01 june 2000 | back | archive | forward | girl | sign | e-mail

there are some stories i'm saving.

for a rainy day; for those involved, those in my circle who don't share my exhibitionist tendencies; for the nights when all i want to do is slip inside my past and relive it all over again;

to protect myself; to not jinx things that i really want to happen; to store in a pile that i might someday string into the binding of a book;

because restraint is a sign of maturity and grace; because not everything is meant to be shared; because some things are better left unheard, untouched, unknown;

and a tall, skinny, pale and funny boy asked me, "what is it like-- to have all these people listening to you? does it change the way you write?" and i said, yes. it does.

i try not to let it. i try to pretend i'm leaving notes in the hollow spaces carved into tree trunks, things i would like people to read, if it will help them, if it will make them smile, even if it will make them cry, because crying is so good.

and i know my mom and dad could be reading this, thinking "ay nako, what is our daughter saying?" or my boss or a future employer could be scanning this, wondering what kind of a girl am i, really, or the boy i have a crush on could take one glance at this and think i am such the fool; i just pretend they're not. sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. but what keeps me going are the stories i want to share, the stories i must share. those are the ones i save just for you.

a new fragment, stolen from a scribble in my journal.

also, there's a new episode in He Said, She Said: what about the opposite sex gets under your skin? come on. speak up. you know you want to.

songs, on repeat: 100,000 fireflies. no surprises. cigarettes & red vines.

i am a sloppy coder.

when i was growing up, i'd go across the street to the caballeros' house to play with their legos. now all i have to do is hop online.

"i hear the stress in your breath," i told her.

all work weeks should be four days, don't you think?