You’re not here when I have a bad day. Or when I have a good one.
Despite nearing my thirties, this week I felt like a six year old child again, begging and desperate for my mom to heal this raw wound of mine.
Feeling guilty about feeling happy.
The rumors say that the fourth floor of the Hawthorne Hotel is alive with spirits. But they’re wrong – there were spirits in our creaky room at the end of the hall on the third floor. And they had a story to tell. I just regret that they knew I was listening.
Everything that once never made sense, will circle you, and the clouds will fade away, and everything before you will be clear; you’ll see, for the first time ever, in all of your life.
You were my forever before we had promised each other to be. You were my light at the end of a long, winding tunnel.
I still play Pokémon. Go ahead, have your laughs, make fun of me because I’m 25, soon to be 26, and still can rattle off all 151 of the original Pokémon.
Suddenly, what I thought I’d never let go of, seemed to let go of me. Whether it’s time, or growth, or falling in love with someone new, what used to mean so much to me – what was once me and you – evaporated.
Sitting down at my laptop, with my fingers bashing against the keys, never felt like work. And I absolutely hated when anyone in my family called it that.
Finding a job is like having a job. It’s a tedious, demanding process that can sometimes drive you up a wall.