August 20, 2011 | 12:14 am
you step a little closer each day, that i can't say what's going on.
Sometimes I try to think that I am a summer girl. I would love to believe that I am that girl who loves tank top weather, short weather, flip flop weather...

But I hate shorts. I fucking hate them because they ride up in the crotch and they annoy me to no end. And flip flops make so much fucking noise.

And the sun. That fucking sun gets so hot and it hurts my skin and it hurts my head.

I am that girl who needs to feel that cold fall air on nights like tonight. I need to know that boots and tights are just around the corner in order to justify my too-short dresses being really, not that short with tights!

I know that I am so close... (thisclosenospaces) from being the woman that I know I am and that I want to be.

It won't be long before I'm there.

It takes a lot of years, I think, sometimes -- to decipher where you came from and turn it into who you are and who you know you want and need to be.

My grammar has turned to shit, and that comes from five years out of school, but I can't really be bothered to fix it tonight.

I try my very best to be a journaler. But I'm not. Never start a sentence with "but".

They also say that journaler isn't a word. But if "blogger" is then fuck whoever made up those silly rules because the internet is a lot less real than paper ever will be.

I have this very embarrassing addiction to Lady Gaga. Really, me, who would have thought.

It's bad enough that I make Mike stay up late in bed on the nights that she releases new videos because I know that are going to be so good.

Can you even believe that Clarence Clemons died like right after their video?

I held a vigil. Honestly, I cried for at least an hour. I'm glad he got to do something that popular culture will remember him for in modern times. No one remembers him from E-Street days.

There's no one who I can credit for my music appreciation more than my mom. She introduced me to Rufus, and from there I cannonballed out of control with astounding male vocalists/storytellers. I truly believe that the best musicians tell the best stories.

I love a good story.

We went to see Rufus a few months ago and I got sick thinking that he might be entertaining people just as much as he was entertaining me. I have always had this healthy (I think) obsession with thinking that he only sings for me.

For years he's only been mine. No one I knew cared as much about him as I did. Then at the show there were so many people. I don't know if they cried during the whole show like I did though. I doubt it. That's what I'll keep telling myself.

Really, listen to him sing Shakespeare's Sonnet 20 and tell me that it's not the most beautiful and personal voice you ever heard.

As much as I would like to equate Damien Rice's "O" with my past, because I discovered it in grade 11 at the library, I can't get enough of it, ever.

Every song is perfect for my life now.

Before Mikel left for Europe I put Cannonball on his iPod amongst one million other amazing romantic "love me" songs, but that is the one that the busker chose to play when we walked past in him in London. And we stopped, because it reminded us of each other, even when we didn't really know each other.

It's the same song the busker in Banff played when we passed him after my cousin's wedding, unbeknownst to us until later that it was exactly one year to the day that we met.

We both knew from the first day we met that we were going to be together for a very, very long time. The second I landed in Copenhagen, I knew it was forever. Just like in Volcano, he kisses my mouth, and my back... and my knees, my elbows, my collarbone, my forehead...
Despite the entire album's sad connotations, I can't help but feel like it's all so romantic, and it comes from such a place of profound happiness, followed by eventual, inevitable loss.

I am so happy to be so happy. I don't write here anymore, but I get the urge to sometimes, and I resist. I felt the urge to do so tonight, and I think it'll be my last time.

I get married in a few weeks, and I'm ready to grow past this. So much of this diary has been about trying, and hurting, and about thinking that I can better myself by writing it down in a white box on a lavender page.

What I really need is that person to be that white box for me. That person to be there for me every night when I go to sleep. To tell them all of my thoughts, my ideas, my crazy plans that might one day come to fruition (who knows?). That person to listen to everything that I really know is irrelevant, but listens intently because it's important to me at that moment.

I'm sorry Diaryland, I'll keep you for archival purposes of my past terrific storytelling talents, but I think this is my last night.

Goodnight.

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