Running away, solitary night walks, single stars

“You’re going,” he said flatly. “Again?”
Kolie shifted his weight onto one leg, scratching his head and crookedly squinting at me in an over-exaggerated expression of speculation. Never one to shy away from pertinent questions, no matter how grating or barbed, he lobbed me the newest.
“What is it that you’re running away from, Cait?”
“I…” I trailed off, searching his wide blue eyes, as confused as when another manfriend of mine had waxed incredulous about my habit of going for walks with no real destination. It had never occurred to me that what I planned on doing by going to Madrid was a deliberate, desperate flight. Am I running? I asked myself.  And if I am, what am I trying to escape? I ticked down a mental checklist of reasons to hightail it. Certainly there was cause (isn’t there always?), but none of said causes pertained to my need for Iberia, for the insistent, ineluctable pull I felt toward golden sun and shady streets. If anything, I decided, I was running to. And so I told him.

“Nothing,” I finally said to Kolie, certain of the  truth. “I’m not running away from anything.” For a moment he was quiet, thick eyebrows knitting as though gauging my answer for veracity. It would have been like him to challenge me, to scoff, to mutter something vaguely insulting in his thick Boston accent. Ultimately, though, I received only a grunt in reply. “Hunh,” was his final answer, and the conversation was over.

When nearly nine months ago today Kolie asked me what it was I was fleeing by going to Spain, I believed firmly–as I do now–that leaving is not a direct translation for “running away.” I have never felt as though coming to this country was an attempt at avoiding reality, but rather an enhancement of the one I knew. I feel that even more strongly now. I have left behind beautiful friends and a loving home, but fortunately, I’ve gained both of those things, too. Home is now in barrio de las letras, in an apartment where I have somehow been blessed with two Italian big brothers who greet me with “ciao, carissima,” a store around the corner that sells quinoa for cheap, a loft bed and a book shelf I put together myself. Home is a city populated by a passel of colorful friends to meet for coffee,  with whom to cook dinner and commiserate over 15th century Spanish literature homework then sweeten it all with preserves on toast and a light, lemony beer.  Vendors with whom I chatted two years ago on Saturday mornings in Plaza Dos de Mayo remember me, I have a rapport with the checkout lady at Lidl (my local grocery store), and I am considered a “regular” at my gym. I am not running, but I have gotten lighter.

And yet, still sometimes I wonder. Restive on Thursday night, I took to the street at 10:30 p.m. I traveled West to Plaza Mayor and made  a left down Calle Bailén, a street I’ve been peripherally hoping to re-find since David walked me home via this route about two years ago. As I walked I thought about the usual romantic, egotistical bullshit into which my mind likes to slide:  affection, attraction, fear and being loved (and also the acute, nagging desire for a bocadillo de calamares--that’s a fried octopus sandwich, y’all), being static and how one is supposed to know when a decision is right. I thought about Kolie again, and about his question, “what are you running away from?” and about to how many situations the same query can be applied. I wonder if he still thinks I’m running away (for the record, he is not either of the men from whom I was running on Thursday night), and why I  still care what he thinks of my decision to be here in Spain in place of the country that was my home for 23 years.

As I rounded the corner (rounding a corner? what a strange English expression!) of Calle de San Pedro, sidestepping to stay out of the path of a nighttime cyclist, I looked up at the sky to see a single star shining overhead. A 24-degree-Celsius breeze blew through my hair and lifted the edges of my skirt. I had never seen a star in Madrid before, the sky usually too polluted by city smog and streetlights to expose anything much higher than commercial flights. I stopped walking for a moment, gazing at the star and listening to the quiet hubbub of the outskirts of La Latina on a late-summer Thursday night. I don’t know that I believe in omens, and I don’t know that I believe in low-hanging stars either, but  in spite of myself I smiled and continued, heartened, to wander.

I know that I was right when I said I wasn’t running, and sometimes the only way to know that a move is good is to feel it in your gut. I am not running away from anything by being here, but I am shaping a future. I am walking, briskly by myself late at night, not away, but to.

Piso Sweet Piso

“Tomorrow” always comes a few days later than I expect it to.

