I just traipsed in at midnight like daddy said, but I was drunk and I wished I smelled like him. Though I was not the average drunk, for it was a full moon and I drank like a vampire of that music of sonata moonlight. I had driven the full twenty four minutes like the internet directions said, and I came in and wished momma goodnight and love for her dreams. I had come in staggering of happiness for I had figured out the color of moonlight; the lightest shade of blue that if it was during the day we would be blinded. That proves that the night is brighter then the day during a full moon and we should be grateful it happens only once a month. But I guess moon blindness would be the most pleasant of all. It is the prettiest of all blues, Catholics like me would call it Virgin Mary blue but I was not a nun, everyone else would have called it the lightest crystal shade of December topaz; or at least the poets would. The only difference was this home this time was no longer the prison I used to think it was. It offered a place of solace and I did not feel like a stranger; it had not changed from high school but I had. I was no longer that angst filled poetic teenager that looked like she was going to shoot herself if she ever got a gun (but that was left to Janie and other Aerosmith hits) so she cut herself off from the rest of the world instead of cutting herself. That was the only difference between then and now, whatever changes I had been through only made me stronger and a better person. I am now a mature teenager, for my acne still has not gone away and I still remember growing up. Yet, God how I hate how my age tells on my maturity like the tattletale in the second grade that says that Jimmy kissed Suzie and they both need a time out. Time out; I still had two years left to get rid of the teen after my eight or nine.

I blinked and it was November. Already Thanksgiving is three days away and I can hear the Christmas music coming from the radio and the smoke from the wooden fireplaces. My eighteenth birthday is come and gone, and I am left with a mind devoid of time. I am walking in the rain contemplating how fast everything in my life had gone away; how it all slipped through my fingers like water or sand, and created a pile of muddy past memories at my feet. In four months I had transformed roles in the play that is my destiny. I am in the process of trying to create a new character, one that is stronger, braver, and prettier than the one I had played. I wanted to play the lead in my life instead of the background. I have an insatiable urge to be noticed because I was always put on the back burner like curdling gravy. Well the gravy is the most important part of the potatoes, so my old self would say, trying to justify my shyness and my lack of willpower to be noticed. I got a taste of recognition since then, and my lust for recognition felt like it would not go forgotten until I had conquered the world. I am sick of being the girl who knows everything and would just yell out history analyses in class, knowing just what to say in English, but who went incomplete outside of the structures that were given. I want to be a fun girl who attracted more than psychopaths and jackasses. I want to expand my horizons and take in the sunrise. Only the sun always burns through my hopes and dreams.

I saw a transformation in myself since I hit the campus of the university. I have no shame about taboos anymore, I am open-minded, and I have felt many different emotions that had been left in the basement of my heart in a molded cardboard box. I am more confident except around those I feel threatened by, and those people were few. They would find me strange, and think I was insane. At this point in time I say let them search and let them think; I have a good idea who I am and I am as free as a stallion in a meadow with a broken fence. Only I have to learn how to jump first.

The way to make everything I wanted to come true was to have a boyfriend who had substance. All I want is someone who I could have deep conversations with, someone to love me for who I am flaws and all. I still have many flaws and I try not to hide them under a falsehood which function is altering perceptions. The guy I wanted to get noticed by probably just thought I was still curdling on the backburner needing stirring every few minutes.

He is a friend, he is just one of the guys who are my friends. We talk about many things such as videogames, music, and our individual lives. We have a few things in common, and he is a great listener. Only I am a good listener too, but even we need someone to talk to.

I wore leather shoes the one day it was cold rain. It was the kind of November rain that made Guns & Roses greatest hits. I told him that his leather coat would crack and that it was not exactly smart. However, I was not smart myself for I had leather shoes. But he laughed and said it probably was not real leather. If only I could tell him that I was real; I was never sure if he even noticed.

There had been many times like this where our conversations never amounted to much, but I was trying to fit myself better in with hislife. Oh how I yearned to be part of it. I wanted to be the one he came to when the rest of the world was on a holiday, or when there were so many people he could go to, but he went to me instead. Yet it was only in the situations where I was the only one up that late he bared his soul to me, or when in English class he wrote a paper about something distressing in his life, and I was no longer his confidant. It was here he stated his Atheism, and a hush fell over the crowd. This made me like him even more, the fact thathe was testing us to see if we hated him. Why would we hate him? I have studied him to find out that hisonly flaw ishis perfection. He is nothing but endearing when drunk. As the sounds of aliens abducting the highway as the rigs roll by my window, I must conclude that he is taking me under, andhe hypnotized me somehow with his being. I am sure all I want is fulfillment; all I want is someone to love; as if scissors are just hungry as the rest of us for paper. I want my novel to be shed.

I sat next to him one day in December and I felt dizzy, but oh so peaceful, and reflective. I had to fight the urge to try to snuggle, and somehow I just wanted to take the opportunity to spill how I felt and what he did, and how much he had been a player in my recent life. I told him in a card, in a more friend like manner, I did not want him to think of me as a stalker, and have him never talk to me again. I would be crushed more than a bug underneath a slide. He said in response, "Aw this makes me feel loved." Oh how I wanted to say to him "You are."

Christmas came and went with the eyes of a broken goddess blindly stumbling through family drama and personal breakdown. I just could not get him off my mind. I yearned, I cried, I pleaded for his presence, I saved space in bed for him. He never came home, like the neglecting husband who went out for milk and never came back.

I needed him; I loved him why could not he just drive five hundred miles to be with me, to hold me, to tell me that I was capable of being loved. That I was not as untouchable as I felt, with my drooping eyes, and pale lips; long scraggily knotted bewitching hair that was duller than gray. It was not a gray; it was the gray. The gray of a million lives lived and a million loves loved. The pure chemical attraction was enough to turn my brown into age.

Finally, in January, with snow teasing me, my body wanted someone to warm up and be warmed by. He was there, of course, wantonly strewing about his other classes, neglecting me and all my forms. I watched, I smiled, I laughed trying to get his attention, but I was forgotten. Forgotten. We talked few, when I knew, I had to tell him.

And so the coffee house had just as run down furniture as a drug party during the Nixon Administration and matching shag carpeting. We hugged, we sat down, and we talked. I confessed my undying respect, the feelings I had harvested since the previous summer, the nagging sensation in my stomach never left. He smiled bleakly, surprised, and befuddled. Yes, the heathen could be loved, he could be loved well. He just never saw what I saw.

Yet he felt what I felt; but said no as we were too different, and he did not understand me, that because I had never taken a sip of alcohol, that because I had never really been too social, that I was penalized. What about the poetry reading, where he watched me from a distance, and laughed as my own cell phone rang during the program? What about reading the essays in English, and joking in Pre Calculus? He loved me, but was too afraid of hurting me to bother. That was the worst hurt than any he could have ever dealt me.

He walked me back to my dorm, and we parted, laughing and joking as always. But I was crying; I was crying.

Is this crazed obsession? I know it seemed that way now I think about it. Who else but someone who cared too deeply for him to bring him soup when he was ill? I did not understand then how far I had fallen into his personal game, his own drama of a life. I just wanted to be with him for he had kept my muse alive. But as I gaze into the torment of my new love, my new forbidden fruit, that I realize, there will always be another him. It is only a matter of time and place and circumstance.

There will always be another man too good for me.