I used to hate the color yellow.

I used to hate the color yellow.

I really did. I used to hate it.

The first time I started to like the color yellow, it was because of her. We had only been out on a few dates, and I didn’t know that she liked yellow. Really, I didn’t think of it one way or another. It was just another color to me. I liked greens, pinks, maybe purples. Pastels. Black. All my clothes were black. They still are.

She wore a yellow dress that day, with white stockings and cute yellow shoes. Her hair was blonde, almost yellow, and she stared up at me with big blue eyes as I tried not to look downwards at her cleavage. I wore a black shirt and black jeans, black shoes. We went to a party together. I met all of her coworkers, and she got too drunk. I didn’t drink, as much as I wanted to, and took care of her for the rest of the night. I had never felt closer to her.

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Blue Eyed Girl

From the moment I wake up, my eyes wander to my darkened phone’s screen, looking for the tiny yellow LED light that lets me know when someone sends me a snapchat message.

I used to not use snapchat at all. And then I met you.

You blue eyed girl. You’re so stinkin’ cute.

My heart lights up whenever you send me a message, with a ‘love’ attached at the very end, as if it were a pet name just for me. You send me a selfie, looking seriously at the camera, clutching your pillow, as you try not to smile while sending it to me. I like to imagine that you tried a few times to get that perfect angle to send me a picture meant just for me.

I find it hard to believe that it’s just for me. Just like I find it hard to believe that I’m the only girl that you call ‘love’. With looks like that, why would you respond to my messages within a moment of me sending them?

You say you’re boring, that you do nothing but work, and I can understand that. I do. But right now, in this moment, as I see the notification that you’re typing, you’re the most interesting woman on the planet to me. I can’t wait for you to hit ‘send’. It takes all of my self-control to not respond a few seconds later.

In between messages, you send me another photo, maybe this time it’s what you’re looking at, or a picture of you in your cute little work uniform, an ugly one that only you can pull off. I shyly open it and stare, feeling my heart rate go up for just a moment, imagining you looking at me that way in person. I shyly open the camera, adjust the lights in my room, maybe even change clothes, searching for the perfect angle so I can send one back.
You ask me how my day was and make me blush each time you say that I’m hilarious or smart when I spout off a random fact about whatever it is we’re talking about. How can you think these things, when my uneven smile and crooked teeth say otherwise? How can you say that I’m so funny, or that I’m so smart when I’m just repeating other people’s words and their jokes to you? I’m not really pretty, smart, or funny.

But the fact that you think so makes my heart swell.

Please let me meet you in person, blue eyed girl. Let me be your girl. I promise it’ll be worth it.

On why I haven’t written lately

Some of you might be wondering where I’ve gone off to.

It’s okay. I’m still here. or at least, I’m trying to be. I’m very tired, and it seems that I can only do so many things at once. I desperately want to go back to my normal routine of writing, but I’ve been unable to because, as they say, I keep running out of spoons.

Truthfully, I haven’t had a day off from working for a month now. Barely 12 hours go by between my shifts, even if they’re only three hours long, and I’ve become so socially exhausted that my only options are to crawl into bed, and to sleep.

Being an introvert and having to talk to people for work is sort of the worst. More often than not, I end up speaking to three clients at once for hours on end, and I can feel my patience wearing dangerously thin. I am the type to become socially exhausted very, very quickly, and all of this interaction is causing my already very deep depression to worsen. There’s no end in sight, it seems.

I wake up each morning and force myself to eat, and then I’m off to work, awake or not. By the end of it, I can’t stand to look at a screen any longer, and my wrists ache from aggravating my slowly developing carpal tunnel. So I cannot write. I can’t work on my book, and I can’t jot down notes or sketch. I just lay down. Sometimes I read my book (currently reading Fingersmith by Sarah Waters) and other times I just fall asleep, unable to awaken until the next day or when my hunger pangs catch up to me.

I do not have any spoons left to give to the world at the moment.