"It's hard to get up...
when you've been knocked down so many times."

When I said I would finish my story, in all honesty, I meant it. But, as always, life twists me around and my computer is the least of my worries. As I was skimming through my e-mails the other day though, I realized how much this retarded blog actually helped me. It was like going to a psychiatrist that won't "How do you feel about that?" after my every comment. My blog won't judge me. Ha, how trivial?

It's November now and I can safely say I have made it through the last few months hanging on to a dwindling rope. Homecoming was in September and for borded kids, homecoming doesn't signify a big football game with kings and queens and a court alike. It means, "Welcome to your home away from the sucky one you already have, hope it doesn't suck for you as much as it's sucked for the classes before you!" Nonetheless, we bought dresses, did our hair, our nails, and bought scantily clad thongs to wear under those too-short dresses with the too-long heels.

The dance was wild and freshman were lucky to leave with their virginity. As always, stupid principals see it as a good idea to host the dance in a hotel ballroom. We, as students, don't have a problem, but of course our parents do. And every year there's a certain mom who calls in complaining. But every year, we find our way around it and the dance pulls through like light in the darkness. And as we left the heated grind-bash a half hour early, I wondered, momentarily, if it would be a cozy night in the dorm, watching horror movies.

Anthony was a no show, if that's what you are thinking. Currently, him and I are done. Done. As. Fuck. He's a dead-beat, drug-fuck, who's suddenly turned his body into a chalkboard for tatoos. I'm repulsed by him, and he the same. Yet, I have dreams about him that don't involve clothing or (shocker) protection. But forget him and his petty hydronically powered weed. I have a story to tell.

We ended up at some kid's after party, and I found myself pinned to a wall by... Jack. Apparently, boy is not the man I thought he was. He kissed me senseless and I thought for a second I was with Anthony. That's how bad it has gotten. As he untied the bow around my neck holding my dress up, I suddenly found my long-lost conciscience. I grabbed the top of it, covering my breasts as I kissed him one last time, just incase it was my last.

"Jack... I can't do this." I said, breathless.
"Why can't you?" His rebuttle.
"...I don't know."

And I didn't, so I ran, tying my dress back up along the way, leaving a hot and bothered shirtless boy I once couldn't get out of my mind boned and alone in a bedroom.

When I slammed open my dorm door a half hour and a taxi ride later, I found the lights on and the smell of popcorn in the air. I called out Serena's name, and after hearing no reply, called out Holly's (new roomate, save that for later, kay?) name only to be finally answered by none other than Ryan. What a turn of events?

He was bruised. His eye black, his wife beater showing darkened bruising arms and healing cuts. A cast burdened his right arm and for a second, I lost my breath. I asked if he was okay, hugging him close in my embrace. He said he was fine, not to worry, it didn't matter. I shrugged it off, knowing him better than to ask.

We ended up sleeping on the couch that night, I fell asleep wearing my formal dress. He smelled different, like expensive cologne. The odor of stale cigarettes no longer lingered on his breath as I kissed his cheek goodnight, resting my head on his shoulder.

In the morning when I awoke, he'd be gone and I'd be left confused. As I still am. His phone is disconnected and his mother and my mother haven't heard anything from him since August.

I'm worried but I don't show it. Shockingly, it's locked away with the rest of my emotions. Pft.