I love you, the three most haunting and wonderful words in the English language. With those three words or the lack of them you can destroy someone or make them all that they are. They first time that I ever dated anyone he was 17 and I was 15 and unallowable age difference from where I come from. I fell hard and fast and truly believed that I would die without him which perhaps might've been my down fall in the first place.

I wanted to be loved so much that I would've let anyone who was willing to pretend to be loved by me. I would get so angry when people told me that at 15 years old I wasn't capable of love, I would do almost anything for him and I thought in mind that must surely mean that I loved him, I never did anything with him that I regret now which is one of the biggest blessings of my life, although he was he who put the idea in my head that if you really loved someone that you will sleep with him and obviously I didn't love him truly because I refused to do just that but after 7 months of the most horrible heart ache that I have ever felt I came to realize that love will always involve sex but the test of love is never having sex to prove that you love someone but not having sex to prove that you love someone, because that is a much keener test of love.

It has been little over 2 years since my first " love" if you can call him that, I think of him and wish sometimes that we were still friends but I know that it could have never happend that way. I am sad because things were so hard for me for such a long time but now I am so happy with things the way they are. I often hear that a 17 year old cannot love, that they do not know what it is to love or be in love but I disagree with that with all of my heart.I am not a 17 year old who just wants to disagree with that just because I have a boyfriend and so I feel I must disagree but because in the last four months of my life I have fallen in love. This is were most people begin to mock and tell me that I cannot possibly understand the meaning of love, Okay I will agree with you. I don't understand the love that my parents have for each other, it will take 25 years of marriage for me to understand that kind of love but I have never met in my entire life someone who will do things soley for me.

In the last four months that I have been dating the most wonderful thing in my entire life, he has never ceased to amaze me. Trying to make my favorite food in the entire world, Bringing me a dozen roses when I have had the worst day of my life and bringing roses when we have had fights, He brought me cold medicine when I was sick and then came over the next day and I know that I looked horrible, I had been up all night, I had been throwing up and he looked into my eyes and told me I was the most beautiful girl in the entire world and so I am here to tell you that I do not understand love, I do not pretend to but in all the capcity that I can love as a 17 year old high school senior I am in love. In all the capacity that I can want to make someone happy and care for him I do, and I can only hope that in 10 years I love him even more, in all capacity that I can love then.

Everyone tells me that there is no chance that I will still be dating my beloved 10 years from now and I will openly admit that the statistics and chances are not good but I am willing to take those chances because I have never met someone who cares so deeply about how I feel, someone who wants so badly to go see an action movie but takes his girlfriend to Phantom of the Opera because it is what she wants to see. Yes, I am willing to take my chances if it means a chance with a guy like that.

About a year ago I posted a daylog (now deleted) about my first show with the (internet-only) "radio" station at my school. I've had a great year doing shows, and now I would like to announce a new experimental music show that I'll be doing that folks might find interesting.

Experimental Sound
Saturdays, 11pm - midnight, US Pacific Time
Listen at: http://www.rainydawg.org
Show site: http://students.washington.edu/thyme/experimental/

My playlist is available at the show site—please check it out! If you'd like to listen, go to the Rainydawg website, mouse-over the 'Listen' tab, and click 'Players' to select your desired stream. My show won't show up on the schedule yet, because we just started a new quarter, but rest assured, I'll be there from 11 to midnight. I'd love to hear from any E2 denizens!

You Are Not Good Enough.
YANGE.” I’m just “YANGE,” they tell me. Today was one of those days every person has, one of those kind of days where everyone rubs in your face your faults and wicked deeds. Well, I’m sure everyone loves to listen to me complain, but I guess that is what a public diary is most of the time. Normally when I post something emotional, a hardship, or an event someone else has gone through, I get a msg with shared grief. It is quite a helpful tool really. I’ve never had one of my daylogs get C!’d, and I probably never will. So I’ll just continue on with my story.

Debate Teacher:
Last month you slept through the emergency session for Model United Nations (at 2am in the morning until 5am), showed up late for the meeting the following day, skipped a religious class today (even though it’s called Home Release), are not putting out enough effort, procrastinate most of your work, had PDA at the debate tournament and on the bus (pupils tattled), have your Sterling Scholar portfolio due in two weeks of which you haven’t seen the coordinator on (suggesting I haven’t even started - I haven’t done much), and YOU ARE NOT GOOD ENOUGH to be the Sterling Scholar that I thought you were/are. I fought for you, to make you the Sterling Scholar and not the others. There are five others who are willing to work for what you do not seem to care about.

