Karianne.

who says i can't get stoned.
2010-02-09 19:45:07 (UTC)

i can't sleep.

I've got that achey, desperate, lovey feeling again. Not
for the right person though, of course. As if i could
possibly be content with the sweet, caring, understanding
sweetheart who wouldn't try to rush me into anything. No,
thats impossible. I, of course, have to aim for the jocky
douchebag who will inevitably use me and then break up
with
me and not think twice about it. But try to see where i'm
coming from. Imagine this:

Its february 5th. Its about nine PM, and its snowing.
You're wearing your bright pink hollister t shirt with
your
tight blue jeans. The long white basketball socks you
borrowed from John Mark but failed to return are tucked
into your beige, generic ugg boots. Your hair is down and
messy, covered by the blue hood of your heavy winter coat.
John Mark is driving. You stand on the sidewalk waiting
for
him to back out of the snow. Tyler's sitting next to him,
wearing a black nike shirt and oversized grey sweatpants.
His white tennis shoes are covered in snow. The hood of
his
orange winter coat isn't covering his shaved head, the
snow
makes his hair look even lighter than usual. Tyler reaches
for you, you grab his hand as he puts you on his lap. Your
head falls back on his shoulder, and his cheek presses
against yours. His hands in your jacket pockets, you can
feel him smile and hold you tighter as we turn a corner.
His dimples make themselves incredibly apparent. He
whispers your name to make sure you're still concious.

There's nowhere you'd rather be, and now you're in too
deep.

You wake up the next day and don't waste a second before
checking your phone. The pixels spell, "We're awake." So
you smear on all the foundation your skin can handle and
say, "come over" without even checking with your sister.
You hear John Mark call her name from down the stairs,
then
footsteps. You see Tyler's face in the mirror. "Hey." What
seems like the next
second, you're stumbling in the snow, finding any excuse
to get in his arms. Before you know it, you're leaving
with John Mark, acting like you couldn't care less. Half
way out the driveway and you're already rambling about him.

By now, you haven't thought twice about the person you're
supposed to be writing this about, and thats alright with
you.




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