Nostalgic trash

I remember that time when we laid in your truck and I couldn’t see the end. My world began and ended with you and only you, and that night could have lasted months for all I knew. I felt something different that has yet to be replicated with anyone else; you exhaled and I distinctly remember swaying slightly. And when you breathed in, I felt the pull. It was never a smart relationship. Originally my naïveté was what “attracted” you to me, but everyone knows those little quirks and endearing qualities usually happen to be the detonators for the destruction that will inevitably ensue.
I remember that night that can still bring tears to my eyes even though we’re so far apart I can’t even begin to see why we would have ever bothered being together. That night was disastrous to everything that has made me who I am today.

I remember we didn’t talk though, that I remember clearly. You finally agreed to meet to talk--you at least owed me that, an explanation. You were brutally honest and made the scratches start to bleed, like trenches overflowing.
Where were you?
…C’mon, where do you think I was?
Oh, I remember thinking. Oh. It’s funny how the organs can feel so heavy inside one’s body, while the head could have floated away with one breath. I felt dizzy.
I remember the awkwardly silent ride home, Scholastic Deth filling in the spots where conversation would have exploded years before.
And now I remember saying good bye to you at BART and you rushing to catch the train even though there were plenty more and I was crying.
I remember the nights you would stay up for hours talking to someone through instant messages, later finding out they were all her.
I remember the time I was so sick I could barely breathe without my insides heaving, and you wouldn’t even come over to see how I was doing.
And I remember all the times I had disregarded myself for you for your happiness, your wellbeing.

I switched my major to journalism and now need to keep a profile of writing samples for evidence of (some) work. So this blog is probably going to become a horrible rendition of a wannabe-writer's "showmanship". I have to be interviewed by the dean of journalism, too, which is kinda scary.

Going home for Christmas and a dinner with the grandparents. That should be fun. I'm at work right now, shoveling in all the internet I can handle in one short burst.
I don't know what to get people for Christmas. I have to make cookies for my friends.
OH! HEATHER! Yves Saint Laurent is showcasing at the de Young museum. Possibly a memento...?

WORK, UGH.