Apologies for my absence.

You may take my lack of writing as a sign that I've finally gotten a life or moved on to bigger and better things. In that case you would be wrong, I just made a tumblr. A friend has me almost convinced to start posting on here again. We'll have to see.

Simply Put, the Study of Butterflies: A continuation of The Morning After

It was a humid day in late June, six months since the “accident”. At least that’s what her obituary said. Cohen couldn’t convince himself to go to Ada’s funeral. Nothing seemed right; the fact that her mother desperately tried to cover up her seemingly perfect daughter’s suicide, the disgustingly fake funeral home and church service that proceeded a week later, and, going against Ada’s wishes to be cremated and have her ashes spread over a large body of water somewhere it was always warm, her burial in a wooden casket next to a deceased brother that passed in child birth three years before she was born. Ada was a free spirit, and Cohen couldn’t bear to see that personality trait of hers stifled by all this bull shit. But as he sat in the Starbucks near his home in Georgetown, surrounded by prep school students in their uniforms, he realized that nothing about Ada’s death mattered anymore. She was dead, she got what she wanted, and she was finally happy. Without another thought on the matter Cohen got up from the beat-up armchair, threw away his paper cup still full of untouched coffee, and stepped into the blinding summer sun.

Cohen skipped class that morning and went straight home. He somberly walked up the concrete steps to the town home door, and struggled to find his house key in his pockets while the sun beat down on his tan neck. Upon entering he went straight to the kitchen, but quickly lost the little appetite he had after seeing a distant father, dressed in an elegant suit with a black leather briefcase in hand, flirting with the recently hired and only mildly attractive maid that spoke little to no English. Hoping he hadn’t been noticed, Cohen walked up two short flights of stairs to his bedroom on the third floor and slowly closed the door behind him as he stepped inside. His eyes drifted to the small pile of collected items from Ada’s room that now occupied a large corner of his dresser.

Cohen heard of Ada’s death the afternoon after from some of her close friends that regularly talked about Ada behind her back and obviously took advantage of her naïve personality. Most of them sobbing into the phone to the point where he couldn’t make out anything they were saying regarding Ada’s jump from the roof of her own home. (No one knew Cohen had been up there on that rooftop with her the night before when disoriented and sleep deprived, he left her there upon request. And that on his way home that night, with a very light snow falling on his shoulders; he knew exactly what Ada was about to do, and with that thought in mind, kept walking anyway.) After he hung up amidst the sobbing of the seventh caller he headed straight to Ada’s house. Cohen let himself in using a spare key, went straight to her bedroom, disregarding an alarmed maid, and walked out only a moment later with a box of her belongings. The box was dumped out on his dresser and it’s contents had been there, untouched, for six long months.

Without thinking anything of it at the time, all of these objects directly related to Ada’s personality or a memory he had shared with her sometime during her short life. This pile included: collected items from flea markets and thrift stores, ranging from jewelry to geodes, that she purchased after long conversations with store clerks where she was always nothing less than fascinated by what they had to say (usually with an oriental accent), discoloured tarot cards that Ada used religiously. (It wouldn’t be surprising for Cohen to walk in on her sitting on her bed, white sheets strewn aside, surrounded by the cards in every direction), a single shoebox of photographs and Polaroid’s, the most memorable being a candid photo of Ada that Cohen took one summer at a local pool. (The photo itself was a close up of her face with bleached hair being blown into perfectly blue eyes and a small smile showing white teeth.), books filled with pressed flowers and leaves, covering everything from Hinduism to lepidopterology, or, simply put, the study of butterflies, and last, a collection of moleskin journals with no outer reference to what may lie inside. Ada’s seventeen years of life could be summarized by everything that lay on the dresser, secrets and all. She would have never had a problem with Cohen going through it (the two kept nothing from each other), but still, he would always catch himself, hand hovering over one of the journals, too afraid to pick it up. But that afternoon, as he stood over the belongings of a lost life, a flash of yellow colour caught the corner of his eye coming from the direction of the window. Cohen went over to the sill to find a bright yellow butterfly circling the empty space in front up it. He unlatched it and slowly lifted the window. After quick hesitation, the creature let itself inside and gently rested on his shoulder. Cohen admired it for a few moments before carefully placing it on his pointer finger and letting it go as he slowly mouthed the words, “Thank you Ada.” It clumsily flew up and over the roof in a matter of seconds. Leaving the window open, Cohen got up from where he was sitting, picked up one of Ada’s journals, and started to read.

