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<- Tuesday, Dec. 21, 2004 | 2:07 a.m. ->





At school. At home. Difference?

I didn�t tell anyone I was going home, but I did. I did, I went home for a good five-ish days. I left Thursday around seven, I got back to school around seven today. I didn�t tell anyone I was going � anyone but my hallmates. A few people found out � a few more UVa people found out too, but they don�t matter. I ran home, I ran home and hid. I hid under the covers and cried, I hid away from lit windows at night. I hid from places that hurt too much. I hid from anyone seeing me � I hid because that�s what you do when you run away.

It�s funny, but I ran away to somewhere that would hurt more. I knew I was doing that, but what do you do when you can�t run home? You run home anyway.

I drove one night. I drove by. It hurt. I knew it would, and it was the masochist in me steering the wheel. I wanted to call, I wanted to call so badly. I didn�t, I guess I�m glad. I want someone to look me in the eye and tell me it�ll be all right. I want someone to hold my hand and say that it hurts this much anytime there�s this much turmoil. I want to feel like it�s okay to hurt, and it�s okay to move on whenever the time is right. I want to close my eyes and smile inside.

I can�t get Neutral Milk Hotel songs out of my head. I want to be indie without all of the effort it takes to actually be indie. I think I�ll just be one of those girls who learns about the music three steps too late, who none of the real fans will associate with. I�ve grown secure enough to be cool with that, I think.

I want to learn about Katie�s boyfriend, about other people�s college experience.

I want to reclaim the things that were mine and claim the things that weren�t mine to begin with, but I want anyway. I want to learn and grow and blossom � and I want to do it every day, regardless of how much it hurts and how scary it is and how much I don�t think I want to at the time. I want things that are cheesy and clich� and horribly out-of-fashion.

I�m listening to the mix-tape Char made for me when I turned sixteen. Sixteen was a crazy year. I remember not thinking I would survive sixteen. I have no doubts that I�ll survive eighteen, and I�m not too worried about coming out of the other end of nineteen either, but I think the realization is finally hitting me that I won�t ever squeeze out of a year without a few stretch marks. They�re ugly, red rips in the skin. They�re permanent and they look so angry but it�s time to stop obsessing and start moving on. Like the scars from scraped knees or chicken pox, there�s a story behind them too. Only, unlike bike accidents or viruses, this isn�t a little nugget of story � it�s life, and I lived it, and that was the best I could do.


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