Swings

Last night my friends threw me a surprise birthday party in Johnson City. Michelle was there, which was completely surreal. I hadn't expected to see her until our Montreal trip next month. But it was a good surprise, of course.

After taking shots and sipping wine, we drunkenly walked to a nearby park. I got on the swing set. My dress fluttered above my thighs and I squealed as I took flight. It was dark and quiet.

"This is so good." I said. The breeze seemed to melt on my skin. I pumped my legs until the view below-so small, so fast- gave me chills.

"It's like the last innocent thing, you know?" I said. I felt like everyone was writing me off since I had guzzled three glasses of wine, but I was being serious. Swinging in the summertime, my heart ticking, my bare skin in the wind, it all felt so good. The sensations were innocent. I didn't think about them, I just let them happen.

Later, I passed out on a power chord in Michelle's apartment. I slept on the hardwood floor by the window so the breeze would dry my sweat. I woke up at 8:30 to meet my personal trainer this morning. I powered through another tough work out. I wasn't sure I'd be able to run laps with a belly full of wine but I surprise myself sometimes.

I No Longer Give a Fuck about an Oxford Comma

I'm seriously considering dropping my literature major. I no longer love reading, and it's a shame because Barnes & Noble used to be my haven. Now I buy books but never manage to read them. I recently wrote a note on Facebook entitled "On Literature" which outlines how I feel about studying literature. Basically, school really took the joy out of it. I wanted to be a creative writer because I love stories: fabricating them, sharing them, and hearing them. I love how Paradise Lost made me feel the first time I read it, how there's nothing better than enjoying a good novel past 3 AM, how satisfying it is to finish another book, shelf it, and choose another. But I haven't felt this way about reading for several months now.

I also miss writing. Since I finished my novel two years ago, I haven't been able to write another long fiction piece. My attention span is too short. I've written a few things in my writing workshops, and I'm proud of some of them. But when I write now, all I can think of is the criticism in the back of my head. What's the point in writing if I know it will never be good enough? Do I really have the courage or resilience to spend months- even years - on a project, only to be dissatisfied in the end? I miss writing and having fun with it. I still love creating characters and stories, but I cannot communicate them on a page. And isn't that what a writer does?

I'm still in love with the spirtual aspects of literature. I know how powerful words can be. I love that you can manipulate them to make someone cry or laugh or sigh. I love that, and I love experiencing those emotions when I read a good story.

Damn. I don't know what to do. In a perfect world, I would drop literature for International Studies, because after traveling to Italy I know that I want to continue studying French and foreign languages. However, it's too late now. I will never graduate on time if I switch. Besides, I'm almost done with literature so I should just finish it. After all, the classes honed my writing. Maybe this is just a phase. I hope it is.

VIVE ITALIA

I've been in Italy for the past month, and I cannot begin to recap the adventures I've had there. I wish I would have brought my computer so I could have blogged overseas, but we traveled from city to city and I didn't want to carry any extra luggage.

The trip effected me in a way I cannot describe. I climbed the Alps and its beauty restored my faith in the goodness of the world.

The people with whom I traveled, once acquaintances, soon became my close friends within days.

In a monastery, I got drunk for the first time and showed the nuns my underwear.

I racked up 80 euro bar tab (about $150) with my friends and ran through the streets of Rome with a belly full of cocktails to make the curfew at the monastery.

I stood in St. Peter's Basilica and wept.

I learned I speak perfect French when I'm drunk. Resume material??

I got sick of hearing Italians say, "Americani." Am I that obviously American? I can't be. I almost didn't make it through Italian customs because the officer thought I was Italian, not American.

The night before we left, I wept for hours. In the bar. In the befriended's shopkeeper's store. In my friends' arms.

I miss Italy.

Disillusioned

My fortune cookie read: Prepare yourself for a change of events in your personal life. Naturally, I applied it to my imminent trip to Italy.

Soon enough, however, I received some bad news. I was disillusioned once again. I have expectations. Everyone does, and when they fall through, it hurts. It sears. Though disappointment is frequent and natural, we cannot help but build our hopes up again and again, because we as humans crave happiness. We want to believe things will work out. Sometimes they do, and we cling to these realized dreams. But when they don't work, we must endure painful disillusionment. This has been the topic of my writing for the past year.

Yesterday, I dealt with selfish humans. Who treated me like shit at the scene of an accident. Today, I was disillusioned by the reality that sometimes, relationships don't work. Sometimes two people cannot be together even if they've tried. You know, we build hope in each other. There's this never-ending cycle of climax and resolution. Joy and pain. At this realization, I sat in my car and wept for the human race.

Human Nature

Humans suck. They are a greedy, selfish, disgusting species. Who else hurts and kills others solely for the pleasure of another's suffering? Or to further their own fortune?

I consider myself an escapist. I became a writer because I loathe reality. I'd rather believe people are good, true love reigns, and the impossible is possible. Reality tells me otherwise. It whispers nasty things.

When I start to lose my faith in humanity, there are those people who comfort me when I cry, who buy me pizza on a bad day, who make me smile with a compliment, who sacrifice their time to be with me. I grasp onto these people because they're the most essential evidence of goodness in this terrible, terrible world.

Hurt

I'm hurting. I'm happy, but my past is hurting my future. Past relationships have tainted my prospective lovers.

I'm a romantic. I want to travel across the country to see my soul mate, but I don't want to be disappointed. Am I too serious about this? What if this person doesn't feel for me the way I feel for him? Why must I fall so quickly? I wish I could be more flippant. I'm so tired of being hurt.

Here Comes The Sun

Things are gonna be alright. I can tell.

This weekend I went to Merlefest with Sydney. We went to concerts, sipped frozen lemonade, and licked powdered sugar from our sticky fingers. While there, I forgot about everything.

Saturday night, a sexy Irish band played and we headed to the dance tent, where bodies jumped and crashed into each other. My laughter was inaudible against the drums and accordions.

A snapshot:
I'm mid-air, my hair exploding as I leap. I glisten with sweat.

We fell asleep to the sound of banjos. With blisters on my feet and the sun in my face, we danced, we sang, we lived.