cool » l. hemmings

xxix.

⇉ luke. ⇇

There's a quote from a book my brother showed me that goes, 'People are screwed up in this world. I'd rather be with someone screwed up and open about it than somebody perfect and ready to explode.' This, somehow, has become a lesson in life that I've learned.

There are people all around me, and they're all screwed up in their own way. Whether it be family issues or self loathing or disorders or hatred for everyone or maybe even a desire to shoot up the school, we're all screwed up and we think about things differently than the person next to us.

But you've got the people who can hide it better than others, and even some that haven't seen an ounce of struggle not even once in their life that makes you just want them to feel exactly what you do, or to see that the world has problems and we have problems and they can't be perfect because perfect shouldn't exist and it doesn't exist and it never will.

Michelle was openly screwed in her own way, I was -- I even knew that Michael was.

One person I could never find a single flaw in, was Brooke. She was this seemingly normal person in a world full of oddities and it bothered me to think that I was with someone who lacked so much character and who hadn't been through a single irregular experience that shaped that character. I don't know much about her on a deeper level (I never said I was a good enough listener to actually hear anything she may have told me), and I don't think I want to, because if I ever did take the time to know every aspect of her life I was bound to force her to live something other than normality and then I would feel bad for plucking her from her perfect life and bringing her into the real world. I just want everyone to know what every emotion feels like so we don't have those perfect people that make everyone feel so bad. But I can't.

"What are you thinking about?" Michelle's sudden question caused me to fall off of the curb that I'd been walking and balancing on. She laughed.

"A book," I answered, steadying myself back on the pavement.

"What book?"

"Its Kind of a Funny Story."

She titled her head, confused, and asked again, "What's it called?"

"That's the title. It's literally called Its Kind of a Funny Story," I explained. We were walking home and I don't know who's house we were going to end up at but all I wanted to do was lay down. I was tired today. And kind of sad. Michelle makes me sad. Michelle makes me happy.

I still believe she doesn't understand the deep nature of my feelings for her. I also don't think she reciprocates them like she's told me. Or maybe I'm thinking and trying too hard.

All I knew was that I felt bad. I'm not sure what for, but I felt bad and I wanted to cry. "Do you ever wonder why life seems so unfair?" I ask her, turning a corner. "Like, you've got sad people who don't deserve to be sad and you've got happy people that deserve to know what the darkest parts of sadness feel like. And then you've got Grady and Ethan who don't even know what wonderful noises the world makes and everyone else is taking the ability to hear for granted."

I didn't ask to hold her hand but I did it anyway because her hand was something I felt the need to hold; her hand was comforting. It was so much softer than my own and it didn't shake or sweat involuntarily like mine did.

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't know. I don't feel very well." I honestly didn't know what I was going on about today. I woke up this morning, ate cold pizza for breakfast, and I just wanted the world to know everything on my mind because sometimes my thoughts can be overwhelming -- especially when a girl named Michelle comes along and shoves feelings into them.