I wrote this exactly one year ago today, but never posted it. It's amazing how things change. This day sucks.

I know you don't like to read, so this will just be a secret between my blog and I.

Four and a half years ago I met  this guy at a bar. I was with my best friend from high school, Sarah, and my college roommate, Jess. We were at O'Shea's on Bardstown Rd. We were actually going out to get totally wasted because I was scheduled to leave for basic training at Ft. Leonardwood in Missouri in August. I was leaving for training to become an EOD for the US Army. It's so crazy to even type that now. What's even crazier is realizing that because we both happened to be in the same place at the same time, it's brought us here.

Meeting you and then eventually loving you has been one of the most challenging and rewarding things I've ever done in my entire life. Just sitting here mentally sifting through all of our memories over the years makes me laugh, and then happy, and then kinda pissed, and then happy again. It's just our way. I'll never forget walking up to meet you on the corner of the sidewalk outside the stadium to walk into the Bats game on our first date. You were wearing a light blue polo, jeans, and brown dress shoes. And of course your Oakleys. It still, to this day, is one of my favorite memories.

You do this thing when you get really serious. Especially when you get serious really fast, like a sudden topic change or if you take a work call when you're in the middle of something. Your eyebrows get all angry like you're pissed, your eyes get huge, and you purse your lips like you're about to kiss someone. You do it everytime you're about to say something serious. It makes me laugh but I keep it inside so you know that I take you seriously.

You have this perfect time frame when you're tipsy where you think you're an awesome dancer. If you keep drinking and get full blown drunk, you just get sleepy. But right before that happens, when you've just had 3 drinks or so, you start dancing like you're in a Jersey night club. I'm so grateful that you're not the guy who sits at the table all night. I love dancing with you.

One of my biggest pet peeves is the fact that you NEVER hang up your towel after you take a shower. You know this bothers me, but you still don't do it. But 9 times out of 10, if I'm nearby when you get out of the shower, you will walk up the stairs with the towel wrapped around your waist and "accidentally" drop the towel to moon me. You'll either giggle like a little school girl and run upstairs or you'll make a dance out of it and start singing some Drake song that you don't know the words to. I've seen more of your ass than any woman should ever have to. Only because I love you.

You use the word "marinating" for absolutely disgusting phrases. I actually don't even know if I've ever heard you use it when talking about food, which is what it's meant for. It's usually in the context of you talking about a massive poop that's coming because it's been "marinating" all day. It's pretty gross, and makes me not want to eat anything that's been marinating. Ever. But I love that you're so comfortable around me, I guess.....

You have about 4385873409573495 polos. And every time you put one on, you look at me and ask me if the collar looks gay. Haha, you literally ask me every time. I always tell you no, and you might huff about it for a minute, but you usually keep it on and listen to me because I wouldn't let you go out looking like a retard. Because I love you.

I remember the time you let me wax your eyebrows. One of our earlier memories, and one of my favorites. I warmed the wax in the microwave, and let it cook for too long so when I went to take it out, it was bubbling and almost burnt me. So, I got scared and dropped it on the kitchen floor. It dried instantly of course, and there was dried wax everywhere. We got the hairdryer and melted it again so we could clean it up. And you still let me wax your eyebrows after that. The wax dried on your face before I could put the strip on to pull it off and then we had to pick dried wax off your eyebrow. Gooooooood times.

There was the time in New Orleans for Mardi Gras. In the hotel room, with the mardi gras beads....hahahaha. Even thinking about it makes me laugh so hard. I loved you so much that night. No matter how mad you make me, there really is no one else that can make me laugh the way that you do.

I know every couple says "We've been through sooooo much blahblahblah," but we really have. In the course of 4 years, we have gone through some great successes such as both getting a Bachelors, you getting a Masters, you getting promoted at least 3 times, buying a house, getting 2 puppies!!!, a handful of weddings, etc. We have also gone through some really rough times such as my brother being hospitalized multiple times, 4 significant funerals, me moving out, and a breakup. There's been a lot of fighting, but even more than that, there's been a whole lot of love.

I love you unconditionally. Selflessly. Infinitely.

With all my love,

MJ

As I've gotten older, I'm still really struggling to figure out who I am. I remember thinking when I was 17 years old, that in my 20s I would totally have it all figured out. Ten years later, and I'm more confused than ever.

I moved back to Louisville for a relationship that I truly believed in, and I'm so incredibly unhappy. I love my career, I love my friends, I love my hobbies, etc., but all of it doesn't feel quite right. I'm with someone I love, yet we don't share these things together. And isn't that what it's supposed to be? Aren't you supposed to share these best parts of your life with the one you love?