So, I promised that I’d talk a little bit about my fabulous new home near Plaza Santa Ana last post ’round, and I plan to make good on that. I live here with three Spaniards–Juan Carlos, an unidentified girl I’ve not yet met because she’s on summer holidays (as is Juan Carlos), and Pedro, the totally rad, pocket-sized Asturian chef. My fourth roommate is the one who sold me on this place almost upon meeting him, the Italian, Francesco. Francesco, an engineer, is affable, lively, very funny and speaks really amazing English. Francesco is also a tiny bit of a liar. You see, when I met him, Francesco asked me if I was British. I said “No, I’m American.”
He replied, “Even better!”
“And where are you from?” I asked him.
“I’m Israeli!” he told me with a huge grin. I, goggle-eyed and delighted (I totally love Jews. No, really. Katie (Gemela) and I have discussed this at length already and have determined that Jews are a recurring theme of my life), believed him, and considered only briefly, “Hmm. Francesco. Weird name for a dude from Israel.” We totally hit it off and I didn’t think too much more of the incongruous name or his peculiar accent, especially because he showed me out with a warm, encompassing hug and also showed off his toys, which confirmed for me that Fran and I were going to be friends (see below):

Fran's terrorist Matrushka dolls (or that's how he introduced them to me). He also has a set of Dead President nesting dolls, but I'll spare you a photo of those. They're a little gorey.

... this company makes a giardia plushie, too, and I almost bought it at the apex of my parasite battle, which is the only reason I knew things such as this existed. I have no idea why Fran does. I think it's probably best I don't inquire.

Now, let’s flash forward two days. I’d spent the day moving in and Fran invited me out to dinner with him and his Italian friends, Marco the spy and Mario, the Italian gynecologist (I swear I’m not joking. He’s an Italian gynecologist. There’s got to be a dirty joke for that somewhere.), plus a really nice French girl who is miraculously taller than I. As we waited for his friends to show, Francesco told me, “I’ve known them since we were boys in the University in Roma.”
Befuddled, I asked, “You went to University in Rome?”
“Of course,” said Fran expansively, almost looking offended, “I’m a good Roman!”

Roman? I thought. Wait… “But you told me you were Israeli!” I crowed, a mixture of indignant and confused. I stared at my comely Roman roommate, who only shrugged, looking extremely unconcerned.
“I don’t doubt it,” he said with a saucy wink, “But I’m Italian.”
Suddenly, the accent and the name made sense. I decided I didn’t mind being tricked and he insists his new nickname be Shalom. And hey–even if he’s not from Israel, Fran is still pretty cool and knows how to furnish a house and pick a good pizzeria.

So, enough about Francesco and my being tricked. Without further ado, here are some shots of my sweet new pad:

My new living room comes equipped with not one, but TWO balconies. Symmetry is important, kids.

Here’s another sweet shot of the living room, which at about noon gets the most amazing light streaming in through the French doors:

Mmm. Green, cream, black and balconies. The boys have good taste.

And here’s where I get to cook! Owing to the fact that Pedro is a chef, the kitchen came equipped with every spice known to man,  (except for my nutmeg–I had to go get that myself), an entire Serrano ham leg, shrouded and on a rack, a blender, and even a microplane! JOY!

La cocina española

Now. Let me preface the shot of my bedroom by explaining that everyone here has a completely bitchin’ bedroom except for me. I think that I live in what was intended to be a walk-in closet, but happily, the rent is about equivalent, I get to enjoy the super nice, airy common spaces, and you know…I always wanted a loft bed.

Yes, that is a double bed, and yes, it is still incredibly, *incredibly* Spartan up in here.

So there you have it! If you do wantz more, head to the flickr page where I’ll be uploading new photos soon. I’m comfy and happy here. The only adjustments left to be made are a) purchase of a trash can, b) purchase of a second pillow that doesn’t suck (because I’m hopeful that someday I’ll have company in my nest), c) enlist Fran and Pedro to bolt the very shaky, oceanically-moving bed to the wall for the same reason as found in part b, and d) get some wall adornments up in this piece. Any suggestions? I’m thinking of making something myself. The question is what?

Okay. Considering that I’ve promised myself I’ll get up early enough tomorrow to walk the 1.5 miles to the gym and take the Danza Oriental (Oriental Dance) class (eee! so exciting!), I should probably try to get to bed. I hope I no longer feel like I’m having a giardia relapse when I wake up in the morning. There’s too much to look forward to this week for me to feel like crap: Oriental dance, Amber’s return to Madrid, Lauren’s arrival and did I mention that David, my favorite Basque, is coming home from Budapest on Saturday? (insert grin here). I know I oughtn’t wish away my vacation, but I’m pretty excited for the weekend.