My typical teenager response:
You know I want it. I need your help. I have no excuses, I just feel like I’ll never be good enough for your expectations. In the last two months (where all these problems occurred) I just don’t know what happened.

She didn’t exaggerate too much. The PDA I beg to differ on, but it’s “appearance” that counts. I’m having one of those moments where all I care about is my girlfriend, and loving her. I feel so much better about my life lately, and I don’t just want to say it’s because of caffeine from coke, pepsi, among other numerous caffeinated drinks I purchased lately. They say caffeine is an antidepressant. We were together the last two days for a long period of time, time we hadn’t been able to spend with each other. This time was so desired by us, time we needed so much, time we spent as if it had been years since we had seen each other - though our love flame had not burned out. I put on the screen name title of, “Love’s Bastille No More,” on my MSN. I meant love can no longer be imprisoned. No freaking, anyone, no nothing, will get in my way between her and me. Please protect our well being God.

I'm Just Me just created their user today. It was amazing to come on E2 tonight, coming from that awful debate experience, to see her post earlier in this thread. I read it and thought it sounded awfully familiar of someone I knew. I checked their home node, sure enough, it seems to be the person I thought it was (though I haven’t spoken to them or confirmed). The story she wrote on there was extremely touching to me, and it really struck a chord. Don’t be swift to judge, “Oh another teenager who thinks they are in love,” if you’re older, you may have once been in our shoes - whether or not you had to walk barefoot uphill both ways through ten miles of one foot deep snow. I just want to end on a positive note now - and I do so smiling. I shared an experience with my lover tonight through bitter cold and hindering prejudice, and it brought us closer together. Love Like Now.

Before I start, let me say this. Pinky is our cat, a siamese mutt, that has been with my family from the earliest that I can remember. When she died, I was the only one home. It was very hard on me.

"There is no good way to die."

Truer words were never spoken. But when death is the consummation of a long, happy life, what more can one wish for? You live, you die, you are forgotten. That is the way of things.

I've never had firsthand experience with death before... it isn't pleasant. The dying seem to have a way of knowing when their time is upon them. Should they be left to themselves, unnumbed by painkillers and medication and other things that cloud the mind, the abject fear that they display is heartbreaking. As a bystander, you feel helpless. It kills you to know that, for all you want to do something... there's nothing to do. What is there? Caring touches, kind words. Small comfort.

Only one other time in my life has someone in my sphere of influence passed on. I was young then, but not too young to realize the implications that death has. Someone is gone. People that loved and cared about them are left with that void. All the condolences that can be offered only serve to smooth the edges of that void, numb it over.

If this is true, the strongest conviction that anyone can hold on to is that when someone passes away, they go on to a better place. That belief, small as it may seem, is the driving force for humanity. If it all ends when the lights finally go out, why bother working toward anything better?

RIP Pinky. You will be missed.

"Becoming a writer is easy -- simply write. Becoming a published writer, well ... that's another game entirely. The most recent statistics from market studies suggest that 400 novels a year will be written by first-time novelists. Of those, only 10 will see publication, and of those 10 only 1 will stay in print more than a year." -- Jon Guenther

"The average author had been writing for 7 years and had 7 completed novels before they made their first sale. Although (those statistics were for) romance, science fiction is probably similar." -- Lillie Ammann

"Perhaps eighty percent of all first-time novelists never publish a second book. We have learned just enough to realize how much further we need to go. We know just enough to respect and marvel at other writers work and wonder why we ever thought we could write as well as they, or even as well as we did last year. So we cover it up, try to bury our doubt in craft." -- Sandi Sonnenfeld

"There's a huge fall off between the number of first novelists and the number of second novelists, and I think that's something important for young writers to understand. I think it's something like 50% of first novelists don't publish a second novel, and 50% of second novelists don't publish a third, and the drop off is the same after that. It keeps going down." -- Tom Fleming

Dear Sammy,

You don't mind if I call you Sammy, do you? Good. You don't know me, but you met my husband last Friday after you and the temple's other college students did your group Shabbat presentation. Good job, by the way. I'd gotten off work early and was lurking in the background, waiting for my husband to finish his shift so we could go home.

