Choose- A piece about an angsty teenager and luuurve

Hello friends! So while I figured out why I was feeling all sap saps this week, I started my channel! Also, I wanted to write some angst about how I don’t have a Jackson Harries to fly halfway across the world to see me. Watch that video here, it’s great. In any case, here is the angst romance shmance pants!


 

I miss you.

I miss the stupid way I used to feel when we went out, the way it seemed like I was on drugs a little bit whenever I was with you. The way you used to – do you still? – bite on the corner of your top lip when you concentrate too hard. The way you used to know so little about so much.

I remember the way one day played out: when we walked for a long time, and I got tired, so we stopped. You sat and I sat after you and we made shapes with the clouds. You asked I was okay and I asked if you were happy, and you said, ‘yes, kind of’ and I said ‘yes’. I remember you leaning on my shoulder and asking why I was so tired and I told you that I was having a regular day. I told you that I was confused about choices and that I hated losing and that the world is a big place.

You asked what my choices were and I said, ‘a couple here and there’, and you asked what I wanted you to say. I didn’t know. I was quiet and then you were quiet and then we held hands. I keep drawing hands because I miss holding yours.

I remember you looking at me and touching my nose, watching my face scrunch up and the tension in my body disappear. I remember when you turned and propped me up onto my knees while you were on yours and you held me tightly. I remember you squeezing tight and asking if I was crying. I was crying.

You held my one hand, with the other still around my back. You looked at me, and said, ‘I choose you. I’ll always choose you,’.

It’s December, darling. You didn’t. I miss you.

Qui dit que tu m’amais? // Who said you loved me?

 


THUS ENDETH THE ANGST! I’m feeling a lot less teenagey-hormoney now, so I’ll probably be back to my usual crap talking…whenever I …ah, I can’t even keep my train of thought from being derailed.

Soonest,

Scoot X

Write things and dance

I’m not writing a novel.

Yeah, I quit NaNoWriMo 5 days in. Look at me, the best teenager ever!

(jokes)

Okay, so while I really DID try to write some things, I’ve only managed to come up with a couple of nameless complex characters that DO NOT INTERACT WITH EACH OTHER. I think I should preserve them on paper, but I don’t think a novel is the right place for them as of yet.

What I am doing, though, is NaBloPoMo! It really appears that this is what I’ve been doing from the beginning, seeing that you people (INCLUDING THE SUPER COOL VIEWS FROM ROMANIA AND PAKISTAN(!!!)) probably had no clue I writing -attempting to write, rather- a novel.

I wrote a math exam today, and the world did not end! It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t GODTHATWASAWFULTHROWMEINATRASHBAG bad. Progress!

I’m writing an Afrikaans exam (additional language) and I haven’t glanced at a book in 3 days. In the words of a screwed teenage girl:

Crap.

Here’s Taylor Swift dancing to some music that she loves a lot. Be happy if you can, friend. Your cells in your body love you a lot, even when it feels like nobody else does.

Love,

Scoot X

 

Shining

Please note that I just had an idea spam and I haven’t written in a while because junior year. I will be back soon, sometime this week!

I’ve always liked my eyes better when I cried.

When I cried, they weren’t that mud-brown-almost-black that everyone said they were. They were different, shiny. Shiny? Yes, shiny. I suppose everybody’s eyes shine when they cry – it’s the tears. I just so happened to like mine.

“It’s here!” my mom called out. She was in the kitchen of our two-room apartment, and she had just gotten an email regarding the job she had applied for. I dragged as much of myself as I could into the kitchen with my fingers crossed.

“Okay, are you ready?” she asked, fingers waiting to open the document.

“Ready as ever,” I replied, trying to sound more enthusiastic than deadpan.

Don’t get me wrong, I wanted my mom to get this job more than anything. I wanted her to be happier, not to have to travel 40 kilometres every morning , not to be wary of the crazies she worked with.

I was just so used to disappointment, I couldn’t help but not get my hopes up.

She clicked the mouse- once, then again- and the screen was filled with text. And then I felt it. Hope.

I had the craziest hope that the letter would make my mom smile, and make her jump, and make her happy. I had the hope that something would have worked out. I had hope. Odd, since I hadn’t felt hope since That Night.

That Night was the night he left. He said he needed some cigarettes. He just didn’t come back. When he left, I was seven – innocent enough to be changed, but smart enough to see the truth. My mom had said, “Maybe he got lost, and right now he’s coming with a big present for you.Everything will be fine.” He got lost alright. Lost in a world where my mother, myself and him didn’t coexist. I guess he just decided to find a way out. Good for him, I suppose. Good for him. My mother didn’t lie to me again after That Night.

My mom started to read in her usual overly cheery voice: “Dear Mrs Tapenden, we regrettably inform you that the position has been filled.” Her tone didn’t change in the slightest as she continued. ” Your application has been unsuccessful. Your time is appreciated. Keith Roger, Design and Co.”

