Throw your soul through every open door.

Celiac disease sucks.

I'm not going for eloquence today. My charisma reserves are running low, and I think it's time to come to terms with my severe lack of mystery. As much as I'd like to be the girl that no one understands - but everyone wants to understand, I'm not. I'm the nerdy, native, cat lover that fears the sun. The one who drinks tea like an addiction. I don't have very many secrets.

I keep secrets. I had one friend, a long time ago, who told me secrets. She had a lot of them. A stockpile. I don't know how she managed to keep track of them all. I wonder if the number of secrets a person has is proportional to how contrived they appear on the outside. Maybe that's just a defense mechanism. But no one can tell how contrived they appear. That's a perception. That's a false reality. That's a topic for English AP.

Her secrets were big and painful. Remember the disney movies we used to watch? The ones that said if you had a friend who told you a secret, a big, dark, ugly secret, that you should tell someone? If they were being hurt, it didn't matter how many pinky swears you did, they were overridden by the responsibility you had to tell someone. And they wouldn't be mad if you told, even though you crossed your heart not to. I had secrets of hers like that.

And I didn't tell anyone.

I wonder how things would be different if I had done things differently. The secrets I never shared, movies I never watched, homework I never did, letters I never wrote, nights I left early... how would my life be different? Would it be changed at all? How much impact does one moment have on our lives? It's a can of worms, that's what it is.

But, despite every mistake I've ever made, despite the regrets and the unfinished sentences and the tears that were held back and the feelings left unsaid and the kisses left where they shouldn't have been. Despite everything, I'm happy. Somehow everything worked.

For reasons that can be summed up in a word or two, my prefrontal cortex is swelling with serotonin and my cheek muscles are permanently seized forming a dorky grin and squinty eyes and despite all of the work I need to do in the next week and a half, the plays that are stressing me out, the white blood cells that are attacking my intestines and the imminency of the AP exam, I'm happy.

For those of you with an aversion to giddiness, this is not the blog for you.

I've never felt like I was on the brink of something so wonderful. I feel like this is going to be consistent. And everybody likes consistency. It's the finest form of hormonal overdose, atrial fibrillation and hypersensitive nerves. It's the combination of longing and excitement and trying to maintain a healthy level of allure. It's saying fuck sanity and succumbing to the ever convincing alternative of grinning at police officers and singing loudly and off pitch.

You make me happy. You're handsome and sexy. And although you might not notice, when you touch me, especially unexpectedly, I smile in the largest, most idiotic way feasible. I'm truly concerned that if I do this often enough my face might get stuck that way.

But if that's the price for spending time with you, well slap me and call me shirley, looks like I'll be grinning like a dork forever.

"Maybe that's what hell is, the entire rest of eternity spent in fucking Bruges."

Gothenburg, Sweden 2011