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Old 05-15-2007, 12:26 AM
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Default </3 My Original Love Rant <3

Originally handwritten on Friday night, two pages in my scrapbook, but I typed it up for you all to read:

My Original Love Rant

I write to you with an arm throbbing and aching, breaking ever so slightly with every stroke of this menace of a pencil. I should go to the doctor, but I have bigger things on my mind.

I write to you with a full stomach and an empty heart. Even my love for meats and cheese and soda is falling into this vortex of disgust that sits beside my lung. It has protection from the outside, muscles and bones save it from a daily beating of hellos and rough, blank embraces. The card in my wallet guards it from near-death, shall it malfunction, or be pierced by any shrill, cold pain.

This is a typical woe is me; I am out of love story, except for the story part. My arm hurts too much to write for hours on end, and I need to go endure more physical pain at 8 a.m. tomorrow morning. I must also state that any accounts you witness in this little snippet of emotion are open to fallacy and misguidance, so try to keep track.

There are two things I have always prided myself on: knowing what love is among a world of ignorant half-brains, and being able to conquer emotions by talking, but they both come back to haunt me.

The love part: not so fun. I never love the girls I like, the girls I date, and I am always bothered by this thought, knowing that it has no meaning beyond the present and the viable. I will often hug a girl, kiss a girl, and wonder why I am even bothering. Itís fun, sure, so is playing soccer, or watching Scrubs at 11 Ďo clock at night, that doesnít give it meaning, or me hope. And why is this? Because I am busy thinking about the one girl out of this planetís seven billion that I do love, and so ironically cannot be with in any sense, if you can believe that clichť.

I feel uncomfortable, in this dank, humid room, shifting from my bed to my equally uncomfortable desk just to rest my arm. I swear itís at least a hairline fracture.

Her name is Chelsea, was Chelsea, I donít know what tense Iím in anymore, since I still canít tell if she is around, or will ever be in my future; a will be Chelsea would mean the world to me. We met what? Twice? We never kissed; I was sweating balls just giving her a hug goodnight, and went down to ponder how I even managed the hand of this angel (the same angel that messed with my cousin and left me to dry like I was her bath towel, though I wasnít that lucky either). I donít like saying her name; it makes me consider too many things.

I spent hours on the phone, hundreds on texts, and burned my eyes out on my Instant Messenger. We talked about love, sports, grades, love, friends, pizza, pets, and more love. I shared my grief, she listened, she whined, and to my surprise, I listened fully and intently. But I couldnít comprehend why it had to be her: the girl that lived an hour south, so close yet so unreachable at my age. Why was it this girl that plagued my thoughts? Before a test, I thought her name and smiled. Before a race, I thought her name and smiled. She would come up in my dreams, though not often in my conversations; she was my own piece of heaven that I intended to keep, although I couldnít forever. As always when two people care for each other, we fell hard, and regrettably stopped speaking. I havenít once heard her breath since, or obnoxious voice or enticing giggle. The fall, however, was oddly normal.

Why, in retrospect, was this relationship not significant? What happened that made this girl look like every other girl I lost, when she was the only one I loved?

I guess if I ever found out, that love would fall too, and thatís the only thing that holds me to her memory. So let it leave my brain and join my stomach in this endless vortex, where it may one day return and find Chelsea, exactly like I left her.
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