Magzdoodle's blog

The boxes
are all packed,
the clothes tightly folded.
Wrinkles don't matter
anymore.

Load after load
of laundry
litter our conversations,
our actions.

Ribs for dinner,
Raspberry pie for dessert.

Goodbyes.

Excitement.
Adventures.
Moving on.

All morning,
I just wish that it was me
climbing into the van
that is full of every aspect
of my life
(everything that actually matters).
Everything tucked inside
the boxes and suitcases
and on the floor.

All morning,
I just wish that it was me.

Every time that there's a larger letter in the mail,
she acts all excited
and gets all "Oh hey, what's in there?!
Who's that from?!
Who's it for?!"

She gets so obviously excited,
or rather,
anticipated.

I know what she's looking for.
I'm supposed to be looking for it, too.

And even though I try to hide it,
even though she's looking for something
that I dread for so many reasons
(something that will only cause
more anxiety),
I have to admit
that maybe
my heart still beats
a tiny bit faster
each time
I run out to that squeaky white mailbox.

It was I-don't-know-when, and he sat down next to me on that tacky green couch. The first time we really talked.

"You must drive yourself crazy," he finally said, after watching me draw and redraw and continually erase the stray pencil strokes of my homemade math table. "You must drive yourself so crazy," he said, and I nodded, choking back a smile.

"Of course I do. I'm Maggie, what do you expect?"

I found this scribbled in a notebook...it's basically an overview of a typical bad day back in May/ June when I was just soo ready for school to be over. But I got a kick out of my grumpy side...enjoy :)

PERIOD 1: Band

“So is there anything you haven’t done?” I asked her after she told me about her trip to Africa.

“Yes! Which is why I have to go do it!” She giggled.

We were already in my driveway, otherwise I would have asked what it was that she had yet to achieve. It didn’t seem like there would be much.

Isn't it funny how quickly things change? How one day everything seems fine, but then the next, all you can remember is how everything never was fine at all?

Isn't it funny how the mindless games of Spider Solitaire have been shifted and morphed into endless google searches for jobs - or rather, careers, or something more long-term of the sorts?

When did this happen? Why didn't I notice sooner?

When everything falls apart, I can always turn to the shower.

Sitting or laying or curling up in a ball, I can hold still for as long as I want. As long as I need.

I can stare at the wall or close my eyes and not see anything for once. Not feel anything. Not think or breathe or do anything.

The water is so hot but I can't feel it. I'm numb and my mind is finally blanker than all my reams of empty notebook paper.

All my problems and worries and anxieties disappear. Nothing runs through my head except maybe the tune to a sadly mellow song and some scribbled prose,
or even

Dear Jimmy,
I don’t know how to address you. “Uncle Jimmy” just sounds weird, and it makes me feel bad because you never really had the chance to be an uncle. Like somehow I’m rubbing it in your face that you never had the opportunity to meet us, or even the fact that we all outlived you. It just doesn’t seem right.

And when I picture you, you’re always the same. You’re young, still that thirteen year old boy that I never once saw, not even in photographs. Dark hair and big ears like all the rest of them – all 8 of your siblings that actually are my aunts and uncles.

To Mr. G, 8th grade Team B Basketball Coach (where all the unathletic or uncoordinated or just downright BAD players end up) :

I was never fond of basketball. I thought the ball was too big and there was too much running and too much to keep track of: was that one step or two? Traveling? No, it was a jump. Wait, what? I don't know. It just never clicked for me.

I feel a kind of connectedness when there is no one else but me and a stranger on YWP at once, just as I feel a sense of sadness when I am the only one.

Sometimes my mind gets fuzzy.

All the thoughts jumble and mix and mesh together, stirring in a charred pot of something nasty. Spicy hot chili with homemade ice cream, artichoke hearts and orange peels thrown on top, maybe even some garlic to keep away the vampires. And sprinkles. You can't forget the sprinkles.

Sometimes my mind gets fuzzy and I can't think. Random words stutter in my mind for no reason, the "Dallop of Daisy" sour cream jingle screams in my head, the "Rollie Pollie Ollie" theme song gets stuck on repeat. Sprinkle. Sprinkle. Sprinkle.

The whistles and catcalls stung my ears as I was dragged down the grim hallway. Whistles and catcalls and grotesque words I couldn't comprehend - sexual innuendos and grunts and vileness that twisted and tumulted in their vernacular language until my ears bled of nightmares. The kind that leaves you screaming in the darkness, but when you open your eyes, there's no one there. Not even the scary monsters to comfort you.

But this was different. This was real.

It was the type of smile that's a surprise, the kind that just springs upon me when I least expect it. The type that won't wipe itself off of my jaw, no matter how much I shake my head or turn my face away from everyone else or even try to frown.

It was the type of feeling that made me want to curl up into a ball of giggles and cuteness and giddiness. Made me think that my head or my heart or wherever it is that my soul lives would explode.

And I let a few giggles slip, let a few soapy bubbles of joy sneak out.

It's the smiles and the waves and even the friendly nods. It's the "hello"s and "how are you"s and "I missed you when you were gone"s.

It's the yearbook messages filling up page after page, so meaningless but so true. So full of secrets and words that will mean something different years from now.

It's the words. The way they flow and create and twist around like a child in her pretty pink Easter dress. Twirling and swirling and spinning in circles that turn into a wonderful mess of beauty.

i.
That feeling more and more lately has been invading my body. My brain. My heart. Messing with my emotions and pulling all the wrong strings. Until I am a marionette of my own anxieties, a dancer to the songs that I create.

When I see someone in the hall and they don't see me wave - it hurts.

When the voices are too loud and my brain can't think - it hurts.

When all the answers are right in front of me, and yet I can make no sense of this PreCalc jibberish - it hurts.

Is it so wrong that I only had a dream? That I had the small hope of going somewhere in life, succeeding and adventuring and escaping the confines of Vermont?

Seventeen years. I have been here for seventeen years.

Who is she to tell me no? Who is she to tell me that I can't leave here? That I can't experience life the way I want to? That I can't have a dream to go beyond and see new things and grow?

NOTE: Not sure if any of this makes sense, the words just kind of piled out at once.

Sometimes I forget where I'm going or why any of us are here. What the point of happiness is if we'll only lose it in the end. Nothing - none of this matters. I think that's what scares me most; living life with so much passion to just be forgotten in the end.

What difference will I ever make? What difference will any of us ever make?

He gets scary when he's angry.

He raises his voice and it's hard to tell if he's serious or not. No one can tell. No one wants to double-cross him.

But now - now he's angry. He's really angry, and people think he's doing it just to be a jerk. Making a big deal about something small on Facebook - yelling and getting angry over Facebook.

They think he's just trying to be a jerk.

But I wonder if they hear his voice quivering, wonder if they see his hands shake. When he takes his glasses off to rub his eyes, do they see the tears that he's fighting back?

When I get nervous, I can't speak.

Four girls
in the principal's air-conditioned office
are crowded around the tiny table
in stiff red conference chairs.

I always thought that
this conversation would be an honor,
but my hands won't stop shaking
and my teeth
won't stop chattering.

I am shivering
on the inside
and I am afraid
that opening my mouth
will expose myself.

There is so much to say,
and I just can't speak.

I hate the numbers.
Hate the counting,
the waiting,
the competing,
the hating.

I hate the arrogance,
the trying to get ahead.

It was a Monday, the first day without you. The first day of you being gone. But it didn't feel like it. It was just a Monday.

TA was empty - boring - stupid even. No one to talk to. No one to visit. No one to play Catch Phrase with. No one else in TA even cares. Not like you did.

"You know what I really miss?" I asked Mr. F during TA. He smiled and said no, he didn't know.

She jumps and prances around like she knows what she's doing. Like she knows how to make us all giggle in awe, make us all want to curl up in a ball simply out of her cuteness.

Her sweet little meow makes me feel sorry for ever doing anything wrong to her. Makes me feel sorry for putting her in her cage so the other cats won't bother her. Makes me feel sorry for leaving her to go eat dinner or do homework or even fall asleep.

Two years ago, almost to the day, I walked into my Spanish class with a smile on my face after volunteering at the school's blood drive.

It was the first smile that had passed my face in weeks, and all because things were starting to turn around for me. Things were starting to get better and I was starting to be happy again.

"Today was a good day! A good one!" I told my teacher, nervous and shaky like always. Giving a thumbs-up. A good day.

Two years have passed and everything is so different. Almost every day is a good day now, even without the effort.

At the end of each week that I work at my summer camp, there is always a major feeling of relief lifting from my shoulders. No more dealing with the annoying kids or the homesick ones or showering and sleeping minimally. Finally a fresh breath of air, a nice clean breath to rinse my soul of the pure wilderness. Sleeping in my own bed with my own cats and eating non-organic greasy junk food that makes me proud to be an American.

The house was empty, save the two of us, empty of the noise and chaos that always makes me shudder.

I found her sitting on the windowsill, staring out at nothing. The rain had slowed and you could see the soft drops bouncing off the puddle of the pool cover. A few leaves rustled in a breeze.

The birds were even gone, gone to some place other than here. Some place other than our backyard.

But there was Annie, lost in thought. Staring at nothing.

I wonder what she thinks about.
I wonder what she sees.

The word “scared” has been finding its way into my mind lately.

I can’t do this, I’m too scared.

I don’t want to do that, I’m scared.

I don’t know what suddenly hit me, what put this barrier up in my brain again, telling me what I can and cannot do. Telling me what I should and should not do. Giving me boundaries instead of the sky. I don’t know what brought these fears back to me.

It scares me to see the final numbers on the page. The last grades of the quarter. The last grades of the class. This is it. No time to turn it around. We’re done.

If I could control the world, there would be a soundtrack to every aspect of our lives. Perfect music at all the right times. It would all just fit so nicely, add so much to the moment.

Life would be a musical. Getting an A on a test would result in synchronized singing and dancing down the halls. Time would halt. It would be beautiful.

i.
My parents dropped me and my sister off at Pets Mart to pick out new beds for the cats. We searched through the whole store until we found it - found the perfect beds for Coco and Annie.

Annie's was round and a pale pink, made out of the fabric we knew she loved. Yet she hated the bed at first, scrambled out of it each time we put her remotely close to the soft comfort that complimented her femininity.

At first, she was just an extra body in the classroom. Someone who was just there.

But then she started talking, she was suddenly a person. Someone who asked how your day was, not just because it was routine or required or polite, but because she actually cared and wanted to know.

She's always fun and always smiling and always has something interesting to say. I actually look forward to class now, actually want to be there.

When I'm in a really good mood, I always want to dance.

Not traditional teenage dancing - not the repetitive jumping and pelvic thrusts and grinding and whatever other forms of dirty conduct that there might be - I don't dance like that. I can't dance like that. My hips just don't allow it.

I want to dance like a ballerina. I want to twirl my arms around the atmosphere, reach out and stroke the beautiful world. Poised and confident and perfect. Point my dancing fingers in that elegant position they first each you when you begin ballet.

September is my favorite month because I love the smell of new binders.

I love new school supplies with such an overwhelming passion - love writing my name in that top corner of every notebook and folder, love tearing the plastic off the reams of paper, love the fresh ink of each new pen I buy. It's all so clean, so refreshing. Everything is new. Just that idea of everything surrounding me being equally and controllably untouchable is exhilarating.