Swimming through the saline.

I cry every day. Big, black tears full of make-up and little quiet clear tears full of nothing but salt.


I cry because this is real life and I cry when people on television shows die and people in books get shot. I cry when other people's houses go up for sale. I cry when I cut my toe with the vacuum cleaner and when I think there is a killer shadow in my bedroom at three in the morning. I cry because there are books that are so well-written, I can't help but shed a tear. I cry when I see the dates on the calendar and I cry when I see old friends. I cry when I look at paintings and when I can't do anything right. I cry when I get my hopes up and when I get fortune cookies that are perfect. I cry at the mention of certain books. I cry when I miss people. I cry more when I look in the mirror and see how awful all that crying has made me look and cry the most when I realize I am crying because of something I saw in the mirror. 


I cry because sometimes, I simply don't know what else to do. Every single day, that happens. I just cry, involuntarily, because "any emotion, if it is sincere, is involuntary."


And right now, there is so much to feel.


I miss you more with every passing moment. Even though you are not even gone yet.
All my love,
Addy

Extremely close, probably.

I mean it when I say it, even though I say it often and to a lot of people, because the fact of the matter is that I am too afraid of not saying it. I always think of Oskar Schell and the way he said, "Dad?" and his dad turned around and he hesitated and said, "Goodnight, dad," when he meant to say, "I love you, dad." But he didn't and then his dad was gone.


So I say it whenever I feel it. Because I'm too afraid of simply saying, "Goodnight." I say "I love you" out of fear. And love, obviously.


So I just began to cry tears because I didn't know what else to do.
All my love,
Addy


P.S. Changed my profile photo because I like this one better. It's me, age 4ish.

Wild Thing dinnertime.

Have you ever wished for something so selfishly that every time it crosses your mind you find yourself stuck in a whole lot of guilt-mud?


But you keep wishing, don't you? You keep wishing because the second you stop wishing with every fiber of your soul, for even just a single moment, and allow yourself to consider what might happen if your wish doesn't make good, your breath gets all shallow and your legs get all shaky and all of your words loose their shape in your throat.


So you wish some more because you have to breathe like a real person and you want to be able to walk and have a real conversation, but you can't do either of those if your legs or your words aren't working.


And before you know it, you're using every wish you can - 11:11 wishes, dandelion wishes, shooting star wishes, left-over glitter wishes, birthday wishes, Christmas wishes. You've quit using them to wish for an orange kitten or to wish that someone will leave this this dress from Urban Outfitters on your porch in a cute little box with your name on it or even wish that that boy - that one with the adorable sixties haircut - will kiss you and it will be all perfect. You're using every wish you can on that selfish wish of yours, aren't you?


Well, maybe you aren't. But I am.


And I'll just keep wishing and wishing and wishing until the Wild Things eat me all up until all that's left is a big bowl of guilt and a dull, selfish ache.


And the clocks were striking thirteen.
All my love,
Addy


P.S. It's fine if you leave that dress on my porch in a cute little box with my name on it. In fact, my birthday is soon, so it's perfect, probably.

Tinted teeth.

And I faked a phone call and lied through my teeth to a boy who is becoming something good and when I didn't stick it out and make it a good experience I felt awful.


I didn't feel full. I didn't feel full like when there were still people in my kitchen at one in the morning the night before or full like when we didn't sleep at all or full like sitting on a hill and watching Fleet Foxes or full like I felt when he played with my hands. I didn't feel full like when we finally went back to Del Taco after so long a hiatus. I didn't feel full like when we made music all morning.


When I tinted my teeth with a little lie because I didn't want to stick it out and be happy and witty and outgoing, I didn't feel full. I felt like an empty sell-out.


And I wondered what the aliens who abducted me had done with the real me.


But I suppose that some emptying would be required before all very full glasses could become full again.


There is a cactus on the ceiling.
All my love,
Addy

Mariner's revenge.

You leave me feeling less empty. Because two hands and two hearts and two heads are better than one empty hand and one lonely heart and one heavy head with no shoulder to sleep on.


"Cardiac arrest over something important is better than sheer boredom over nothing at all."
All my love,
Addy

I am Addy Baird and I don't approve this message. [Edit]

[Edit] I hate this post. I want to take it down so badly. But this is for Collin's sake more than anything.


