one last thing.

The project will be your words over someone else's picture to keep privacy but to also show that we are one in the same.

No matter your class, gender, race, sexual orientation, religious beliefs, etc (I could go on) ...

we all feel.

For everyone who shared something, can you comment below with your name and permission to use your profile picture in the project?

Thanks for helping!! I'll send a copy to everyone who posts.

one thing.

All I'm asking you to do is finish this sentence as a comment on here anonymously.

It can be a sentence or it can be a paragraph. It's up to you.

All you have to do is be completely honest. Hence why people are staying anonymous.

Write what's real ... to you.



"If you really knew me, you'd know that ... "

when it was real.

Little lies. White tales of the past. A whole past that at this point can't be rewritten. No one would believe me anyway. Even if they did, they wouldn't understand my reasons. Hell, I don't even understand. So young. So lost. So naive. So I keep it to myself and giggle a little. More innocent. More fragile. Than anyone would ever imagine. Icing on my cake, just grab me another beer. I'll drink it all myself tonight. I don't need your help. I never did. No one would believe me anyway.

She was my teacher. Motioning with her finger to come learn. My heart was beating fast and my hands were shaking. I tried to keep my cool but damn it if I didn't break every piece of that glass heart. The first reality of my life. The first gift of myself I gave away. Too young to deal with her problems. It always seems I find them at the worst times. At sixteen you're not equipped to help someone stay on their path. Running away lead to the daze of long drunken nights. Nights she wouldn't let me touch her. Nights she would leave me out of the room. I was too young to care or see the signs. Next time I'll learn my lesson. Next time it will be real.

I was honest with my mistake. A day late, an hour short. She never showed. I just wanted to tell her. To her face. I just wanted to cry. To her face. I wanted her to know. To her face. She gave me her hand and walked away. I don't blame her. But I loved this person. Quiet and sweet. Something like the feet of a deer. Lightly touching the ground but alert at the same time. She was warned  from the beginning but allowed her mind to open. I was happy. I was in love. Our time took ages off of my youth. I learned more through her eyes than I ever did with the motion of that finger. But time for us was sweet and kind and also dirty and painful. Bleeding and broken, we both moved on. Then I realized not only had I lied to her and everyone else, I had fooled myself as well. It was too late. I just like fucking you wasn't the last words I had hoped to hear as our time faded into the background.

I think at the beginning it was for your looks. Had them on my fish hook. And then it was your smile. And then your heart. I never expected you. I think that's why it was so easy to love you. But when one person wants a relationship and the other wants a fuck buddy with a label, your views tend to conflict. I would still be interested to see what would have happened if I wasn't already too tired to care. I sat outside your house and talked with you as you left me. You gave me a paragraph while I had given you a piece of my heart. I refused to let it happen in front of you. Composure. It's the only saving grace I have anymore. I made it around the corner before I couldn't drive anymore. I just sat there. While you were already back inside, playing footsie under the covers with someone new.

I could have stayed with you. I could have been happy with you. You should have grown up faster. Or maybe not. Maybe this is how it's supposed to happen. You gave me time to figure myself out. You gave me time to see other people. To slip into sheets and lay bare the next day, not remembering why I even tried in the first place. To forget you. To let you go. To accept what was happening. What has been happening. What has already happened. We'll meet again. This time I'll be less broken. This time I'll be braver. This time I'll leave my jealous heart at the door and only bite the girls who you let in. A lot of them try. Still. It hurts. Did you know that? Did you know the way you say her name sends me into a sick panic? Did you know I'm fucked up? Did you know I blame you a little bit? Did you know I still love you? Did you know it's still so real for me?

I was your first love and I got caught up in that. I loved being on your pedestal. For the first time, I didn't feel so broken. I didn't feel so flawed. I thought someone could actually look at me and see a good person. See a good lover. See someone worth a heart again. I was wrong.

You're a fool. I loved you. It was real. She kept coming back though. Stepped in the way. Ruined your dreams. Crashed your hopes. Hopes of making me better. Fixing what was wrong with me. It worked too. Too well. I even fooled myself. I'm not an angel. I'm not worth the world or your life or your heart. I'm worth what I give. So if I give you a strand, you better give me back half. I have to fight for it. Otherwise it's not worth it anymore. I have to get that rejection. I have to feel the loss to feel the love. I'm a god damn beautiful contradiction. You want my heart? Make me work for it. Make me work for you. Give it to me on a silver platter and I already know it doesn't work that way. I won't fall for it. Give it to me on a silver platter and what's the fun in that? You can't fool me anymore. And I'm tired. And lonely. And on overload of heart ache.

When it was real, it was great.
But somewhere along the line, I realized that I'm not your housewife to make.

pass the message

Are you sick of highly paid teachers?

Teachers' hefty salaries are driving up taxes, and they only work 9 or10 months a year! It's time we put things in perspective and pay them for what they do - babysit!

We can get that for less than minimum wage.

That's right. Let's give them $3.00 an hour and only the hours they worked; not any of that silly planning time, or any time they spend before or after school. That would be $19.50 a day (7:45 to 3:00 PM with 45 min. off for lunch and plan-- that equals 6 1/2 hours).

Each parent should pay $19.50 a day for these teachers to baby-sit their children. Now how many students do they teach in a day ... maybe 30? So that's $19.50 x 30 = $585.00 a day.