You had my respect ... then.

So out of the 6 of you, 4 are in undergraduate creative writing programs at various universities around the country. You, Sammy, are enrolled at an expensive private college in on the East Coast. You were all standing around in the foyer talking about your courses and how you were all going to be famous authors after you graduate. You were the only boy in the group of student writers and a little older than the others, so of course you were puffing for the girls.

You were bragging about having an aunt who is an acquiring editor at a major publishing house -- she's sure to get both your feet in the door when you plop your first novel on her desk after you graduate.

It's all gonna be cocktail parties and tweed jackets and readings before audiences of rapt, sexy college girls after that, right?

The temple coordinator heard the group of you talking about how it's great to be a writer and she said, "Oh! One of our night staff members is an author ... you all should meet him!"

So the bunch of you filed into the kitchen where my husband was sweeping the floor.

You looked at my husband, and all you saw was the broom in his hands. I saw your eyes roll and a superior smirk cross your 20-year-old face. You couldn't believe the coordinator was introducing you to the janitor. Your father is a bank president and you've gone to private schools your entire life; didn't she know a mere janitor is beneath you socially and therefore unworthy of your attention?

"So you've published some stuff someplace?" you smirked at my husband. "'Cause I had two stories in my school's literary magazine last fall."

"Yes, I've had a few things published," my husband said slowly, setting aside his broom.

"What, like in ezines?" you asked.

"No. In print magazines. And in books," he replied.

"Oh, so you write for those pulp magazines." Your face said it all: pulp fiction's beneath a literary man like yourself. It's easy, all you'd have to do is get drunk and jot some shit down and those pulp publishers would be dying to print your stuff. But that would be beneath you, wouldn't it?

"He's published six novels and over 200 short stories. He sold two more novels just last month," the coordinator said. She went to the mail slots in the back of the kitchen and pulled out the rabbi's copy of Fear in a Handful of Dust. "And he's got this very nice hardback on how to write fiction. He teaches classes at a college in Pennsylvania sometimes. He won an international award for one of his stories last year ... what was that award, Gary?"

"The Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in Short Fiction," my husband replied.

At that moment, I saw the smirk on your face fade.

This whole meeting was really messing with your sense of Golden Boy entitlement, wasn't it?

The lowly janitor you'd dismissed without a thought 'til now is not only just as intelligent as you ... he's published real books and won real awards.

Makes your publications in the student lit mag look kinda puny, doesn't it?

No. It couldn't be that a janitor was better than you at something. No way, man.

"So you make a living at writing? I guess not, since you're working here."

There. You sure put my husband in his place, didn't you? You glanced down at your watch, then stuck out your hand at my husband, playing the Alpha Male for the girls. "Hey, I gotta go. It's been cool talking to you."

My husband put on his biggest, cheeriest smile, shook your hand and said, "I wish I could say the same. Kiss my ass, kid."

Your expression didn't change.

It probably didn't register what my husband said until you were halfway to your car.

I searched you when I got home, just to see what exactly you've published.

I found you.

A wannabe's a wannabe whether he's penniless with a dogeared manuscript or has a Porsche and a BFA.

And you're worse than a wannabe -- you're a poseur. You don't have the writing cred of any of the novices here at E2. You've got nothing to warrant your feeling that you're morally, artistically, or intellectually superior to anyone ... especially not the people who clean your toilet. At the very least, they know how to put in an honest day's work.

The cold statistics say my husband's published more than you ever will. It doesn't matter if your aunt's an acquiring editor; even if she bows to nepotism and gets your first novel on the lists with a bunch of marketing behind it ... you've gotta write and sell to get that second novel out there.

And then you're going to have to do it all over again. And again.

You're going to have to work so hard you sweat blood. Do you have it in you to struggle like that, considering that so far you've had most everything handed to you courtesy of your family's money? I doubt it.

I figure that if it ever dawns on you that you were cordially invited to lay lips to buttocks, you'll complain to your daddy, who will complain to the rabbi and demand that my husband be fired for his insolence.

And you know what?

You can kiss both our asses. Long and hard.

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