Alright. I've given in. I know for a fact that Collin Edward White absolutely hates my little profile "About Me" picture. He calls it model-esque and wants me to have a normal photo of me (instead of a model-esque illustration that doesn't even really look like me), just like everyone. So I am changing the photo and I hope you're all happy.


Mostly because my family finally got pictures taken of us. If you're absolutely dying to see more (there are some really nice photos, actually), you can click on "The Writer" link under "Pages."


So here. So one of these is about to be set as my "About Me" photo. I hope you approve.

I sometimes think I am about to go into cardiac arrest.

All my love,

Addy

It's complicated.

This morning I knew what I was doing. And I knew what I wanted and who I wanted and everything was lovely.


And then everything got mega-confusing and now there isn't enough air to breathe and my knees are all weak and my body feels all full of fluids and I am so confused and I don't know what to do.


I'm blaming this quasi-relationship on those hands of his and I'm blaming its quasi-downfall on another pair of hands. They're both so beautiful and they leave me breathless and I end up doing reckless things without thinking because of those hands.


It's hard to explain, really.


Do you think either of them even noticed my eyelashes? The actual boys themselves, I mean. Not the hands.


Any number to the power of zero is one.
All my love,
Addy

Monetary value.

My sister has money in stocks. Plus also she is about to buy herself a new loft-bed. 


She is thirteen.


I have somewhere around zero dollars to my name.


What ever happened to unemployment benefits?


Good thing the library is free.


I sometimes think abs muscles look a bit like tumors. I don't know why they are so hot. I mean, because they actually kind of are. Sometimes.
All my love,
Addy

This is for the sake of kissing, I guess.

Not to toot my own horn, but I like to think I am quite the chapstick connoisseur. I use chapstick probably about a billion times every day, and after many years of that (and, therefore, loads of chapstick shopping), I might've become quite the expert.

The following is a list of what to look for in your own chapstick. 

1. Begin with the packaging. It's no fun to kiss a boy who isn't pretty, and it's no fun to use chapstick that doesn't come in a pretty package. Perhaps it has a green lid. Perhaps it comes in a very tall and very skinny tube. Perhaps it is short and fat. Perhaps it is lovely and colorful. It's up to you, really.

2. Then look at the flavoring. I like chapstick with flavor. But not, like, gross flavor. Not black licorice flavored or something. The one I'm using right now is pear flavored. I happen to know that Katie likes vanilla flavored chapstick. Maybe you like chapstick with no flavor at all. Follow your heart.

3. Move on to the way it appears when it is on your real actual lips. I don't like chapstick that is sparkly or sticky looking. I prefer a nice soft shine - or possibly nothing at all. I like it when it makes my lips look hydrated rather than, you know, chapped. But maybe you love sticky sparkles. I suppose if you love sticky sparkles you ought to look into lipgloss instead. Or Softlips Pearl.

4. Finally, after it has sat for a moment, decide if you like the way it feels. Your mouth is imperative: You need it for kissing and smiling and laughter. If your lips feel awful, none of the aforementioned activities will be any fun at all. I like chapstick that's just like, "Hey, I'm going to hydrate your lips and make them feel all soft - but not like, numbsoft. Just soft. I also won't make your lips feel all sticky. That's not my job." I think most people would agree.

When you finally find one that meets the bespoken criteria, buy it. Love it. Un-chappify with it.

I'm completely obsessed with the chapstick I am using currently. It's the best. It's pear flavored and green in the tube, but goes on clear (sort of like that glue that is purple but dries clear as to not ruin your art project). Unfortunately, I got it from my uncle who is a dentist in the northwest corner of the United States. If you're ever in West Linn, Oregon, ask for Dr. Westover and if you can have some of his pear chapstick. You'll be happy for life, probably.

Je respire le feu.

All my love,

Addy

And with every breath I miss you. 

Pros versus TOMS.

I'll be honest, I love my TOMS just as much as the next hipster, but they pale in comparison to the nice work my rain boots could've done at the berry farm today.


Too bad I didn't bring them to Oregon. 