However, remember they only work 180 days a year!!! I am not going to pay them for any vacations.

LET'S SEE....

That's $585 X 180= $105,300 per year.
(Hold on! My calculator needs new batteries).

What about those special education teachers and the ones with Master's degrees? Well, we could pay them minimum wage ($7.75), and just to be fair, round it off to $8.00 an hour.

That would be $8 X 6 1/2 hours X 30 children X 180 days = $280,800 per year.

Wait a minute -- there's something wrong here! There sure is!

The average teacher's salary (nation wide) is $50,000.

$50,000/180 days = $277.77/per day/30 students = $9.25/6.5 hours = $1.42 per hour per student -- a very inexpensive baby-sitter and they even EDUCATE your kids! WHAT A DEAL!!!!

Make a teacher smile; repost this to show appreciation for all educators.

rumor has it.

Do you remember the pain Poe held in his poetry? It's not his time anymore. 

You have pain? You're not given a day where you can just break down. All day. Just let it all out. Pain is the one thing in life you really have to learn to suppress. You feel too much of it, they pump you with medication. Don't get me wrong, I love my life. I'm happy. For the first time in a really long time everything is working out for me, everything is falling into place like it needs to. I'm growing. I'm changing. But I still have those days where I don't want to get out of bed.

Especially a certain day pretty recently. I know and understand that you can't do that. Not anymore. Now you have school and work and grocery shopping and cleaning and projects ... nothing can get in your way. Not even pain. Not even a deserved day of tear and pillow bonding.

And even when those nights hit, the last thing I want to do is talk about it. I'd have to have a hermit day to be able to celebrate my Pain Appreciation Day. We'll call it PAD.


... That sounds kind of gross. How about P.A.D ... with the separation. Not "pad" but "p-a-d". Yeah, that sounds better.

When you have pain, you should want to talk about it. And I do. I just don't want the responses. I don't want the "I completely understand," "it'll get better," I don't even want the silence. I want the talking without the second person. I feel awkward even writing it out. I'm almost ashamed to feel pain. I think it's because I've seen ten times worse.

I've been around the block. I know what face down in the dirt looks like. I'm on a mountain right now. I have no room for complaint. I have no reason for tears. And what I'm upset over was probably for the better anyway. It shaped lives. It did so much. Especially for me. Yet I can't stop my mind when she's in it. Which is a lot of the time. I've learned that I'm pretty good at wearing a mask though. Just because my face holds a smile without a quiver, doesn't mean my mind isn't wandering to her memory.

Although, there are days where I wish I could just scream. I'd probably scream at you. You won't know I'm talking about you because you probably won't even read this. I would have screamed. I wanted to scream.

I should have screamed.

because i said so.

So I just I literally typed out a status that said, "Blegh. Thinking. Anyone want to figure all this out for me?" and just ended up deleting it. I wanted to write but didn't really want to talk to anyone. And you can't always do that on facebook. Have you ever just wanted to say something or write something just to have it there? Not for comment purpose. Not for responses. But for thought. For contemplation. Something that doesn't need comments to make it prominent in the news feed.

I'm confused but I'm certain. I'm broke but I'm happy. I'm scared but I'm excited. I'm young and underpaid. I'm tired but won't stop working. I'm here but I'm actually everywhere else. What it's all coming down to is that I don't have it all figured out yet. But I think I'm okay with that. I'm sad but I'm laughing. I'm brave but I'm chicken shit. No one knows this yet. I guess they will now. I have six voices talking to me and the only one I can't zone in on is my own. Am I making a mistake or could this be the best thing I've ever done? Are my reasons as logical as I think they are? Or am I still a pubescent teenage boy in heart? 

I'm doing so much better than I ever have before and I love it. So why is my head spinning more than it ever has? Because I know she won't take my mind seriously. Because I know that I will end up the asshole. Because I'm too used to it. Because she will cry. Because I will cry. Because I'm scared. Because I'm unsure but certain. Because I could lose her. Because.

I will never forget the end. Beating my head against the wall. Looking at her and finding myself searching her face for a single recognized feature. We were lost in the daze of ... well ... us. We were lost in the fights, in the fear, in the love we didn't understand. My words won't come out right. But I'll try to explain it anyway. I loved her and then we crossed a line. A very easy line to cross; the line between love and hate. Is it so bad to not want that this time? Is it so bad to be cautious? Is it so bad to say no right now and yes later, when it's more suitable? Is it so bad?

Yes.

forget to remember

I hope you hear me. Give me back her hands. Give me back her touch. I don't ask for much. I think everything is going great. Give it a moment. I'll fuck it up again. My issue is I never know what I do that's so wrong. I don't want you to forget about the house, or forget about the ring. I remember everything. Every day. Give me back my girl and you give me back my life.

This is just a nightmare so I blink twice. I pinch myself so that I wake. I'm sweating beneath these covers. I open up my eyes, hoping she'll be in my sight. Reminders all over my walls, in my ears. Everyone asks about you. My mom and my friends. Sometimes even my dad. Remember what he said?

I hope I never see the day where you're wishing you never met me because I'm sitting here, begging that you never forget me.

I'm sick just writing this, hands inside of me, ripping at my stomach. Prying at the walls. Bleeding me out. I have no will to move, no motivation to get out of bed.

I hope she remembers soon before she forgets it all.