joy writes a book

The strange thing about all of this, is that I’m not exactly the type of guy to get knocked flat by girls. Yeah, sure, every once in a while I’ll see a girl who I could classify as pretty, maybe even hot. But the thing about this girl…she is not just pretty, and she is not the kind of girl I want to bring back to my apartment and fuck. She’s beautiful. Like…beautiful. It’s as if her beauty has been lying in wait underneath her skin, so that each time she passes by the room where I am seated, she is somehow more beautiful then the last time I saw her, her radiance refreshed. She is beautiful in this kind of way where I can tell that she doesn’t think she is much to look at, but at the same time, I can tell that she understands that she is beautiful; somewhere inside of her she knows, she just hasn’t discovered that place yet. It is like her beauty is it’s own specific thing, both separate from her and dwelling inside of her at the same time.

I am racked almost violently out of my thoughts as my fingers start to burn. I look down and realize that my cigarette has burned all the way down, an inch or so of ash stacked up, the filter burning between my fingers.

Standing up, I rub the cigarette into the ash tray. I stuff the pack into my back pocket and slam all the money I find in there onto the table, not even bothering to count. Walking hurriedly out of the cafe, I almost kill myself tripping over a chair, and then again, as I run up the steps out back. I start running when I hit the parking lot. I reach my car, out of breath, and jam my keys into the lock. I throw open the door and get inside. I light up another cigarette and slouch forward, resting my head on the steering wheel.

My legs were the first thing to break. I heard them snap underneath each other as the insides of the car began to cave in around me. I looked over and watched as his hand crumpled inside of mine, heard the bones crack, felt every one fall apart, turn to dust inside of my fist. It was as though I had witnessed all of this before, as though I had dreamed this very moment in some nightmare that I hadn’t been able to remember until now. Life left me like a yawn, a short breath in, long breath out; like it was tired, exhausted; like my last word could have been “Finally,”. He smiled at me, and finally, my stomach didn’t feel sick anymore. I wasn’t cold. At last; I felt relieved. He laughed, a short, joyful noise, and then everything around me went black.

But, I guess that’s a terrible way to start a story. So, let me start from the beginning

I have a problem with numbers.

I am 17 years old.

I am around 5 feet 6 inches tall.

I am roughly around 125 pounds. (And unfortunately I still wish that number was smaller)

My jeans size depends on where I buy my jeans. Usually around a 4 or 2 though. Although, I’ve found that shopping at Old Navy presents a problem-I have pants from there in 1’s, 2’s, 4’s, 8’s, and they all fit the same.

It has been 2 years since I plummeted into abyss, and almost 1 and 1 half since I met Jesus.

I have been in the psych hospital 2 times, and been diagnosed with approximately 5 different mental disorders.

I have lost 40 pounds and gained back 30.

Today I have had 4 Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups and 1 apple.

I met Scott 11 months ago, and we are getting married in 9 months.

I fall in love with everything, and everyone. Every boy makes my heart flutter, every girl excites jealousy, or some unknown other thing I cannot put my finger on.

I like fashion, or rather, putting on all of my clothes at once, painting, and listening to music nobody has every heard of while smoking American Spirit cigarettes on my back porch.

My life is made up of wanting too many things at once all while at the same time wanting nothing at all.

I’ve decided that I want to write a book. And I have a number of different things to inspire what I could write about.

My name has 13 letters in it, I like babies, yawns, and people who are too big for their cars.

This is my story.