Golly.

I just read over some things I wrote this past year - poetry, prose, unclassifiables.

I'm kind of a wacko.

In my life, I'll love you more.

There.

Pause it.

Did you feel that? Did chills run up and down your spine just now? Didn't it make you feel so overwhelmingly... something? Didn't it make you want to cry or laugh or run around in a field like some moon child with flowers in your hair?

I can't explain it, but certain songs have that sound to them that just... I don't know. I can't put into words the way the melody makes me feel.

What really got this ball rolling was "In My Life" by The Beatles. Those opening chords really do it to me, whatever "it" is, just like "Dancing in the Moonlight" and, on occasion, "Ride Wit Me" - you know, the part where Nelly goes "boo, boo, boo" before the song even starts.

...Don't get fresh with me.

The point is, I can't stop listening to that song. I've been replaying the opening part at various times throughout the day and it has consistently brought back the same feeling of whatever.

And there you have it.

Baba O'Riley

I'm an adult. I am friends with people who are engaged and a few who are already married. Some are working on building respectable resumes and have their sights set on this grad school or that. Still others have perfected the art of balancing their own worldly concerns on one hip and an infant on the other.

And here I am, not knowing if I'll ever be mature enough to commit to something as serious as marriage while discussing how an ideal wedding would play out, twisting on my Target high heels and being paid little more than minimum wage at two jobs that show nothing of my potential, selling China-made handbags and Egyptian cotton sheets like both were being erased from the world market for all of eternity, a concept which, not unlike marriage, I have difficulty comprehending.

Given all of the above, I suppose you'd think I'm disgruntled, upset about this lot I surely presume I've been handed which has me waking up at the ass-crack of dawn most mornings to return to the same routine I surely presume I'll be performing every day for the rest of my presumably mortal life.

You'd be wrong, though, if you thought that.

This is the U-nited States of goddamned America, and I'm a college student. In all honesty, I don't want the responsibility of being a credible individual. With my silly paid-by-the-hour jobs, nobody has to think twice about how much I know. They probably think I am inspired to write poetry exactly the same as everyone else is inspired to write poetry when it rains and came from my Mama one hot summer mornin' in Johjah or perhaps instead from me Mum in the dead of winter one dreadfully cold December night in the centre of London, depending upon whichever accent I decide to adorn myself with on any given day. I'm your run-of-the-mill, maybe-I'll-get-there-someday 19 year-old girl sipping on Texas-sized daqs and playing that never-ending game of "Would You Rather...?" in hopes that someday I'll come up with the best worst scenario. I don't even care if you catch me dancing in front of the mirror.

So if that's not enough for me to justify myself to myself, I don't know what is. I am not yet old enough for this to be any real disappointment; there isn't one bit of real pressure or strain.

All the married couples can do it every night. The mommies can hold their sweet babies and know they've truly created a miracle. The interns and research assistants can bust their asses to make someone else credible and in the process better their prospective futures at least twofold - at least.

And while they're doing that, I'm going to dance in the rain and then go write that poetry.

There you go.

Sometimes all your good intentions fall short of the amazing ends you'd hoped they might accomplish. Sometimes the things you thought would be good for everyone were in fact good for nothing but bad. Sometimes you aim and shoot and the moment is remembered as the above.

Whenever that happens, I like to remind myself that the world didn't stop, so surely nothing was too harmful.

And surely that picture is ridiculous without the blackouts.

What I Love:

1. The smell of rain, Rick's Wait style
2. Loud laughter.
3. People who tell me I mispronounce "sure."

Oh. My.

Gah.

I remember when in my younger, more awkward teen years people I knew, hardly knew, or really didn't know at all would comment on "...how BIG you've gotten," how "...grown UP you are," and/or the fact that no, for the umpteenth time, "Well, you're sure not the little Maggie that would hide behind her daddy's knees!" That bothered the hell out of me.

And I sit here today, parusing through MySpace bulletins like it's my job, and it occurs to me that the girl I always considered to be a little sister to me is, in reality, not so little anymore. She's going to be a high school freshman and her brother (Get this:) is going to be graduating next May.

...What the hell?

Granted I would never, ever mention to either of them that it's really strange that they grew up, as planned. I suppose it's just not what I expected.

Now that I've said my piece, I will put on my gauchos, light a cinnamon-scented candle, and take the straightener to my still virgin hair and prepare for an evening at the theatre with some of the lovliest, sorta grown-up ladies I know.