“Well, I guess it’s not time yet!” she said, voice thinning as she skipped towards the small excuse of a living room. I couldn’t believe it. I’d allowed myself to feel hope, and nothing had happened. But somehow, my mother kept her faith. I couldn’t understand it. I couldn’t comprehend why she had to keep doing something. I felt the alien sting of tears in my eyes and began to think of something else. Math. Breakfast. Jude Law. Jack Frost. Selena Gomez.

Nothing was working.

So I cried. I let all 17 and a quarter years of myself cry.  I looked into the microwave, and saw my eyes. There, I saw my mother.

Let down. Beat up. Mud brown.

But shining. Still Shining.

YES I’M DOING THIS POST ANYWAY

I know you’ve already seen all the damn posts that you’re going to see, but you haven’t. I’m screaming at my computer as I type this because I have a whole lot of emotions right now and most of them will result in punching things and people, and I’d rather not.

So today is Friday, and many things happen on Fridays. On Fridays I go to school, usually super early to get to the dance practice at school for the Matric Dance Committee (people who org anise the prom) and then I go to class, and eat tonnes in class, and stay confused 998% of the time in math, and then I go to English Olympiad Tutorials and then walk to the taxi rank or bus stop and take public transport home.

And today DID NOT HAVE TO BE DIFFERENT.

But it was. And I’m sure that by now, wherever you are, you’ve already seen plenty of the beautifully written Valentines Day posts featured on Freshly Pressed or some or other spot for terrific writing. Let me assure you now that this is NOT one of those places, and also that I’m writing currently without thinking to all of the one person who viewed my ramblings over the past 72 hours. No matter, there are things that need to be said, or more accurately, typed, and if I do it any faster I’m probably going to have crippled fingers through tonight’s school dance, to which I’m going because I am a member of the organizing committee, *cringe* or have a few spelling errors *DOUBLEMEGATRIPLEFIVETIMES CRINGE*. On with the nonsense:

  1. I DON’T HATE ROMANCE. I think it’s important to get this out there, because today, anyone who doesn’t really appreciate the over-commercialization of a day created by the Italian Pope Gelasius the first. He proposed to make Saint Valentine the patron of the new celebration he created to replace the Festival of Lupercalia which was held annually, and if people out there still think I’m an “Arrogant love hating little b**ch who can’t find a boyfriend in time and just hates everyone who is happy”,  they could learn to research, and that’d be great.
  2. I’m actually quite a sucker for this love thing. I’m a softie, extremely warm-hearted, and I genuinely love people. It’s my nature, and it won’t change – it cannot. I handed out people anonymous/ secret admirer roses, and some of the messages were  ” I wish you knew how much I loved you” and it was lovely. It’s all fine and dandy to be in love, and to be happy, but to be dead honest, I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE HELL THIS ROMANCE THING IS ABOUT. And maybe I’ll find out one day, but it’s not today or tomorrow, so if people would get the hell off of my case about that, that’d be great.
  3. You know what else would be great? IF PEOPLE STOPPED TELLING ME THIS “you could have had a valentine…” STORY. I BLOODY HATE IT. I’m not defined by whoever gets me a rose on a Friday morning, okay? I used to have a boyfriend. Now I don’t. Problem? I THINK NOT.

So to everyone who’s calling me and everyone who feels like this “haters”, do me a solid and don’t be around me for the next couple of hours or I’ll probably bash your face in 🙂

Happy Friday, internet users. And may the odds of finding the ring be ever in the big bang of games that is your favour.

Scoot xx

Night 122

*** Oh, yes, I write too 🙂 please read & drop a like or comment 😀 I guess if anyone enjoys this I could add this to my regular rants 😛 Thanks lovelies 😀

All my love all the time

-Scoot xx ***

                                 ________________________________________________________________________

Today is Wednesday. It is the first Wednesday of the week long mid-term break.

It’s the 122nd night that I cant sleep.

I turn in my bed, looking for a comfortable spot to rest my head, something that should feel warm, natural. No, that’s not this. This feels alien, so strange–like something I don’t experience often, and for a good reason.

I try to lie on my back, facing the ceiling, and find myself contemplating the odds of the roof collapsing on me, the odds of anything collapsing on me, the odds of the odds being Ever In My Favour.

I think about the days that I used to try to fall asleep, as I turn onto my side. My bed creaks as I do. It says more than most people know, it speaks. Honest, it does. It tells me that those extra sandwiches weren’t worth it, that tomorrow’s going to be a sad day at the scale. So here, now, on my right side, I close my eyes.

I close my eyes to see exactly what I tried to avoid by doing so – I see the truth. My truth at least. That’s what the therapist told me once. “Your truth can sometimes hurt you, so it’s best to look deeper, for the real truth.” As if. As if a ten year old would understand that.

My closed eyes choose not to grow heavy, but rather to fill me with panic and fear, as I contemplate tomorrow.

It seems simple enough, this sleep thing. Simple as taking candy from a baby, simple as counting to three. Simplicity that’s too complex for me to find.

I turn on my left side, facing the wall, with one major thought in my mind- a first for me. I turn and think of tomorrow.

Tomorrow will be night 123.