There’s a lot of things in my history that I’ve found to be rather bittersweet. I don’t particularly feel like typing those out at the moment, though I realize the pattern within these things is that often times I end up a mess during the events.
With so much going on in my life right now, I’m amazed at how composed I am. Prior moves and dislocation always left me torn to pieces for weeks prior to and afterwards. This time, it didn’t happen until one week out.
I’m seriously on the verge of a “nervous breakdown”. Granted I am very happy to be going home for a month, the issues that are waiting for me and all the confrontations have me more anxious than I have yet been since Afghanistan. Meeting new, wonderful people and holding up to their standards. Making sure the right people get the right amount of time with me, and not upsetting others. Avoiding negative confrontation with the wrong people. Dealing with their reactions when I refuse to filter myself and my desires for them. Eventually leaving the City I know I’ll fall even more in love with to go somewhere new again, with new faces, new roads, new problems.
But I signed up for this, right? I can’t be worried, I can’t be upset about it. I signed up to move around, to leave the people who I’ve come to love. I forfeited any chance of having a lasting friendship, a lasting relationship, a lasting knowledge of where I am by signing up, and I should be okay with that. I should be okay with everything I have to do now because of a mistake I made well over two years ago. One piece of paper, one pen, and ten minutes of my time is all it took to throw any hopes of having anything good in my life for any decent period of time for the six years that followed February 23rd, 2012.
And I’m not okay with that.
Kelly, Keegan, Rodrigo, Mom, Dad,
Forgive me ahead of time for how things will be while I am home. You will not be happy with how much time I spend with you, you will not be happy with how much I smoke, how quiet I am, how annoyed I’ll get when you ask me to tell you about that one time in Afghanistan. You will not be happy that at times I will rather sit in the garage for 12 hours than come eat lunch with you, come see a movie with you, come eat dinner with you, acknowledge your existence. You will not be happy that I intend to make someone I barely know as happy as she’s made me. You will not be happy that I will tell you repeatedly that I don’t have the money for whatever it is you want you do with me, and then proceed to buy things for my car. You will not be happy that I won’t come home at night. You will not be happy that I’m not there in the morning. You will not be happy that I don’t give a shit about your vacations to Vegas, or about how Christmas was, or about all those events I wasn’t at. You will not be happy when I tell you I’m leaving you to go sit in my room alone. You will not be happy. And I don’t care. My leave is for me, it is not for any of you. I am ecstatic that I will have the ability to make the choice to see you if I want to. And I have been waiting to see your shining faces for more than a year now. But you are not my freedom, and my freedom is all I truly want back.
This makes me feel some type of way.
ah yes.. I forgot how horrible it makes me for choosing to do what I want instead of just pleasing her. How awful of me.
After 9 months and some change, I can taste no one but her. I look into blue eyes and see coffee brown. I can hold a hand and it still feels like she is holding mine, clasp for seemingly dear life.
My brain is fucked.
Remember that time I trusted a girl completely and gave her my whole life and dedicated everything I had to her and then I got fucked?
Yeah that sucked a lot and it has ruined every relationship I’ve had since..so fuck you with a giant flaming, spikey baseball bat. In hell.
Can you be mad at someone without even conversing with them?
you’re going to fall in love with a girl
with hair a little longer than mine, another writer-type with all sorts of ideas about things but perhaps a little less aggressive about them, you’re going to kiss her in the ways i taught you and you’re going to figure out some new ways too and when the two of you have sex, she will be just a little bit better at it than i ever have been
you’re going to fall in love with a girl that smells good enough you bury your face in the curve of her neck and her tummy will never growl like
mine always did. she’ll be deep and mysterious but she won’t come with the heavy past sitting on her shoulders. she won’t ever keep you awake with worry. she’ll always text you back
and never bite too hard and never act in a way she can’t explain later. she will not cry when she gets drunk, she’ll just fall asleep beside you.
you’ll fight with her sometimes because all couples fight but it won’t be with the teeth and claws that we had, it will be almost gentle, it will be over before it really gets going
you’re going to love her until you’re no longer really sure if what we had was all that special. you’ll start badmouthing me to all your friends. you’ll forget about me in most moments and eventually you won’t even be able to tell someone what our first date was or our first kiss or even if you fucked me
the last time that we spoke. i’ll just be gone to you, just a memory of a memory, a girl with dark eyes, a half-capable poet, some word on your tongue you’re no longer sure of but you remember that you used to know it.
i will no longer be important.—“I’m still holding out hope that somehow someway we’ll end up together in the end…” /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)
They think if you dance with them once you’re their boy.
Truth is I just had to fart and figured your shirt would absorb the smell.
This was the outfit I wore to school today. I spent forever doing my hair, made an effort to actually wear makeup, wore jewelry, the whole nine yards, which I seriously never do. I wanted to get away from the normal t-shirt and jeans I usually wear so that I could take cute pictures with the Seniors on their way out of high school for the last time.
If you’ll notice, the front of the skirt is more than halfway down my thigh and I even had shorts on underneath. There’s no way anyone was seeing anything under this skirt.
At my school we have a “knee length” rule for all bottoms. I got through periods 1 through 4 with not even a comment from a teacher or administrator. All I got was compliments from many students, which made me feel awesome about myself.