Also, in the event that you were looking for something to get incorrigibly stuck in your head (’cause lawd knows it has in mine), meet Matthew Barber, a.k.a. Mr. Darcy:

Spaniards Don’t Schlepp

If we’ve met in real life it’s more than likely that I’ve told you of the time I felt the most Spanish. For the sake of brevity (and knowing that damn few who haven’t already med me in real life read this palimpsestic drivel) I’ll just tell you that it involved 2007,  afternoon tea, a walk to an across-town art exhibit, a trip to the gym and the same baguette under my arm the whole time. Except, that is, when I was working out–then the bread hung out in a very clean locker. I mean, I mean, anything else’d be just a little too unhygienic–even for a Mediterranean culture. (Jejeje)

Flash forward to today, August 26th, 2009, or what will otherwise go down in history as the day I felt the very least Spanish of my entire life. Why? Four letters encapsulate it. Four letters that spell IKEA.

In the past five days I’ve made three pilgrimages to Ikea Este (an hour away by metro, which I’ve taken all three times): once to buy furniture for my almost-piso, once to return all of said items in a panic when my almost-piso fell through, and then once today, in stubborn defiance of paying an Ikea home-delivery fee and armed with backpack and a fine, fine battery of reusable Yuppie plastic totebags. After roughly 30 minutes in the store (I already knew that joint like the back of my own hand having woven through its labyrinthine shopper-trap twice before) and a good 50 in line (gotta love the crisis and lack of employees), I exited Ikea bearing a) a North Face backpack full to bursting, b) a heavily laden Ikea tarp-tote that appears as though it missed its calling as a wee rugged tent for outdoorsy schnauzers, and c)  a gigantic squashable plastic reusable totebag I took from the US, also bursting with goods. Did I mention I was also wearing a mini skirt with a tendency to hike up and that this is always, ALWAYS a bad idea? No? Well I was. Such a thing is unadvisable at home and everywhere else, really, when trucking large, heavy bags over each shoulder and a backpack.

So there I was, hiking through the suburban Spanish mall La Gavia and then outside into the 98 degree sunshine, weighed down by about 30 lbs of relatively disposable, mass produced homeware. As I huffed, counting every step it took to get closer to the metro that’s about 10 minutes by unladen foot away, indelicate rivers of sweat sluiced down the sides of my face. I only belatedly picked up on the appalled stares I incurred from Spanish passers-by who were bound for the mall. At first I was perplexed, then I chalked it up to the sweat. And then it struck me: a Spaniard would NEVER have undertaken so idiotically herculean a feat as I had. A Spaniard would have begged, borrowed or stolen a friend’s car, would have ponied up the pavos for delivery service, or at the very least, would have had the decency to roll.

The Spanish are all about ease, comfort, tranquility and, above all, minimal physical exertion. I’m not sure what happened to the industrious conquistador strain that once pulsed through Iberian veins, but I’m reasonably certain that it’s been all but diluted to extinction by equal parts time and delicious light beer. As such, everyone from grandmothers to small children totes their belongings across town, in the metro, (down stairs SANS lifting, producing a horribly punctuated “slap/crack” sound with every passing step), and up  in what are essentially rolling suitcases. To roll or to lift? Ask a Spaniard and he would disgustedly proffer you–free of charge and for your own silly good–a wheeled bag purchased from a local Chino for approximately 7 euros, disappointed you even posed such a ludicrous question. I swear it’s a cultural thing: Spaniards to not lift cumbersome shit. They just don’t. Which is why I, large, Teutonic-looking, and laden like a fabulously bipedal packhorse with all manner of storage goodies provided quite the afternoon spectacle. With mounting horror, I imagined what they were thinking, each cutting stare elaborating a new reproof. “We thought you were one of us. You wear stylish scarves! Your accent even fooled us. We believed you. We believed in you, Caitlin, despite your odd name! But oh, were we wrong!” Not even the time that I couldn’t figure out how to unlock the strange Spanish door to my new apartment (whoops! that was this morning) have I felt so foreign and strange. And sweaty.

