"I am a Millennial. Generation Y. Born between the birth of AIDS and 9/11, give or take. They call us "the Global Generation." We are known for our entitlement and narcissism. Some say it's because we're the first generation where every kid gets a trophy just for showing up. Others think it's because social media allows us to post every time we fart or have a sandwich for all the world to see. But it seems that our one defining trait is a numbness to the world, an indifference to suffering. I know I did anything I could to not feel. Sex, drugs, booze. Just take away the pain. Take away my mother and my asshole father. And the press, and all the boys I loved who wouldn't love me back. Hell, I was gang raped, and two days later I was back in class like nothing happened. I mean, that must have hurt like hell, right? Most people never get over stuff like that, and I was, like, "Let's go for Jamba juice." I would give everything I have or will ever have just to feel pain again. To hurt."

Fell in love with Dutch painter, Pieter Aertsen's Northern Renaissance oil-on-wood-panel piece, "The Butcher's Stall," which is coincidentally housed in a University in Sweden. What are you trying to tell me, Universe?

"I will wait for you." She said, endlessly.

It seems like everyone around me is on antidepressants and mood stabilizers, maybe it's working, but they're no longer a pleasure for me to be around. And it almost makes me not want to go back on medication either. I don't want to become my medication.

Remembering another life where I was engaged once at 17 for about a year? I could've been with my high school sweetheart forever. Nobody really thought we were serious, but we were. I was really mean and unhappy and unable to handle everyone else around me when he wasnt around. And I threw my ring at him one too many times, so he threw it out the window in front of me. I don't know why, but seeing that image in my head still kinda makes my heart drop into my stomach. 

I always feel, at least, a little bit delusional after watching Hannibal.

Heard surprising words after a mutual friend exclaimed to me how you never really spoke to each other, which I thought was strange, afterall he was your DP. I wanted to console him and say, "It's okay, I'm still trying to decipher if everything he told me was lie. So I honestly don't know what is worse, talking to him or not talking to him."

What I do know is that Anthony is very, very sweet.

Just woke up from a gnarly nap. And I have no attention span. I'm just fucking tired. But a giant Swedish man was following me around today, he looked like a fat version of you. It made me laugh.

I know that love isn't everything, but it's something I have to remind myself more often than not.

The funny thing was, I never needed any validation I just wanted to hear you say it. Always trust your gut.  

Missing your stupid voice. Your accent. The way you look at me. The way you laugh when I say something funny that catches you off guard. The one 'lone locke of hair that falls so perfectly over your face when you're talking to me. Pulling that said locke behind your ear. Waking up and staring deep into your soul while you stare back into mine. The way the light came in through my window to spill gold all over you. The way your skin just absorbed the sun. The way yoyr fingertips dug into my skin. When you told me you were just trying to keep this professional, but you couldn't take your eyes or your hands off me.When I was mad at you, but still showed up to set and endured your torture. I miss kissing your pain away. Each and everyone of your freckles. And when you would tell me the things you love about me. I miss being too tired to kiss you back and fervently waking up to kiss you because I knew that soon you wouldn't be there anymore. I miss the way you told me how scared you were of the future. I miss our little talks about life and the universe and why we do the things we do. I miss showing each other the bits and pieces of ourselves that we were too afraid to show anyone else. I miss that we don't talk anymore. I miss that you are not my world. I miss that I am not yours. I miss you so much but I don't know even why anymore.

One of the last times we spoke, you asked me why I never met you at the screening. That you looked for me. And you were sad. And alone. And I'm supposed to believe you didn't send me a proper invitation to keep yourself at a distance. Poppycock. 

My poor father is so sick, and I've had my head shoved so far up my ass dealing with some stupid asshole's bullshit, whom I don't even know, that I forgot about the only asshole in my life worth giving a damn and another fucking chance.

I am not a drug-addict, I am a pleasure-seeker.

Just don't ever think that if you came back to me I'd just let you waltz in and sweep me off of my feet. You still hurt me and made me cry, when you shouldn't have and could've easily avoided it.

Crying all night because I'm not drunk anymore and all I want is to forget you exist. It's happening. But today I remembered. These are unfortunately some of the only memories I have of you. Although I don't mind much.

No one will ever understand our love because I don't think we even understand it. From what I've learned, that's what love is. Complicated, heartbreaking, soul shattering, it's not easy. That's for sure. It's in your gut. You feel it. This time, it was much stronger. Core-shaking, is what Cathy called it. It was like how every time I saw you, your soul grabbed mine by the spine, and it was as if we needed to be together. We needed to be one. We were one. At once. Before some God somewhere decided that we needed to be apart to find our way back to each other. Maybe so that we could both learn how to live and love ourselves first, then each other. And what we had was us prematurely trying to shove ourselves back together again.

The worst part is when I wake up from a dream about you, and I swear I can still feel you there with me. Smell you on my sheets, the sweat, the booze, the sex, and how even after it all, you still smelled so clean. I thought this was only supposed to get easier. I still wake up and see you there next to me. In my tiny bed, cramped. We're facing each other with only the early morning sun covering us, legs entwined. We are just looking, searching, longing? into each other's eyes, just staring into each other's souls. The sun was so bright that day, I couldn't remember if your eyes were green or blue. But they were neither. More gray than anything else if I remember. But I would like to remember.

The last time I had you, I couldn't stay in bed. Though I wanted to. I knew if I did, it would take me deeper. Now all I can do is run away as far as I can go, and hope that one day you remember what this is, and you end up at my door again.

 I want that you are always happy. I want that you are always safe. I want that you are always doing what you love. I want that you are always loving who you are meant to love, safe and warm. Somewhere with someone you can call home. I want that one day you have your beautiful red-headed, freckled children. I want that you get to see your 30th birthday, and your 40th, and 50th, 60th, and every single one thereafter. I want that one day you can see me for who and what I actually am. I want that one day we will see eye to eye. That we both won't be so broken and sad and hurting each other. I want that one day we can work together again, coexist again, and love again. Not the same way we did before, but better. Where each day with you is better than the last. I want that one day we won't need any drugs or alcohol, but only each other. Just us. Nobody else.

 I'm difficult right now, but I promise that I'm worth it.

Spoke too soon last night, I couldn't sleep, maybe you read my stupid blog post. Oh well. This is what I needed. Thank you. I'm over it. And I'm over you. After this week, my unfinished business with this town will be settled. I can move on with my life, and walk away like none of this ever happened. Because perhaps that's what this is, all this ever was, and that's all you were. Just a figment of my imagination.

The thing is, there's nothing sexier than an honest man. And I will take your baggage along with mine as long as you're honest with me. That's all you've ever been, since the day we met. Honest, a little scared, but you were honest. 

And I let my ego and bad habits get in the way of that.

Is my childhood so fucked up I can't remember a better time than getting McDonald's after church or just hanging out at the pond? With my two different family's under one dysfunctional roof.

Last night, a new friend asked me why I ever left Virginia in the first place, and I was literally dumbfounded. I wanted to stay and talk some more, but the entire situation just caught me off guard.

The thing about me is that I'm not the type of girl that settles for less. I know what I want and I go get it. But I'm also very, very patient.

How come its only when you're gone that I realize all my skeletons are gone too?