Lately, I wake up everyday already dreading coming home from work to see him. I truly feel like I live with someone who has no idea who I am. He doesn't know that I'm actually really funny. And then I come home, and he can't seem to stand my presence most days. He doesn't know that I'm a great listener. He doesn't know that I truly believe in paying it forward, and it gives me such a great feeling just doing such small things for strangers. He doesn't know that my heart feels full when I'm working with teenagers, because that age group has the most potential to lead and change. He doesn't know that when I was 19 years old, I applied to be an intern in Uganda to be part of a movement to rehabilitate child soldiers, because when I was younger, my dreams were limitless. A couple years later, I enlisted in the military to detonate roadside bombs, because my soul was itching to get out of my skin, and I needed more from life. He doesn't know that all my life I've craved something bigger than myself, and I've never felt fulfilled until I was part of something larger. I don't write anymore, I don't read anymore, I stopped researching opportunities because I was always waiting.

He doesn't know that last Saturday when I ran my first mini-marathon, that during the last half mile, a big part of me thought that maybe he would be waiting for me on one knee at the finish line. He didn't come to the race with me, but had been texting me throughout asking how far along I was, and I thought maybe he had snuck down there without me knowing and was trying to gauge my progress. I hobbled across the finish line, and I saw my parents. I was so happy to be finished, that I completed it, but I felt so stupid for thinking that he would be waiting for me at the end with a commitment like that. He doesn't know that I have given up this wandering, free spirit version of myself, because I met someone I wanted to share my life with. And that's my fault.

We never go get hot chocolate at barnes and noble so I can book shop and read the cards and magnets that I love. We never go see ballet, which I know is a stretch for most men. We never talk about my dreams and ambitions without shrewd practicality because that's who he is. We never shop for real Christmas tress, even though it's a tradition I always wanted. We don't ride roller coasters, we don't ice skate on my birthday, we don't even take the dogs for walks. I don't wear my denim jacket or ripped jeans, and I haven't put on my converse sneakers in over four years. I know it's stupid, but those things are who I've always been. I never got my tattoo, and probably never will now. And all of this is my fault. I wonder if he even loves the right girl. I'm sad almost all of the time, I'm bitter, resentful, and more frequently now I want to run away. What have I done?

I think I have tried so hard to make him love me more that I lost sight of myself a long time ago. And I do love him. At one time in our relationship, he did bring out the best in me. He balanced me out, and it worked perfectly. We haven't been like that in a few years. And I've been here all along, waiting for this next step because I love him, and I want so desperately to be loved. I really want someone to come home to, and someone to watch movies with and point out how unrealistic they are while we laugh, and someone to have lots of kids with so I can start new traditions with my family.

And my mom wants grandkids so badly. I get phone calls on a weekly basis, and I think my parents would be the best grandparents out there, so I want that for them. I'll be 27 soon, and the only true love I've ever had is falling apart, so they're just as tired as I am because now I'm back to square one. And if I can't figure this relationship out, I'm sure as hell not ever going to try again with someone else. I have given this 110%, and I have literally tried everything I can think of to make this work. So, to watch it crumble is so incredibly heartbreaking, and I know I'll never have it in me to ever be this vulnerable again. I'll never want to either. So, this was kind of my only shot. It sounds extremely pessimistic, I'm aware. But even when I was at my best, when I was my complete self, it still didn't last long. And at some point, you have to pick yourself up from the gutter, dust off, and tell yourself to keep walking. For me, that means taking my dog, my denim jacket, and my pure enthusiasm for life and refocusing on my career. It means finally letting the weight of needing to be loved go, and getting back to my 19 year old self who wanted to drop everything to go Uganda to delve into government and rebellion group movements. It's going back in time to the girl who thought everyone, regardless of race/religion/background/etc., deserved a chance at a good life.

I think this is my choice to make this time. It's just so unsettling to walk away from someone that you feel never even got the chance to know and love you. But I will never make this mistake again.

