ha ha hee hee ha ha hee.

This is the worst flirting I've ever seen.

They pretend like they don't see him there, staring at them. You know how teenagers are. Like they're all preforming and the cameras just started rolling. We may as well be in the stands of a football game on a Friday night and the boy we like is sitting right behind us.

I'm not saying I wish I was them. Because I don't. When I was 15, Puberty was just a monster under the bed. So those weren't the glory days for me.

Maybe I'm just waiting for the bell to ring too.

we're breathing we're feeling we're all dying but also living. what?

by Sky Trillion
June 23, 2014

i am pam you can be my jim and we'll be PB&J.
and i've been clawing the air grasping for any kind of word..any words.
i just want to remember feeling the words in the front of my forehead
tap tap tapping burning burning but you can't be numb if you want to feel
words. #feelingishealing hashtag campaign feel again 2014.
my body hurts
i'm writing and writing but it means nothing and nothing and will you
love me now that i have a job and am making money will you love me now
that i'm having my 3 meals-i'm really trying. i'm not doing well at my 3
snacks but i'm making progress.
they said if you feel good and are on track and are ready to move on 3
times a day and you are angry and confused and stormy and drowning and
ready to never move on ever 5 times a day, this is what recovery is.
that is progress. deep breaths, this is progress. and i don't
want to be sent home from colletch.
there's no limit to the amount of times you can be healed
no limit.
we were the only two at the dance so of course we slow danced and he
tried to dip me so many times and i just couldn't do it i couldn't let
him and i guess that's physical evidence of my trust issues.
my internal storm doesn't just take a break because i'm with friends or
at work or at school or something. that's hard.
you called from the airport and we breathed our plans to travel the world
together and adventurize and you asked me to not get married while you're
gone and you said te quiero which i guess means "i love you" in spanish
but directly translated it means "i want you" or "you i want" and that
freaks me out but actually te quiero tambien.
but do i believe you?
The Fault in our Stars is not a chick flick it's a real life flick gosh
dangit!

thats a rap

by hannah madsen
August 10, 2014


I've been doing a lot of online shopping okay??????

I've been trying to get back in touch with my roots but I think I've dyed them too much

This is about sharing a couch with someone at an old friends house and how it felt like home. This is about home. This is about having eggs for breakfast every morning and trying not to step on eggshells. Its about new hair cuts and how I only published two blog posts since school ended. It's not about trips to Vegas and its not about getting that summer beach bod and its certainly not about high school. Its about working and wearing pants and summer homework and people getting offended when you offer to take out their groceries. Its about finding out people have girlfriends and being to lazy to make this post into an actual thing. It's about last days of work that make you cry and last days of school that didn't and last days of summer that will. The break is over and the package is sealed. All wrapped up with plastic and packing peanuts and in a dingy old shoe box that should say FRAGILE. HANDLE WITH CARE. but it just says THIS SIDE UP and none of us even know where we're going. And we don't know what we'll be like when we get there. All we can do is hope the mail man doesn't drop us and that wherever we go the person who opens us up is gentle enough to put us back together.

And God laughed.

by Soap

April 5, 2014

I saw sorry again and again, but it's a word now rendered meaningless to my family due to the

accompanying lack of results.

And you can't be "good" at a diet, because that's called an eating disorder... and he's a monkey you

can't get off your back.

And we shoot bb's at the moon to spite God and God laughs.

God laughed when I got mono from kissing that night I sneaked out and wasn't supposed to.

He laughed when all of Utah county pretended to be Buddhist for a day just to attend a chalk festival.

And on his list of regrets is a missed opportunity to create a chalk festival to celebrate Christ's birth.

God laughs at karma.

When you punched the wall and broke your hand.

When that chick shaved her head. He got the joke.

God laughed when you bought pet mice for $3 apiece when you could catch them in the field across

the street for free.

And he cried when my sister asked me to rate my love for her on a scale from one to five, and I said

two. Even though it was a joke. It was a terrible joke.

God cried when he watched "The Boy in the Striped Pajamas," but he ridicules "The Titanic."

He turned his back from the Holocaust. Notice I said "from" instead of "on." He did not turn his back

on their suffering. He did not turn away because he is an apathetic God. But because he had to stop

himself from ending the world right then and there.

He cries when the teenage moms abandon their babies at the park, wrapped in swaddling clothes.

Because no matter how many babes he sees, they always remind him of one nearly two thousand

years ago with all their potential.

He cried when the girl who hadn't been raped lied about being raped and when the girl who had lied

and said she hadn't.

The room had a sink.

The sink was for washing.

The sink was white.

He spends half his time at the sink washing the ugly off of his hands.