"I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I did that. I’m stupid."
I remember that cliche trail of words repeated like a track stuck on reply— everything you want to hear, yet never satisfying nor fulfilling. It’s empty and dull, like a cold marble jingling around in an empty coke can.
His apology didn’t make me happy, it didn’t fill me with a sense of pompousness as knowing I was right and he was wrong usually did. It made me feel like literal shit, my life uncontrollably spinning and descending as I was flushed away.
Was I not good enough? Why wasn’t I good enough? Fuck, what’s wrong with me? I deserve this.
But I didn’t, and I shouldn’t have felt like that, but when someone you thought you loved reveals all his lies to you like a sly magician with his tricks, you feel fooled and betrayed, and a tad bit dumb.
How could someone so convincingly act like he loved me, like he wanted to marry me, but not? I knew he was into acting and performing, but who the fuck brings that shit into their own personal lives?
It’s been three years, and I’m still not over it. I’ve had three years to recover, start again, and move on. But I haven’t. I’m still the feeble, scared, insecure girl I was the night he left.
It’s funny how one night can change everything. You wake up and you’re you— the girl who doesn’t give a fuck about what anyone else thinks, the girl who is completely content, and even borderline happy, with her self image. Then the night flickers over and you’re someone else— the girl who worries about what everyone thinks of her, the girl who hates herself.
I hate how often I think of him, how I feel like my body is glass on the brink of shattering when I think about how hurt I still am. I shouldn’t be like this, I shouldn’t be the one still nursing my damn wounds, but life isn’t a fucking movie or novel and sometimes, karma doesn’t react like she should.
Random thought #2
I’d be a shit English major. I don’t like being so restrained and leashed when it comes to my reading choices. I’ll read whatever the fuck I want.
And I don’t need anyone’s pretentious opinion shoved in my face.
I missed the 14th by 19 minutes. So now there’s only 9 days left until I move in to college, and all I really want to know is how the fuck time slipped past me.
I finally got to visit the Huntington Library today, even though the weather was absolutely horrendous, I wanted to stay and explore the whole day.
It’s perfect; I want to be married there.
my book story
If you don’t know, I browse through reddit 10x more than I do tumblr. As much as I love tumblr, reddit is so much more entertaining to waste time on. I find it more enjoyable to read hundreds of replies and threads then to scroll through pictures and glancing over the same post being reblogged.
Not the point.
Anyways, someone asked the books subreddit to talk about how each individual became a reader or when they knew they were one.
So here’s my book story.
I was born a book lover. For the first two years of my life, my mom would read stories to me until I fell asleep. It was our nightly routine, that I unfortunately, can’t remember since I was so young. All I know was that my mom read to me every single night, and when I got of age, I’d drink a cup of milk with a handful of grapes as I listened to my mom.
When my brother was born, and I was almost two and a half years old, the reading slowly decreased. She tried to read to us both, but it wasn’t easy.
The rest is a blur that I don’t remember nor have I ever inquired about. But there are three significant events that stick out in my memory.
One, is of me venturing into my closet, plopping down in front of my tiny bookshelf and pulling out my Disney’s Princess Collection: Love & Friendship Stories. It had a memorable pale pink cover adorned with princesses, and the pages had a magical golden trim. Easily my favorite book as a child. I opened it up and read it, cover to cover. The pages were beginning to loosen from the spine and it definitely wasn’t in the best shape, but its appearance didn’t stop me from treasuring the most glorious book I owned.
Two, is picking up random books, ignoring the cover, ignoring the words, and reading out loud my own story. I made up my own fiction on the fly, pretending I was reading aloud to my “class.” I’d turn the pages when I felt appropriate and wrap it up when the chapter was closing. I could write books, although probably not good, without any thought or preparation. Perhaps they weren’t good; but there’s no saying so as I didn’t write anything down. It was all verbal.
Three, is getting my first library card. I have no idea how old I was, but I actually do remember when it happened. I had to sign my name at the bottom of the card, but I could barely write. I struggled to write my first name, and it’s practically illegible, but I tried so hard to make it nice because it was my library card. My first one, and I felt so grown up, happy, and a tad bit over-excited.
I wasn’t explicitly saying to myself, or anyone else, that I wanted to be a writer. I was more focused on the teacher dream, as most girls in elementary school are. But I look back and think about what I was doing, and I realize how obvious my love for books and writing was.
I can’t pinpoint when I became a reader, for I have an inkling that I’ve literally been one my whole life. There hasn’t been a single moment of my entire life where I haven’t loved books, haven’t wanted to read, and haven’t wanted to be a writer, even if some of those feelings were a bit buried.
Reading, and books, are literally my life, in the sense that they have always been present and prominent. They’ve been my escape, my muse and my home throughout every step of my life.
What I find a bit baffling, is that my parents aren’t readers. I’ve never seen my parents read a book in my entire life. Not to say they can’t read, or that they aren’t capable of finishing books— they are. But books aren’t their thing, and definitely not my brothers.
Why did my mom read to me so religiously? I don’t know. But I’m so glad she did, because even though I can’t remember any of it, this Julie I am wouldn’t exist.