BUT! I’m here now, seated in the living room of my swankytown new pad, about which I’ll write more tomorrow. It’s late here–twenty of one, to be exact, so I’m about to retire to my creakily swaying loft bed and turn in for a night of well-deserved shut eye in a place I know I won’t have to vacate imminently. I’m here, I’m happy, and despite being an awkward foreigner today, all is so very well. In fact, I think it was a good thing. Thank you, universe, for giving me Spain but keeping me American enough to be able to look at it from the outside and still marvel.

The night before the night before

A tiny disclaimer: I am, in fact, back from Middlebury Midsummer Spanish Bootcamp ‘09 and at this point I speak neither English nor Spanish. Life is fun. Writing is even funner.

It’s 2:39 a.m., I have a 7:30 a.m. goodbye breakfast date with a friend, and I am thoroughly nauseated and sleepless. My insomnia has nothing to do with the blistering heat we Nutmeggers experienced today, but instead with the fact that I’ve realized, quite suddenly, that in less than 36 hours I’ll be leaving home, and I don’t know that my heart is ready.

I’ve abandoned West Hartford for Spain twice now (thrice if I count that January vacation) and each leave-taking has been different. This time, however, is the first that the going feels legitimately hard. I’m lucky: I’ve never been very attached to places, but I do get terribly, terribly wrapped up in people. Last time I went it was Greg I missed most, Greg I cried about the hardest when I got on the plane, and Greg was the first person I called when I touched down in Barajas. I realize now, without him, that missing him was a sort of shield. When I started feeling melancholy tonight I tried to recall, at first fruitlessly, what it was I did last time before I left home and how I coped with the tumult. Belatedly, somewhat guiltily, I realized that I was sharing my bed with Greg and fretting acutely about what would happen to us when I left. Longing for him helped me block out everything else I was leaving, and later, everything I’d yearn for in my moments of loneliness in Madrid. As such, when I left in 2007 I spared few thoughts for my parents, my friends, the cats and my home. This time, however, without one towering figure to assign my longing and all of my love, I’m forced to miss everything, and I’m a little overwhelmed.

I think that once upon a time I used to be braver than this. Over a short five years I’ve grown less emotionally hardy, yet more simple, more full of love and less afraid of expressing it. I think that they’re linked in a way: I no longer associate showing love with needing to be brave. I’ve come to understand that love just is, and one can just give it without the condition of being ready to be shut up, shut down, shut away for doing so–no pre-emptive distancing and wall-bulding necessary. Maybe this is just what happens as we get older? Maybe we’re distilled into a nutritious concentrate of self, stripped of all of the self preservation, fake sugars and non-essential elements, but stripped too of fear of being seen, of being vulnerable, of being loved and wanting/expecting to be loved in return. Perhaps I’m less brave now, but I’m more fearless.

Tonight I’m overwhelmed, then, but I’m not afraid. I’m awake now to feel this house around me, to listen to the fans rattling in my windows as they try to clear the muggy Connecticut air, to think about hugging my mother in the morning and how she always knows exactly, often maddeningly, what I need. I’ll think of my father and how we’re never so amicable as when we’re apart, but how I’ll miss him anyway and wish that I’d learned more things from him when I had the chance. I’ll think of the friends I’m leaving here, of my alma gemela, Katie, of Irene and the friendship I treasure, of Nichole and how much I adore her good, freshly-broken heart, of Amp and Lourdes and the baby, of Lepak and Porto, and Ben and Jilla, Louisa and Jenn, Joe and Suzi and Bruce; I’m thinking of Charles and Talia and Jon, Ryan and Em and Kolie and all of the people I don’t see nearly often enough but love no less for it. I miss them, and I will miss them, and I don’t know when I’ll see them all again. This time I’m not sure when I’ll be back. I can’t promise Christmas and I can’t promise June. But Jesus, how I love them, and dios how I hope I’ve done a good enough job of letting them know.

Maybe I’m not brave, but I’m also not afraid. I know how to love and be loved back, and maybe–romantically, ridiculously–that’s all I really need.

Strings and Hypothetical Wondering When I Should Be Doing Work.

Could I ever sit in a room alone with and love someone–forever–who didn’t understand the beauty of  “Ashokan Farewell?”

(Two notes: 1) No, I am not a Confederacy sympathizer, and 2) please ignore cheesy photos in background. Just listen to the strings, man).

I don’t know why I’m thinking about this.

An Homage To Dance Class

My body is many things, but sexy is simply not one of them. Or at least that’s the truth as I’ve known it for as long as I’ve known anything at all.