I went to a funeral today for a girl named Ryann Tewell. On Thursday morning, as she was walking into work downtown, she was hit by a cement mixing truck. The driver didn't know he had hit her so he kept driving, dragging her body along with him for several more yards. She had a little brother, Matthew. I didn't know her well enough to even be writing this, really. But I stood in this extremely packed funeral home, silently weeping while I watched her mom, dad, and brother hold it together as best as they could. According to the testimonials given by her friends, she was funny, outgoing, smart and just an incredible person. I wept for her family, but mostly for her brother. He was the reason I was there anyway. It was this horrific accident gone wrong, and all week I've been thinking. What if I was able to turn back time just only 96 hours or so. Just stuck out my hand at that crosswalk across her shoulders, and said "Ryann, just wait." Or what if she had just been 5 minutes late for work? Or what if that truck driver had just overslept Thursday morning and arrived at that intersection only 30 seconds later? It would've only taken literally 30 seconds, if that, to save her life. If I could just turn back time a few days and tell her not to go to work that day. I just literally cannot comprehend why such fucking awful things happen to such wonderful people. The thought that I was almost this random stranger standing in a room of crowded people sobbing over her lost life, and in the midst of everything, I wanted to shoot God in the face. I wanted to take a gun and point it right in his face, and say "You've got a sick sense of humor," and pull the trigger.

And then of course, as each minute passes, I become more selfish and relate this tragedy back to my own family. We've gone through so much shit, but somehow, miraculously almost, my brother is still alive. What little miserable life he has created for himself, he still has. I have loved him so much that it physically and emotionally hurts, and although in so many ways, he is this dead person to me, he is still very much alive. I haven't seen him in 7 months, but I'm missing him so much today. Matthew lost his sister on Thursday, and somewhere in the city of Louisville, my little brother is stealing from people he doesn't know to get cash to buy the stuff that he's sticking in his arms. It's been so long, Anthony, but I still love you. Please come home.

This day is just so sad.

Sometimes it only takes one person to put a lot of things into perspective. I recently met this one person. And man, am I thankful.

I grew up writing these mini stories in my head. Whenever I would meet someone or see someone interesting or unusual, or just different, I would create some sort of life story or plot in my head based on what I saw and heard. I've done it my whole life, and I've never really told anyone about it. I always thought it was kind of weird that I did it, but I loved it at the same time. Just creating different lives for different people. As I've worked on honing my writing skills, and just really trying to figure out what kind of writer I am, I have finally decided what that is. In the most true form, I am simply a profiler--that is, a profile writer.  I cannot keep myself from profiling others. To be able to build a trust with a total stranger, enough that they open up about their life, and then to compile a beautiful story based on these sobering facts with my own perspective narrative.....It's such an underrated, incredible feeling. I like to call it creative non-fiction.

The first creative non-fiction piece I read was In Cold Blood by Capote. I was immediately seduced by the blurred lines of fact and fiction. The fact that you knew the story as a whole was true, but how could you be sure of the details? The reader leaves breathless and wondering. It's wonderful.

DMB is my preferred background music. Although I've never been a huge Dave fan, he's definitely growing on me.

I've changed career paths recently, and I have never felt so at peace. Definitely in the right place, and I have never seen my future career path so clearly.

I have been a nerd my entire life. As I got older and started dating, I stifled a large part of that, especially going in to my 20s. I was so worried about what people thought. I didn't want to be perceived as arrogant, or weird, or above the fray. Over the last 6 years or so, I have tolerated so much and suffocated my inner literary nerd. Just the other day, I was with a group of "friends" and someone brought up a movie. I quietly brought up that it was actually based from a story and just stated some differences because the story was vastly different (and much better). The conversation stopped and everyone stared at me. Awesome. Clearly no one had read the story, nor did anyone care that it's a true work of art, and James Franco is an idiot. William Faulkner is rolling in his grave, and I'm the weird girl that doesn't know how to contribute to a lighthearted conversation about a movie where no one knows the origins. I shut up from that point on, because who wants to be the arrogant know-it-all? I'm of average intelligence, have flunked several tests, and have always hated homework as much as the next person. But literature is so important to me, and if I'm honest, this is what I wanted to say that night:

"Can I just say something really quickly? I know it's hard to deter the conversation from how hot James Franco is, but the movie was "weird" to you probably for many reasons. James Franco should never touch a Faulkner piece of work, nor should anyone in Hollywood for that matter. There are some things that should be left alone. 'As I Laying' is a piece of literature that thousands of people have studied and rightly so. It's complex, yet very simple. The story reads like a song, essentially. The way Faulkner wrote it speaks more than the story itself. The mix of compound sentences and very short statements to create this really somber music is really, really difficult to do. And of all the people I've read, the only other person I've seen do it just as beautifully is Tim O'Brien. So for someone like James Franco to make it a movie, when it's a very simple storyline, with not much of a plot honestly, of course it sucks as a screenplay. Because the beautiful part isn't in the story, it's in the writing you dumbfucks. So, shutup and go pick up a book. You people are the reason Borders is closed, which happened to be my favorite place."

Oh well.