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if you are nice to them

26 Mar


I learned that being a friend, takes a lot of time and commitment. We always were together. Being a friend is cool. You have to listen to your friends. You have to help them fix their problems. Your friends also will do the same if you are nice to them. You feel safer when you have a friend. It is nice to know that someone counts and you and that you can count on someone too.


even after all these years

11 Mar

Six years ago, over pizza at the mall, I agreed to be Daniel’s girlfriend. While I weighed the consequences of either decision, I realized my hands were on his arm like they’d been there before. I was hesitant, but not really, and I think he knew we’d be together. I’ve always felt so much a part of him. Even more, now. Can’t imagine anything better. (Except us with more cats.)

really terrible things

13 Feb

Of the six or seven really terrible things I said to Peter that night, even more than “I hate you” or “I wished you died in that accident,” when I pushed a dish off the kitchen counter and muttered that he’s becoming more and more like his brother, I knew I’d crossed a line. Shards of glass scattered over the tile beside the oven, and for a second we were both still.
“I’ll get that,” he said, reaching for the dustpan under the sink. “And go to hell.”
He knelt to the floor to sweep up the glass, and I grabbed my keys and left.

We were fifteen when we met, stupid kids without a clue. He asked a friend of a friend to tell me I was cute, so when I recognized him in the hall the next morning I walked right up to him, dropped my books on the ground so he’d turn around, and kissed him. Right on the lips. Right outside of third period Geometry. He was tall and skinny with messy brown hair and surprisingly soft lips slightly parted in bewilderment. “I’m Maya,” I said gathering my things. “And why don’t you tell me yourself?”

captured by boys

12 Feb

retroblog thursday

On March 22nd in 2001, I was recounting the events at the junior high camping trip. On the first day, we had a sand sculpture contest, and omg omg omg, I was so happy because I was teammates with The Hunter and Beach Hair, and they’re both so cute! Beach Hair buried himself in the sand, and we sculpted him into a mermaid. We got last place, but WHO CARES, RIGHT? That night, one of the teachers organized a game of Christians in Communist China which is a lot like Capture the Flag, only creepier. The object of the game was to get to the Christian meeting at the right place and at the right time without getting captured by communists. We were running around and hiding, and I didn’t write it here, but I probably really had to pee. And, you know what, Diary, even though The Hunter was a communist and he captured me, he’s really funny and sweet, and I like him a lot… as a friend. ALSO, Jake is pretty cool. ALSO, Beach Hair knows my name. Oh, and my sister was at this camp too, but we run in, like, totally different circles.

the side ponytail thing

8 Feb

For a little while in tenth grade, I tried out a high side pony. I don’t know why. This was not the eighties. I wasn’t making a fashion statement. I probably just woke up one morning and thought, Hey, I can’t really see my hair when it’s behind me. Why not move it closer to the front? This was also the year I wore a cowry shell choker, puka shell necklaces, and beaded hemp anklets with t-shirts from Ross with sayings I can’t remember but I’d intended to make me seem tough and unconcerned. I don’t remember thinking I was cool, but looking back on it now, man, was I cool.


Before P.E. one of those days, I took off my jewelry, changed into my uniform, and was adjusting my stylin’-do before heading toward the gym when a girl in my class stops me to say: “Hey, your ponytail’s crooked.” One of her friends sort of chuckled and half-whispered that it was supposed to be that way. So the girl pretended to be, like, surprised or something that she’d been rude, and apologized. And I laughed and said it was cool, when it was SO NOT COOL. And I spent the rest of the day adjusting my side pony, moving it ever so slowly toward the back of my head where it belonged.

I hate that story.


Photo source: The Babysitters Club Tumblr

dark little boxes

7 Feb

I’m scrolling through Tumblr looking for strangers my age to read my severely unedited ramblings or to write something too-personal that I might understand, but there are so many sixteen year-old girls with papers due on Monday/shopping mall mishaps/boyfriend probz that feel a lot more separate from me than I ever thought they would. Who am I anymore that I think their stories are small and unimportant in the grand scheme of things? When did I think I’d figured out the grand scheme of things? Because I haven’t, really. Mostly, I think I’m still really young. Seventeen, maybe. Nineteen. And I guess if I read about them one at a time, like, if instead of searching the #personal tag and having twenty different teenage rants explode across my screen there was one blog maybe, a seventeen year-old Oregonian with chronic nice-face and snarky undertones, I could read about Jeff from school who borrowed four pens and seems to be, like, romantically interested-ish, but is publicly obsessed with Elise, and really get it. But the way things are, the way they’ve been especially in the past week, the world seems to want me alone and misunderstood for no reason at all. And they’re all there, too. So there must be walls, right? There are walls to keep us apart, to keep us separated and frustrated and sick of everything. And I probably won’t go busting them down, but I’ll know they’re there, and I think that’s a nice start.

almost maybe

2 Feb

By the time I left the office, the sun had set again. I switched on the headlights of my car, turned up the volume to my feel-something song of the week, and drove. Leaving Kaneohe after dusk reminds me of something. Of seventh grade dances, I think. Of cold, jittery hands and prepubescent anticipation. On my way over the mountain away from my hometown, I can almost taste the cupcake flavored lipgloss. I can almost smell the shower fresh gel-spiked boys. I can almost feel the sweat beneath my hands on the shoulders of the shirt on the one who asked me to dance. We’d sway and step from left to right, and I’d be sure not to look directly at him. But when the song ended, I’d say thanks and run back to Wendy so the two of us could stand against the wall encouraging each other toward The Ones we actually wanted to dance with. Which happened a couple of times, and was perfect and magical but never quite enough, and the last song would play and we’d go home believing maybe something changed. But Monday morning back at school it was clear that every trace of Almost faded to the daylight and the seventh grade was just as it was.