New year's resolutions.

- Stay skinny

- Travel somewhere warm

- Make out with someone attractive

- Be more outgoing

- Tell them how I really feel

Welcoming the new year.

It’s amazing to me how much I’ve grown. I always feel like I’m in a rut. No progress. Stuck in a small town in Indiana with nothing to do. Trying to get through each day same as the other. But I have to realize how much the year of 2009 has changed me, whether that be relationships, travels, experiences. Just anything. In the continuing process of trying to truly find myself so many things happened to me along the way. I found myself in DC happier than I’d been in such a long time. I found myself getting closer to Rachael and realizing my dream of southern California living. I found my passion of photography to be improving with every photo I took. I found myself in a disfunctional online summer fling, realizing things I would of never imagined about myself. I found myself surrounded by people that I can open to and just live my life with, not having to worry about anything but having a good time and living life to the fullest. I’m ready to grow even more this next year. Develop long lasting relationships with the people I’ve become so close to and flourish in new ones. Anything is possible. Anything can happen. Even when you live in a small town in Indiana.

Don't miss me too much. It's just short thoughts. I'll still vent here.

Tis the season.

I hate to bombard with posts. Especially posts with lots of photos. But I wanted to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. Maybe this is to myself. I'm never sure if anyone reads these thoughts of mine. Either way, Merry Christmas. I hope it's very festive and eventful. Who's ready for 2010? This is exciting.

Side note: Santa is nearing Indianapolis according to Santa Tracker. I better get my ass to bed.

500 Days of Summer.

I really enjoyed it. New favorite? Yes. I need to stop watching so many damn movies... There's really not much else to do without a computer though.

Damn you's a sexy bitch.

I hung out with Sydney today. We had a good time. Sunglasses on a cloudy day, messy breakfast food, laying out on comfortable couches at Starbucks, browsing at Half Priced Books, searching for Lady Gaga on the radio, and good conversation. Love that girl.

Cardigans, Holden Caulfield, and The Royal Tenenbaums.

I've decided that from now on I'm just going to wear lot's of chunky knit cardigans and undershirts or deep v's. This is when I feel most attractive.

I'm really enjoying Franny and Zooey. J. D. Salinger can do no wrong. I aspire to be Holden Caulfield and Zooey Glass.

I hate calling movies cute. But, The Royal Tenenbaums was cute.

Untitled.

I want to take more photos like this. I wish a male friend to photograph sometimes. And some skills.

It's strange.

Everything. I'm without my computer due to hard drive troubles. My life is on that thing. I hated knowing I would lose it all. But it might possibly be for the best. My old self is on that computer. In some weird way I want to get it over with and throw it out of my second story window onto the snow covered concrete below. I met you on that computer. I cried onto the keyboard too many times. I watched too many things happen on that screen. And I wasted too many hours letting it's glow illuminate my surroundings. I'm probably thinking too much. But I don't think I'll miss it. Really. I can start over. It's not that big of a deal.

I do miss my iTunes though...

Last night was enjoyable.

I never got my strawberry banana smoothie, but Sydney and I make a cute couple.

I have work to do.

There's a list of books that I need to have read before the first of the year: The Great Gatsby, Less Than Zero, Revolutionary Road, Franny and Zooey, Fahrenheit 451, and Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance which I got halfway through around September and gave up. I finished The Virgin Suicides today. But, I have this thing where I cant start a book the day I finish one. I have to let it sink and an either have an epiphany or decide I hate it which determines if it goes on the stack of favorites on my dresser or okays in the closet. So I cant start another until tomorrow. I dont want any books unread in my room by the end of the year. Thats the goal. If I dont read them now I never will and will probably burn or give away the leftovers without another though. My relationship with literature is a strange one.

Tomorrow I start Less Than Zero.

The Virgin Suicides.

Why is it always that I don't like a movie until days after I've watched it. Well the more I think about it the more I want to watch it again. Although it lacked in some areas, the feelings it emitted made it beautiful. The Virgin Suicides. Powerful stuff.

Monday night therapy session.

Driving lessons, grande mochas, iPod games and imitating Rachael via text at the swim meet, dinner date at Applebee's, and "mini shopping adventures" at Target consisting of baby shower invitations, ugly school supplies, and gorgeous cashiers. Tonight has been therapeutic to say the least. Is it really Monday night? This seems so wrong.