  I guess my blogversary went unnoticed. I've been bringing in the sterotypically suburban tales for over a year now.
I'd like to thank teen angst, The Perks of Being a Wallflower , every song I quoted nonesensically, and John Mayer. ------------------------- So many things are going on right now. And I wanted to be able to write them all down, if only to make sense of things. But now that I’m sitting in front of a keyboard and attempting to write, nothing seems to work. This state of mind started to settle on Tuesday.
I was trying to explain my position of anti-violence to a girl in my science class and it hit me. I am inarticulate and yet so full of emotion that I’m rendered completely useless to any cause. I feel like I’m never going to win an argument, because I’m too concerned without falling into tears before I’ve said my piece. What good is passion if you can’t channel it? And then… armed with that view of myself, I met (insert melodramatic violin noises) him...
But see, I don’t want to write about it. Or what he said to make me so crazy. I don’t want to explain who he is or why he feels so familiar. I don’t want to tell you how much pot I had smoked that night, or what terrible music had been playing. I don’t want to say what his lips tasted like or what his hair felt like or what he whispered and what I wanted to do.
Because the second I try to explain, it will all be cheapened. Words don’t exist to explain what something like that feels like. I’ve always liked in old movies when the camera cuts to a big, glowing moon or fireworks. The scene isn’t so provocative, but that’s the point. If I were to just cut to fireworks, I wouldn’t have to go searching for the right way to write things out. So, um, cut. Affectionately… Anna 