I’m all right as an athlete. I’m okay as a student. I’m okay as a comedian, as a friend, as an employee and as a daughter, but at the barest glimmer of envisioning myself as a sexy woman–a potentially desirable sexy woman–I blanch, my mind goes blank, and I begin to (very unsexily) perspire.  As you might imagine, all of this swirls into a rather violent shitstorm of denial of sensuality and womanhood, to say nothing of my confusing balance of competence, confidence, and complete, strident failure to honor (or even acknowledge) my body as a physical, womanly entity.

No, but seriously people. I live in fear of being asked to shake my ass.

Because my body is not sexy, for twenty-three years now I’ve diligently kept it far, far away from potentially sexy situations. I’ve arranged these TSSs (Terrifyingly Sexy Situations) into  echelons of horror, but for now I’ll just offer a few illustrative examples. TSSs include but are certainly not limited to: hot tubs and saunas, rooms lined with mirrors, the gaze of men (most especially men I find attractive); night clubs, bars, gym class and some kinds of clingy fabric; large groups of women, large groups of men, and very short shorts (also, for most of my adolescent life, I shunned sleeveless tops). Most significant to this particular post, unless very, very drunk I kept my unsexy body the hell away from any situation that might involve dancing. Recently, at least that last one has changed.

For the past two months or so I’ve skipped to my gym at 10:30 every Sunday morning, warming up with a light run or a few minutes of sprints on the bike. At 11:00 a.m. I do something I never imagined that I–with my towering bulk, push-up given muscles, short hair and athletic wear leftover from college–would do, much less do happily. I go to dance class.

The first time was my mother’s doing. Seated at the dining room table late one Thursday night, I glugging a manly protein shake and leafing through the issue of Men’s Health that is somehow mysteriously delivered to our house each month, my mother made her pitch.

“Come with me to class on Sunday,” she wheedled. “Please. Just to try.”
I don’t believe I so much as bothered to look up from reading about how to make an erection last longer.
“Oh, c’mon, Cait! Try it with me!” she cried, reaching across the table and shutting the magazine with a glossy-covered “slap.” She met my offended gaze–I’d just gotten to the good part.
“Come on, you’ll love it–really. It’s fun!”
“Mom,” I said without emotion, as if reciting bad lines from an even worse play. “I don’t dance. No.” But like most things my mother gets set on, the issue was not at a close.

An hour or so later, I regretted for the first time in three weeks that as a means of instilling healthy habits in my alternately workaholic and sedentary mother I’d bought her a month at my gym. After roughly thirty-six hours of pointed begging, guilting and cajoling, I finally caved.
“Fine! Fine. I’ll go. But I’m standing in the back!” I fumed.
“Great!” she cooed, visibly delighted. “You’re going to love it.”

As much as I hate to admit this, my mother was right.

I would love to say that in that first class I uncovered some magical latent talent for dancing, or that I have phenomenally graceful, limber arms that I  use in artistic and expressive ways–but alas! I do not. From the waist up, I imagine I looked like something straight out of the petrified forest and brought to life by Tim Burton and Rachel Zoe. For the first half an hour I was so horrified of the way I felt my boobs moving, my ass shifting and my hips swaying, that I was barely able to get any of the moves right. I was comically, phenomenally bad, and it only added to my stress and resentment of being there at all.

But then, after my mother (who, by the way, is a really phenomenal dancer) and I had been dancing for about forty minutes, I began to notice something remarkable. Barbiesticks–those tiny, emaciated, tanned little women in Victoria’s Secret workout outfits whose body fat and muscle mass combined probably clock in at only 4 percent–don’t exactly look sexy when asked to shimmy, and are rather uninteresting to watch when they cumbia: there is too much space between their thighs and not enough hip to swing from side to side. With no little degree of satisfaction, I also noted that 5′11″ women with C cups dutifully packed into sports bras…well… kind of…do. This small moment of acceptance, of approval, was enough to help me let go, stop stressing, listen to the music and move, regardless of some bits wobbling a bit more than I’d like them to. For twenty minutes, I felt blissful dancing.