In lunch, I go to the vending machine to get water. The second I turn around, there’s the Principal right in my face. “Hi there, your skirt is very pretty, but it’s way too short.”
“Well Mr.Crouch, I am pretty tall, and—“
“But that’s not what matters. I’m saying that if the sheer fabric wasn’t there, the part underneath wouldn’t be legal. So you’ve got two options, you can either go to ISS, or change into something appropriate. What do you want to do?”
“Um, well I think I might have something. I’ll change.”
“Okay, and come right back and show me what you’ve changed into.”
I knew I didn’t have anything to change into, because I’d worn this skirt before with no trouble.
I went back to my table to finish my lunch, and shortly after he approached me again.
“I thought you were going to go change?”
“I will, I just wanted to finish my lunch first.”
“Alright. And when you change, go show the front office to see if they approve.”
Now we’re standing at the door waiting to be released from lunch. Bear in mind, this will be 3 times he’s approached me in maybe a 10 minute time span.
“Are you going to change?”
“Yes, I just want to let my 5th period teacher know where I am.”
“What’s your first name again?”
“And who’s your next teacher?”
“Well I’ll let Mrs. Solburg know you’re going to be a few minutes late to class, alright?”
So I went to class and let Mrs. Solburg know Mr. Crouch would be coming by soon because of my skirt and that I had no intentions of changing.
He walks in the classroom through the back entrance and says, apparently before scanning the room to see if I’m even in there, “Emily is going to be a few minutes late because she’s changing clothes. Oh, is she in here?”
“Make sure you change.”
He left, and I told my teacher that I didn’t have anything to change into. We looked in her closet and couldn’t find anything that normal people would wear that was both appropriate and matched what I was wearing. I told her to not worry about it, that I’d have my mom sign me out to go home.
When I hung up with my mom, here comes Mr. Crouch again. Mrs. Solburg tells him that I am signing out because I couldn’t find anything to change into.
“Oh, well she told me she had something to change into.”
“Mr. Crouch, I said that I might.”
“No, you said you had something.”
And he walked out.
Let’s count the things that were more wrong than my skirt, shall we?
1. Him approaching me twice while I was trying to eat in our already short lunch time
2. Him interrupting my theatre class twice just to tell me to change
3. The fact he said my skirt wouldn’t be “legal” without the sheer fabric, and also, why would I wear the skirt without the outer fabric?! It’s the whole skirt!
4. My friend Melissa had been trying to schedule a meeting with him since 2nd period to start up a donation drive for the suffering families in Oklahoma, and he was too busy following me around to help her
5. So many Seniors were dressed way more inappropriately than me with tank tops and booty shorts
6. I would have had to miss the Senior Walk even if I didn’t go home because I’d have been in ISS, so I didn’t get to say bye to all of my senior friends
7. I had to disrupt my mom at work to sign me out
8. I had to miss my last two classes when I had already been absent the previous day and needed to make up work
9. He singled me out to the extreme, embarrassed me, and made me cry in front of my class
10. My friend David wore shorts with a 5 inch inseam a few weeks ago and wasn’t even approached by an administrator. It was just shrugged off as him being a “silly boy”
11. He didn’t even want to hear what I had to say about being tall (proportions, man. Put my skirt on any short girl and it would be fine. They don’t make cute skirts that are knee length on a 5’11” girl. It just doesn’t happen.), and he completely dismissed me when I said that I told him I *might* have a change of clothes, even though it was the truth
If he put just half as much effort as he did checking up on me every 5 minutes into, maybe, /running a school/, then everyone probably wouldn’t hate it so much.
also pretty fucking gross that he was paying that much attention to your legs
how scandalous, jesus christ
yes exactly, i’m grosse dout by that dude
I feel the need to chime in on this even though it will go 100% ignored.
Let me first make it clear that I see nothing wrong with the outfit you chose to wear. I think it is neither scandalous nor slutty nor inappropriate nor any of the things that a school seems to see them as. However..
As you stated, the school you attend has a policy. The policy being that your bottoms must be a certain length. Whatever their reasoning may be, you are attending that school and receiving and education from that school and as such should probably abide by the rules in place at that school. The fact that your day was ruined is not something I enjoy hearing, especially not over something so silly. But you set yourself up for it the moment you walked out the door, knowing your own schools policy.
Also, creepy principle is indeed creepy. However no matter how many things he did that were creepy and douche-like, he was doing part of his job by enforcing the rules placed within the school. LIke you said, seniors were ignoring the rules.. So he’s got to start enforcing them somewhere, right?
Way back when, while chivalry was still “a thing” and wars were fought for good reason, excommunication was a very real threat.
Committing traitorous acts, crimes against your people, or even failing to benefit the society you were a member of all dealt a similar fate. Excommunication.
The crazy thing is that they held this punishment over the death penalty for a long time, believing that to be removed from the community you have grown to love and care for is much more torturous and painful than death. Many of those who were excommunicated would go on to “penalize” themselves with death, seeing the end of the suffering caused by excommunication as less of a punishment and more of a gift to themselves.
To say that this is any different in today’s world could not be farther from the truth.