Which was definitely dumb, considering that Oregon is, what? The rainiest state in the entire nation?


Harry Potter 7.5 comes out this week: Nothing can bring me down.
All my love,
Addy

Quality of motion.

And then it is July and I am so worried because I've been stuck in this crevice for so long with nothing to write about and before I know it it'll be August and I'll be blowing out birthday candles and headed back to high school again for "Guess and Hope a Lot That Things Work Out Semi-Nicely" round two and then all of a sudden I'll be wearing a cap and gown and then wandering the streets of Manhattan and living off of goat pops alone because I'm simply trying to pay my tuition and hopefully dating someone tall and skinny and cultured (fingers crossed) and then we'll have kids and our kids will have kids and out of nowhere I'll have gray hair and wrinkles everywhere and I'll maybe even consider Botox for a split second, and I'll wake up one morning and realize I can't see without my glasses or move without my walker and then the next morning, I simply won't wake up at all.


I am praying for quality in my motions. When I realize I can't see or walk, I don't want to realize I never did anything with myself, too.


I can't breathe easy, either.
All my love,
Addy


P.S. On a lighter note, remember this shirt? Guess which lucky girl found it in a Park City coffee shop yesterday called "Atticus" (As in, "Finch"): me. That's who.

Crystal (well, you know...)

I am stuck in the crevice between real life and fake life. If I'm being honest, I don't like it here much. Both real and fake life seep their ways in and make my head spin.


I promise you I'm not insane. Let me explain "fake life" and "real life" to you. It's really not all that confusing, but people seem to think I'm loosing my mind when I say things like, "It happened in real life," thinking that of course it happened in real life. Ha. False.


The following things occur in fake life:


1. Boys love me (and you, for that matter (not that they don't love you already (because they really actually do))). In fake life, boy are always like, "I love you," and sometimes I'm like, "I love you back."
     1b. Boys try to kiss me. So much, in fact, that it is exhausting. When they're totally beautiful I usually give in and I'm all, "Okay, okay."


2. Fake life is also when nothing feels real. Perhaps you've woken up at, say, five in the morning and headed off to dance in a parade: Definitely gonna be a fake-life day.


3. In fake life, romantic experiences don't freak me out.


6. In fake life, boys toss rocks at windows and life is a bit like an '80's movie.


7. Fake life is full of spontaneous bursts of song and dance. It's sort of like a musical. All the time. And everyone harmonizes perfectly pretty much every second of (fake) life.


8. In fake life, Matt Davis never wears a shirt. (What?)


In real life, however, boys don't always love me and I don't always love them back. They also don't try and kiss me. Real life feels real, three out of four romantic experiences send me into small anxiety fits, and life is like 2011, not '80's movies (or even real life '80's). In real life, most people can't harmonize or dance, let alone do both at once. Plus also, Matt Davis wears shirts in public. It's fine.


That, my friends, is the difference between fake life and real life. It's not all too confusing. You have fake life, too. Admit it.


But here I am down in this crevice where some boys love me, but I don't love them back. Where half the day is very fake and the other half all too raw. Where only two out of four romantic experiences are giving me angst. Where people dress like they're in the first few minutes of 13 Going on 30, but no one is standing in my yard with a boom box. Where musicals are real life on stage, but then I realize that I'm getting weird looks from the window washers in my basement when I am singing RENT really, really loudly in my house. And Matt Davis was spotted shirtless. Once. It's fine.


It's exhausting in here - in this crevice. Sometimes I don't mind it all too much, but when things happen that I can't differentiate between, I get angst and my head hurts and I run away super quick.


So, if you're looking for me, I'm just here, down in this little mixed-up crevice. I bet you will be able to find me here for a while, I fear. 


"Anxiety killed the cat, probably."


Maybe someday we'll each have an Independence Day of our own.
All my love,
Addy


[Edit: I just realized I left out numbers 4 and 5. I'm not going to fix it, though. Ha, ha.]

This sounds vaguely familiar.

Yesterday, I ruined my love life completely (okay, maybe I'm exaggerating, but probably not really) and then got chills from High School Musical.


Do you think this is some sort of weird disease, maybe?


Take me, baby. Or leave me.
All my love,
Addy