I am a regular at dance class now, and it’s become a Sunday morning ritual for my mother and me. Two weeks ago, I even allowed the teacher, Karin (who is so lovely, and once she discovered I can indeed move my hips–and well–never permitted me to go back to dancing like a wine-coolered yuppie recently anally ravaged by a croquet mallet) to drag me up to the front row and help lead the rest of the dancers. Now I’m waiting anxiously for Sunday and a 4.5 hour event in which I’ll fulfill a childhood dream of learning how to belly dance (FUCK YEAH! That belly dancer I saw at Disney when I was five COULD STILL BE ME!). Outside of class, I think I move a bit more gracefully now, and in the full length mirror at work today, I spontaneously cha-chaed (shh! nobody tell!). Shockingly enough, I’m also at least 55% more likely to look at myself in the mirror in the morning and think, “Hey. You look good.”

It took rowing to make me realize that my body is far more than aesthetics. It took my hips falling entirely apart 3 years ago to teach me that my body is more than just a tool. It’s taken shaking my ass, moving my hips, learning salsa, cumbia, cha-cha and merengue to demonstrate to me that my body, for all of its flaws, can be sexy. I am so grateful and so pleased. And you know what? Shaking my ass is kind of fun. {:

Dysfunctions

Realization: I do not know how to live with my heart in one place.

Will I ever want anything that I can actually have? Clearly, I’m not the one to answer this question, but I do hope that time might answer it for me, and I hope that it’s in the affirmative.

I’m uncertain whether the above statements are cause for alarm or a simple opportunity to look in the mirror and undertake a calm reckoning. This is not, after all, the first time that I’ve suspected that for me, happiness will always mean yearning for something that lingers on the periphery, flashing white teeth and bounding smilingly, just out of reach.

Latest Piece in The Retrospective

This labor of love brought to you by years of Spanish, The Retrospective, and Alan The Gallant’s devastatingly talented and trendy  Creative head, Ana Montiel:

GO READ!

And yes–in fact I did translate that interview. Should you find mistakes, I apologize, and please DO let me know!

Silence

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about silences, those patches of misunderstanding, inference and psychic space that bristle between us and the ones we love, the ones we don’t love, the ones we wish we knew how to open our hearts to. Even within my own family it’s occurred to me that there is so very much that we do not–that we cannot–say. I wonder why sometimes, and realize that for most of the silences and their attendant whys, there are no answers, just stasis, just inertia, just fear of getting snapped at, getting hurt, or getting–lawd, no!–informed. If we all better knew one another and our intentions we might love one another less. Or worse yet, we might love one another more.

I cannot talk with my mother about her emotions, about her life before me, about her first husband or the ways in which he let her down. We cannot talk about the things that I love, about how if I didn’t work out and suck up my endorphins, I fear I might be as depressive as my dad. I cannot tell her how much I’m going to miss her when I leave in a few months, and that if I did come back, it would only be for her. I can’t tell her how much I worry about her and how much I love her–because I’ll cry, and then she’ll cry, and then I won’t know why I’m leaving anymore.

I cannot talk with my father about the legacy of hurt between us and all of the years we’ve assumed the worst, the most hateful, of one another. We are two wounded animals of the very same stripe, skittering  between huge, shadowy trees and stealing glances of fear, admiration, of a disappointed longing at one another–all of the things to which we’ll never give voice. I cannot tell him how much I still hate him sometimes. I cannot tell him how much I love him and wish I knew how to be his friend, either.

I cannot talk with my grandmother about anything that might affect her heart. I tell her I worry about my mother, about how she works so hard, about how she is the best person I know. To this my grandmother snaps a brittle, “I know. Now don’t make me cry!” rises stiffly from the table with a little laugh meant to diffuse the tension I’ve wrought, and toddles away, sniffling and singing to my cats, pretending that we did not nearly sink together from the surface into the deep.

There are so many things that I cannot say to the people who have made me. It pains me to see the ways in which I have followed their example of emotional confinement, the ways in which I have grown closed off, closed up, distrustful of the worth of my own feelings; it makes me even sadder to know that they have never trusted to the worth of theirs. It may be too late for me and my family to creek open the cupboards that shutter up the things we’d like to feel, but starting today, starting now, I want to walk into the world with my heart flung open and my dreams on my sleeve, regardless of whether or not it might get me hurt or frighten others. I will not be fettered in order to appear strong. I will not be silent in order to avoid ruffling feathers.

I only hope that they understand how much I love them, and that when I say it, I’m meaning it to get all the way inside.

Afternoon HaHas

Oh God, this makes me happy: