35 days

I wish that when he told me that he was going to come home I could cry a little less, and believe him just a little bit more. He says he has peace about it. I wish I had that peace. I wish that every day of silence didn't amount to a day of me imagining worst case scenarios and constantly wondering what he was doing and where he was at. I wish my life didn't revolve around hoping for stupid Facebook notifications signifying a message from him or that he had commented on something. I wish that every morning when my cell phone alarm went off I didn't get my hopes up thinking it was him calling. I wish that every night before I fell asleep I didn't have to try so hard to imagine what it was like to have him sleeping beside me, trying to find a comfortable way to press my face against his back, listening to the way he breathed when he fell asleep. I wish I knew when I will see him again, when I will hear his voice and feel his heartbeat, and for once be able believe with absolute certainty that everything is going to be okay.

Woah

In 5 days, I will be with Jeremy again. I am kind of freaking out. I can't even pinpoint why I'm suddenly getting overwhelmingly nervous. I tend to over think every aspect of my existence, so it doesn't surprise me in the least that I am suddenly wigging. I am excited too. In my more lucid moments I remember how much fun it is to just be around Jeremy. Even if we are pushing a broken down car out of the middle in the road, or playing cards, or laying in the grass at Pike's Peak, or sitting on a bench having a cigarette, I love being near him. But it has been almost 8 months. And Jeremy left as I guy that I loved, and he's coming back as someone I can't imagine my life without. Funny how that happens when all we've had is the occasional letter, Facebook message, and phone calls (during which some of the time, understanding each other is reduced to a frustrating guessing game). But somewhere along the line I have come to realize that he is all that I want in a guy, and I'm beyond happy to be his, and I haven't been around him in this context. I haven't been around him at all. And going from a relationship based on phone calls, to being around one another 24/7 four 14 days is going to be a shock. And then he's going to leave again, which I have already established will be the worst feeling in the world.
It's weird too, because this relationship I have with Jeremy has become some sort of alter-ego for me. I have my life in Chicago, with my friends, my school, the memory of a me that I very recently used to be. Chicago feels like home. There is nothing of Jeremy there. The only connection that ever would be in Chicago is Christie, and the past few times I've been in the city, she hasn't been there, and I haven't even been around Christie but once as Jeremy's girlfriend. Then, there is my life here, in Crawfordsville/Ladoga, where there isn't even a hint of Jeremy. Jeremy is from that weird transition period where I ended up in Colorado for the best summer of my life, right after the worst semester of my life. I was caught on the fringe of an identity crisis, and the most epic fall from grace that I could imagine. And Jeremy just happened to be right where I landed. And for three weeks I let myself fall for him at an alarming rate and as suddenly as it began, that weird phase of my life ended, and with it went Jeremy. And now he is going to pop back in my life and probably shake it up once more, and then leave me with my boring life in which I feel as if I am going nowhere fast, just waiting to figure out where and what I'll be when he comes back. I want what I had with him in Colorado on a far more permanent basis. Life with Jer is fun and exciting and to be loved the way that he loves me is kind of indescribable. And if I can only get Jer for 2 weeks at a time for now, I'll take it. Because those two weeks are worth every second of waiting in between.

I play a damn good fool

I've been realizing that when it comes to my heart, I can be pretty careless. I wear it on my sleeve like it's nothing. It seems that at even the slightest indication of care or interest, I put it all out there. I hold nothing back. The only person I ever played my interest down with was Sam. Because although he pursued me, it was off an on, and despite all the flirting and the 'dates', I was still just the girl he called when he had a crush on an Asian chick. Someone he could really be with.

Despite the huge risks, I always pour out my heart and give it all. Because I love loving. And then I get hurt, and wonder why the hell I could never be good enough despite the fact that I did give it all. If anything, I care too much.

When I fall, I fall hard and fast and my heart is committed. And when I start to get scared and doubt, it's too late. Extracting my feelings would be like trying to extract a bullet from my flesh without leaving a wound where I was shot. There's no doing it.

With Mark, one kiss after a few too many drinks was enough to set my hopes so high, that despite the fact that he turned out to be an ass hole, I couldn't stop caring and wasting my good intentions on him. And the worst thing about Mark was that he knew how much I cared, how much I liked him, and he played it up. He used my feelings to stroke his own fucking ego and treated me like trash. And although I boldly told my friends that it was his loss, I suppressed the true conclusion that I had come to, which was that in reality, I was worth absolutely nothing. One can only be treated like trash for so long before they begin to believe that they really are trash.

I wish I could be more hesitant. You would think I would be after being hurt over and over. I wish I wouldn't just say everything on my heart and mind. I wish I could be more careful, because by the time I start to distrust, and my over-analyzing brain is freaking out, I've already made a fool of myself.

A few of my favorite people...

I find myself often referring to my 'favorite' people. So I thought it might be worth noting. They are in no particular order, but these people stand out in my mind as people I would not care to have to live without, and I am thankful for having them in my life. I love them all.

Sasha: When I think 'best friend' a few names come to my mind, but the best of my best friends would without a doubt have to be Sasha. I've known Sasha since 3rd grade, or at least that's when I remember her becoming a regular part of my life. She's been there through everything. She probably knows me better than anyone, and she is the one person that I have that I can tell absolutely anything to without any fear of condemnation, or for fear of losing her friendship. No matter how much time passes we always pick up where we left off. I definitely miss having her around.

Ruth: Hands down the 'coolest' friend I have. I am NOT an easy person to live with, by any means, and although on more than one occasion I came home to all my stuff in trash bags on my bed, I couldn't ask for a better roommate. And although our battle over music was a constant one, we managed to compromise on most occasions, and probably thoroughly offended every girlon our floor. But Ruth is more than the world's best roomie. She was never once afraid to tell me when I was being a dumb ass, and when I realized what a dumb ass I was, she never said "I told you so" but comforted me when I bawled my eyes out over my sheer stupidity. She's a ballsy friend, and one I need. My appreciation for her is unending.

Austin: Oh, Austin. Austin is one of the very, very, very few people (very few being two) who saw me at my absolute worst, who knew how badly I fucked up, who was literally with me at my worst moment to date. And he somehow still saw my worth. Austin kept my head above water when I was drowning in despair. And although he could have very easily written me off, he defended me. And I have seen Austin transform into a guy that I admire and respect more than I thought I could. I am fiercely proud of him, and through all of his bull shit, I feel privileged to know a small part of his journey. I could probably rave about Austin a bit more, but the fact is, he's a great friend, and a loving brother. I have also never been kicked out or chased out of more places than with Austin, but that is another matter all together. :)

Dave: To try to describe Dave in a brief paragraph is impossible, but I'll try. I adore Dave. He is one of a kind. When I say one of a kind, I mean I have never, and will never meet a soul comparable to David Thomas Ulrich. I remember our first conversation in a Starbucks after we voted in the presidential election together. I remember being flabbergasted by the maturity of this young guy. He is so grounded, and so real. He is an open book, sharing his life with others for the benefit of all who are blessed to know him. I miss having long talks with him at dinner, where he would pull various seasonings for food out of his backpack. And I have never played with a guy's hair, or any girl's hair for that matter, as much as I did Dave's. Granted, I have never put dreads in anyone else's hair. (I'm sorry they didn't work out, Dave. However, I don't regret the early mornings and hours spent destroying your great, hippie hair.)

Aaron: My little brother. I haven't been the best sister, what with my tendency to up and leave rather frequently, but the relationship and closeness I have to Aaron now is not something I want to lose. And although I have lost a lot of sleep worrying about him, I know he is the one person I can count on in my family to stick up for me when certain mothers and girlfriends are being nasty, psychotic bitches. Aaron knows my damage best, because he's been through all the same shit. The protectiveness I feel for Aaron is unlike anything I have felt before. He will always be my little brother, and I would do anything to spare him the pain he's dealing with.

Jacquelyn: Jacquelyn and I are almost too similar to be

best friends. Our influence on one another is certainly not an advantage. I wish I could calculate how much time we have spent just sitting and avoiding life. Or how many hours we spent lost on the streets of Chicago. Jacquelyn is one of the few girls in my life that I have more of a sister relationship with, but after three years of ridiculously close proximity, I think it's to be expected. And although after our first meeting in CPO and I thought she hated me, I'd say we ended up pretty alright.

Christie: One of the few friends that I can get into a nearly physical altercation with and still end up cuddling before bed at night. :) Christie and I have had some less than friendly moments, but I don't know what I would do without her loving influence in my life. It's not for no reason that I call her 'mom'. I envy Christie the love that she has, and disappointing her is the hardest thing

for me to do.

Jer: Although you haven't been in my life very long at all, I think you're pretty swell. My love for you and my relationship with you isn't comparable to any of the above, but I have never found it so easy to enjoy anyone as much as I enjoy you. Loving you is pretty effortless, even if our relationship means a lot of work. I am a very, very lucky girl, and I hope to be yours for some time.

I drove to Chicago, all things go, all things go...

I miss Chicago more than I've ever missed any place before. It's hard to believe that such a large, cold, busy place could be the best home that I've ever had, but it is. I remember in my first semester that my parents forbid that I go anywhere alone, even to the Starbucks a block away from Moody. But my fear of the huge, obnoxious city quickly deteriorated, partially because of necessity, and partially because of the comfort that I soon acquired on the streets near Moody. I went from not being able to walk to the S'bucks a block away, to traveling an hour and a half round trip to Humboldt Park by myself, going by buses, train, and foot. I went from being afraid of the city, to wanting to embrace every aspect of it. Fortunately, I had friends who were not afraid of exploring the city, as many Moody students are prone to be.

I miss hazy warm nights where walking through the city wasn't a trial and it didn't matter if the bus we were waiting for was an hour late. I miss walking on the beaches and playing ultimate frisbee at night. I miss getting lost and stumbling upon hip places like Reckless Records, Myopic Books, Buffalo Exchange and all of the joys of places like Wrigleyville and Wicker Park. I miss Navy Pier and the fireworks. I miss getting caught in warm downpours and getting back to school drenched to the bone, all for the sake of Dunkin Donuts with my best friends. I miss almost everything about the life that I had there, and I would give almost anything to have it back again.

This is not okay.

I have moments where I know that things will not be okay.

I was surprised to find an email in my inbox from Jeremy at 2 in the afternoon. He normally emailed me from 10pm-5am, my time. And the length of the email upon opening it surprised me.

As I read the email, I couldn't believe the words my eyes were taking in. I had to read the email twice before the gravity of it settled like a heavy weight in my stomach. Before I could stop the tears, they were rolling off my cheeks onto the keyboard.

This is not okay.

He is not okay.

I am not okay.

The horrors of war are okay when they are safely contained on a movie screen. Or confined to the pages of a book that a stranger wrote. But when they are from the person that you love, when they are as fresh as the blood of innocent lives lost, or a village still smoldering, then it is not okay.

My body aches. My heart aches. There is absolutely nothing that I can do or that I can say to offer comfort in this situation. This seems to be as wrong as the world gets. I pray, but for what? That Jeremy can see what he saw and somehow be okay? That he can get back to life in the states and be happy again, laugh again, after witnessing what he has seen? That whatever and whoever is left after an air strike can move on with their lives without a body of their child, or their husband, or their wife to mourn over? Christians, in these circumstances, would seek to see those affected come to Christ out of these kinds of circumstances. But what Muslim is going to seek after the God of the men who just ended their lives? What hope is there in such destruction? What kind of light can pierce that darkness? I don't see any. You can't tell people that "It will be okay."

It will not be okay.

Fall and the Mega Awesome Playlist.

I am sitting on the front porch of my grandparents house, listening to Derek's "Unfinished and Untouched Mega Awesome Playlist!" Yellow, by Coldplay is currently playing, and it fits the mood of this autumn day quite nicely. The elementary school across the street is getting ready to let out, and parents are lining up down the block to pick up their children. Across the street at the play ground, one tree is beautiful, brilliant shades of gold and orange. The rest are stubbornly remaining green for a few more days or weeks. Children shout as they play a juvenile version of Ultimate frisbee across the street at the ball diamonds.

This is my first day off in a week, and I am rather enjoying the lovely day. Every thing seems to have that 'right' feeling. Of almost perfection. Because surely nothing can ever be perfect. Perhaps perfect would be having Jeremy sitting on the porch swing next to me, but I'm sure I would find other things to long for even as he sat beside me.

I've recently developed a strong aversion to accepting the present. The present, as in present-tense. Now. This very moment. I avoid it like the plague. It is rather unfortunate, because I could probably be making much more of the here and now if I didn't spend all of my time missing the past and longing for the future. I also spend an absurd amount of time thinking about 'the Ghan' as it has been affectionately titled before. I think that it is probably natural to spend so much time thinking about the war, seeing as it pretty directly involves me now, whether I want it to or not.

Life definitely isn't how I expected it to be a year or so ago. But I feel fairly certain that this is where I'm supposed to be. I guess I should just accept it.

The rhythmic thumping of clothes being tossed around in the stainless steel dryers that line the wall are occasionally punctuated with the chirruping of the arcade games on the other side of the laundromat. The bright florescent lights illuminate the table I am sitting at and glare off of the table top with epithets carved in the surface acknowledging who will be together forever, who is a whore, and who is a bitch. I sat with my head bowed, facing the windows and the automatic doors that open at the slightest hint of movement, letting in the last few chill breezes of a late September night. In the glass, I can see the reflection of a guy sitting in the far back corner of the laundromat, hunched over his cell phone. I sit and wait for my friend Kara to return from the bathroom, absorbing the sense of loneliness that has consumed me for the past two days.

Loneliness that is temporarily relieved by a brief email at two o' clock in the morning. Loneliness that is wearing me thin. I am hoping that in the next few days the loneliness will retreat to whatever place in my heart it is lurking and let me feel happy again. But in reality, this loneliness is going to be a long-term companion. Perhaps I'll just get used to his heavy company.

We Are Broken

As this week ends, so does Jeremy's second month in Afghanistan. It is hard to believe that he has already been gone for two months. It is even harder to believe that I have to do this for another 10 months. It is days like this that are the hardest, days where Jeremy doesn't even seem to exist, where he feels impossibly far away, and time is playing cruel tricks on me and not even passing at all. I have never missed anyone so terribly. I never imagined that it would be this hard. But there are times where I think about how, somewhere on the other side of the world, there is a guy as crazy for me as I am for him, who misses me like I miss him, and it is a small comfort.

I have been reading "Blood Makes the Grass Grow Green" by Johnny Rico. It is an account of his time spent in Afghanistan in 2003. It is a much more sarcastic and humorous perspective on war, and it isn't very disconcerting to read as far as violence goes. It has however irritated me in a way that I wouldn't imagine. The soldiers in Rico's unit are bored out of their minds thus far in their tour in Afghanistan (about a couple of months in), and their duties consist mostly of 'guarding dirt'. They don't feel like they are at war at all, and are anxious to be involved in action. So much so that some of Rico's fellow soldiers contemplate shooting a random Haji simply out of boredom and not because he poses any threat to them. They treat the Afghans as less than dirt and hate them as a people group. They are at war with the Taliban, but their disgust is openly directed towards all of the people of Afghanistan. There is no sobriety in their group and they mock and tear apart care packages from caring civilians in the States. Their absolute boredom and total lack of purpose in Afghanistan gives them an almost primitive, animalistic mentality. It is actually rather discouraging to read, because the characters and their attitudes and actions are kind of despicable. Of course, I should not be quick to judge, because I could never imagine what those kind of circumstances can do to the mind and the spirit. Rico is simply portraying the outward actions and attitudes of his comrades, and there is not a lot of insight into the machinations of their thoughts and how they are driven to the point they are at. Rico himself has a kinder attitudes towards the Afghans, but still partakes in the disturbing, stir-crazy antics of his fellow soldiers.

I refuse to imagine that this is what Jeremy's squad is like, given that the circumstances are completely different. I know that they are incredibly busy, and the area that they are in has a lot of Taliban influence. They aren't just there guarding dirt. They are at war. I would imagine that the places that their minds go is a far more dangerous kind of 'crazy' than what Rico and his comrades were experiencing. My fear for Jeremy isn't simply a fear for his life, but a fear for his mentality when he comes home from Afghanistan. I speak from almost total ignorance. I know nothing of war. I can only read about it in Johnny Rico's book and understand very little of it from Jeremy's letter. I can hesitantly read news articles about a new assault in a river valley outside of Kandahar. But really, I know nothing, and I can't really imagine what it is like for Jeremy. I can only hope and pray that God brings him home safe and sound.

[Fall]ing

The living room of my grandparents house is lit with early evening sun. Its 80 degrees, but the humidity is low, leaving it warm and comfortable with the breeze. From where I sit, I can hear kids laughing and shouting on the playground across the street. It is a lovely September day, and I can only think of a few things that could make late summer evenings better.

It is the beginning of harvest time, and along my way to work and into town every day, there are tractors parked in the fields, filled to the brim with soybeans and corn. The leaves are just beginning to lighten noticeably into yellows in reds, and occasional gusty winds are beginning to rob the trees of their foliage.

Driving home on this particular evening, I realized that when it comes to thoughts of him, they are becoming as frequent and as necessary as breathing. Living in a town where there is nothing to remind me of him, where we have no memories, leaves me feeling a bit disoriented. There are pictures of him in my room, and I sleep with the blankets we bought on Pikes Peak. In the cooler fall mornings and evenings, I wear his flannel shirt. In my wallet I keep our ticket stub from the penny arcade in Manitou Springs. And I am almost ceaselessly listening to the music he loves, while my mind wanders to Afghanistan, and I pray ceaselessly for his safe return. Our few weeks in Colorado seem little more than a dream, and that dream is what I am living for.

Its not that I am not engaging in the reality that I live in, but the greater part of my heart is usually wrapped up in this nearly non-existent relationship, this love that most days just seems like a figment of my imagination. In the past 38 days I have received 3 brief Facebook messages, and heard his voice once. It is never enough. I think daily of how wonderful it will be to be waiting for him at the Bangor International Airport when he comes home, to hold him and be kissed by him, to hear his voice. And I never think of the end of that 2 weeks, because it signals the unfortunate end of yet another good dream.

"I'm right here and I must admit I've been pining for you. You're my wish...I just hope when I cast my spell you'll be falling for me. Because falling in love could be the first thing. Falling in love could be the worst thing. Falling in love, there is no rehearsing; retarded in love."

Koi Tattoo

I ran my fingers over the smooth skin of his forearm, tracing the outlines of his colorful tattoo. I was overwhelmingly happy to be with him again. I sat close to him on the couch, holding on to his arm, my head on his shoulder, the way we had sat many times before.

When I opened my eyes to find myself alone in my bed, with my brother right in front of me, rifling through my purse, I was instantly consumed with disappointment. Aaron asked if I would go to Lafayette with him, but I was desperate to fall back asleep and into my dream again. Upon returning to sleep, there was not a single moment of Jeremy in my dreams. I was alone.

Dreaming of him only makes it harder. Although for the time that I'm asleep and 'with him', I am happy, when I wake up, his absence is so much stronger. I feel panicky that I can't see him and hear him. For a moment I feel as if these next 6 months are impossible. It is the worst feeling in the world.

Neon green

It stung like a violent wind that our memories depend on a faulty camera in our minds...

There are specific memories that I wish that I could capture and preserve perfectly, with out any trick of my imagination trying to embellish or lessen the moment.

Very early this morning, we sat side by side on a wet bench, barely under the cover of a tree across the path. I can hear the rain falling on the leaves, on the pavement, on his jeans. I can feel the cold drops on the back of my neck. I can taste the cigarette, smell the smoke. I want to savor every word he said, the feel of his head on my shoulder. Our feet side by side on the sidewalk. My hand on his on my leg. The song that he sang. I want it all, perfectly stored away.

I want to remember laying side by side on my bed, our feet on the ground, our hands over our own faces, not speaking.

I want to remember the feel of his heart beating through my shoulder as we sat on the couch, his head leaning heavily against mine, and his deep breathing as he slept. I want to remember the dread of his phone vibrating in his pocket indicating the cab was here to take him away for six long months.

I want to remember the heaviness of it, the impossible weight of goodbye.

Foolishness

There is an unfortunate madness about love. It gives love a proclivity for danger, for impossible risks, for hurt and sorrow. It fosters irrationality and has a way of creating illusion.

There isn't anything greater than it, really.

However, there is only one who loves right, and the rest of us are left to gamble with what we think we understand of love.

We will always be young and naive in this sense.

We will always be the subjects, and it will always be our master.

Lessons

I spent the entire day in Chicago yesterday, and it was a lot of fun, but it just left me wanting more. There is a hardly a place that I frequent in the city that does not have some memory attached to it. Most of the memories are very good, and some of them are more bitter than sweet. Most of the memories, whether good or bad, remind me of things that I want terribly and cannot have. Other memories remind me of things that I love, and will have for the rest of my life.

Either way, leaving the city for a few weeks and being apart from all of my friends has given me a new perspective, and is teaching me one of the hardest lessons that I have ever learned, and I am not being the most obliging pupil.

My heart has this terrible habit of always longing for things that it cannot and should not have. My heart is always seeming to misplace its priorities, always seems to put the wrong people and things first. It refuses to listen to my head, to logic, and reason, and what it should know from years of experience. My heart, silly thing, is impulsive, shallow, and most unwise. It is also deceitful, deceiving its own self, and fickle. My heart can instantaneously flux between hatred and love, bitterness, envy, and selflessness, control and submission.

In short, my heart is my greatest enemy, most of the time. Lately, anyway.

If it would only be still, and for a moment remember who loved it first, who loves it despite its great and numerous shortcomings, perhaps it could learn to love properly.

Memoirs

The smell of fresh-cut hay is one of my favorite smells. This is very telling of how I grew up as a kid. The smell takes me back to lazy afternoons in the hayloft above where my white horse dozed in his stall, occasionally whipping his tail about to fend off flies. As I drive down State Road 32, past newly mowed fields, the smell fills my car. When I smell hay, I smell leather; bridles and saddles. I smell fly spray, which always reminded me of the smell of Fruit Loops. I smell the distinct smell of sweaty horses and sweaty saddle pads.

When I drive past a horse grazing in a pasture, its face obscured in a mesh fly mask that protects its eyes from irritating flies, I can instantly remember the feel of the mesh in my hands, the faux fur that wraps around the horses muzzle and around his ears. I can feel the fine hairs of his forelock slipping through my fingers as I pull it out from under the mask. I can feel the velvety softness of his tapered muzzle under my fingertips.

As I continue to remember, I imagine hooking my fingers through his halter, and pressing my forehead against his, sans fly mask. I imagine the feel and smell of his breath as he exhales deeply. I can feel his upper lip working over the top of my shoulder, where my neck and shoulder meet, his whiskers tickling me.

It has been seven years since I watched a stranger's trailer take my horse away. It has been 12 years since I first sat on a pony and took a riding lesson. Yet I can remember those sights and smells, the feelings and textures as if it was yesterday.

Summertime, summertime

I spend most of my day reading and wishing. A small portion of the day is devoted to job hunting and working my tedious Craigslist/Rentjuice job. Right now, I sit on the porch swing on my grandparents front porch. Across the street at the small basketball court, four boys are shooting hoops, swearing loudly and talking smack. Another car pulls up and three more boys pull up. Instantly, shirts are taken off, greetings are exchanged. The ball diamonds next to the courts are empty and quiet, with the exception of a few birds pecking about. The grass glows in the setting sun, save the places where the houses cast their shadows. Down the sidewalk a father and daughter work on tending the lawn. The little girl must be four or five, and her blonde hair radiates like a halo about her face, the sun illuminating the stray light strands that frame her round cheeks. She deftly maneuvers a rake two times her size, mimicking daddy. Dogs barking are heard from all corners of town. A four wheeler revs in the distance, down by the post office. Mr. Utterback peddles by on his bike, his twin boys in tow in a small cart following behind. Father and son start a game of catch with a football in the diamonds, and a girl sits on the far side on the yellow and green bleachers with her dog. Pick up trucks roll loudly buy in a small town consistency. It all seems picturesque, small town America as it should be. Straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

There seems to be no care of the pollution and destruction of the Gulf of Mexico, no hint of a war in the Middle East, of the rising crime in Indianapolis, just an hour away. There are just missed rebounds, "More time on the playground, daddy!", and a tumble off the tricycle.

Pick-up games of basketball, a turn on the merry-go-round, and slightly tattered American flags reflect the simplicity of the idea of the 'American Dream'.

Dichotomy kills.

Every drink numbs me. I do not even recognize the girl who stares blankly back at me from the mirror. Dichotomy kills.

fated to pretend

As I was saying goodbye to my newly adopted cousins, 6 year old Isabella charged through the front door out onto the porch where I was standing. "What happened to Arni?" she chirped. I couldn't believe she even remembered his name. She couldn't remember mine half the time. It had been months since she had last seen him. Braydon was right on her heels reiterating the question.

"I broke up with him." I explained.

"Why?" Braydon asked.

"He isn't nice." I lied.

I leaned against the cool gray concrete, resting my elbows on the side of the porch. Braydon was looking up at me expectantly from the front steps. I stumbled over my words for a moment, at a loss. "He was nice when he was here," he pointed out in his nine-year-old matter-of-fact way.

"I know. He was nice. He still is nice. It is hard to explain." I finished lamely. Braydon shrugged and stepped down onto the sidewalk. I was bewildered.

At least it didn't hurt this time.

Almost a week ago I was sitting on a park swing without too much to be concerned about, just a Systematic Theology exam that was coming up.

Today as I was sitting on a park swing watching my three cousins playing on the playground, the uncertainty of my future felt tangibly heavy. Things used to be so certain. I would marry Arni and live happily ever after, more or less.

Now I have the overwhelming feeling of having no place to go, no direction for my life, and just utter confusion. Everyone else's lives go on, while I am stuck trying to make a living in Chicago. On my own.

I can't handle 'on my own'. I have never really had to do it before.

Oh. Snap.

I owe Moody 1800 dollars by tomorrow. They aren't going to get it, so they are dropping my enrollment. It looks like I might be taking some time off... I have been questioning for awhile now if I should finish my time at Moody. I am getting tired of school. I am not that good at it. I don't even need a degree from Moody to do what I want to do. Yet so many thoughts are assailing me at the moment... I just want to be done with school and have a degree, but I don't know if that is what is best for me. I need cheaper options at the moment. And I am just so tired of school. But I want to stay in the city, because this is where my friends are... The thought of trying to find a job and a place to live is a little scary to me though. I am definitely not sure what I am going to do. I just hope that they don't drop my enrollment for this semester. That would be awful. I would try to get a loan before I let that happen. Oy. At this moment, coming back just isn't an option.

Hello, Homer Hiccolm.

I lay on my back on the hard concrete, my head propped up on Dave's backpack. My cell phone lay beside me playing Death Cab for Cutie. The sun was shining directly in my eyes. It was so warm that I couldn't complain. I just lay, listening to my friends chat, the music playing, watching as a seagull sailed above.