A title so epic you can’t even see it.

Alright, alright, I know it’s been a while. I’m sorry and all, but a gal has to have priorities. Mine go something like ‘Talking to friends —> emailing penpals —> watching youtube stuff I’ve missed out on —> GalionLive!’ Sorry, guys. I find it impossible to type and sing new songs at the same time. Weird fact. I’ve done enough ’25 things’ to last a lifetime, but I still find myself spouting random facts about myself at inopportune intervals.

Anyway.

I want to try my hand at writing fiction – after my brief stint as a fanfiction writer that ultimately ended poorly, I’ve not had much experience. I was looking online for prompts, seeing as I give myself no credit in thinking of and/or developing characters, and I think I found some promising things to do. I’ll try things out, work around a bit, and if I come up with anything I’ll let you know ASAP.

I find myself talking to whoever may be reading this like a journal – I hope you don’t mind. I find it considerably easier to talk to a random entity than to myself, looking insane just isn’t my style. Anyway. I took my first ACT yesterday, and I think it may have melted my brain beyond repair. I was sitting next to Mr. Stereotypical Japanese Whiz Kid, complete with 34-but-not-good-enough-previous-score. I whizzed through the English, Reading, Science, and Writing sections, but the Math was a real bummer. The questions are all like ‘What is the sine of ( x – 3 ) ( 77- 45x ) when f ( x ) = 32371237890123487901234′ or some horrifying other impossible question. Seeing as I’m in the middle of really learning what mere inequalities are left me feeling like an idiot and praying to any god that may exist my hunches could at least be partly true. Most of my answers on that section were the product of me going ‘Okayyy. I haven’t marked a “G” in a while, I’ll do that one next.’ and something or other like that. Whatever, whatever, I’m not going to worry for 5-8 more weeks…

Now that I can once again move my muscles as well as I deem reasonable, probably due to the lack of gym for two days, I am quite happy to report that I no longer wish the be a quadriplegic. With regaining usage of my limbs has come a new sense of hope – maybe, someday, I will be able to beat Judd in an arm wrestling contest. The idea is unlikely at best, but may come to fruition one day if I keep working like I have . I could probably already beat Dad if he wasn’t too much of a wuss to arm wrestle me – YEAH, Tom, I’m talking about you.

I love how Gmail always tries to match the ads on the sides of my screen to things in my emails. I call my friend Sara ‘Sora’ after a character in the Kingdom Hearts series, due to how alike they are, and every email I get from her never fails to be accompanied by several ‘Sora Kingdom Hearts Cosplay Pack!! Deluxe version! Realistic human hair wig!’ and other such creepy offers. I call my friend Nicole ‘Nii,’ Japanese for Big Brother (she’s always watching us…) and Gmail often has ads for ‘Knee replacement surgery cheap’ and ‘National Institution of Immunology’ and that sort. It’s almost comical, how the internet tries to cater to my ever need.

I’m happy to report that even though my internet time has been severely restricted, my typing speed has barely slowed. Not that I could normally care one whit for such things, but sometimes the small things just peeve me. I finished my English paper in record time as well, although that may have been  due to the impatient prompting of my Zelda-weary paternal unit. He seems to be unaware of how bad he truly is at that game, and forges on undaunted in the face of great adversity. Fool.

Speaking of Thomas Neal Palmer, he is absolutely insane. Although I do confess to occasionally forgetting how to spell his ever-important never-used middle name, I’m mostly good about remembering things about him. He, however, is not as good as I. He tends to secret sugary things away for his late-night need for sugar to keep him fueled through his 3am power hour. He snores like a grizzly bear, if they do indeed snore. He has a bad habit of dancing along to 70s music and old French pop hits on AOL radio. He’s a loon, if there ever was one.

I love music bundles and bundles. I was nearly in tears when I found out I couldn’t participate in Solo and Ensemble because of my dreaded ACT, already unwelcome and quickly becoming a hated nuisance. Congratulations, Concert Choir ensemble, I’m proud of your 1. Wish I could have been there.

I was told on Friday by a friend that I am the coolest person they’d ever met. I was quite honestly flattered, and proceeded to blush and stammer out and awkward ‘thanks’ before retreating to Guitar Hero. In stark contrast, I was told today that someone said they didn’t like me because I was so weird. At first this brought no discomfort, as I acknowledge the fact that I am slightly out of the ordinary. But the more I thought on it, the more ashamed I became. I’m not sure if I want to associate with anyone who would dislike me solely because of my radical temperament and not on the basis of something more important, but it hurt nonetheless. I could try and tone down my oddities and weird habits, but I don’t want to be so in love with the idea of acceptance that I become untrue to myself. Alas, a dilemma.

Moving on.

I wish I had a (functional, Dad.) cell phone. I happen to know where I can find several cellphones in good working order sitting around in my house, but none of them have the capabilities I’m looking for. I need to text all my pals at night when I can’t email, but cannot… I don’t even need minutes to call people, seeing as most teens prefer to use their fingers instead of their voices to communicate in this day and age.

Speaking of this day and age, I love the new Off Center. I was just in there recently to grab a chai tea with a friend, and I absolutely treasure the Klimt holder that came with the nice, stark white and green cup full of yummy tea. It was quite a treat.

As the minute hand of the clock nears my dreaded bedtime, I must make haste to prepare for school tomorrow morning and berate my father about how much he sucks at the game he’s playing. I leave you with a video that has been making the regular rounds around the internet, charming and disgusting in turn. A Mario Kart Love Song, so cute. If you even know who Mario is, you’ll pretty much get this song. If you have ample Mario Kart: Double Dash experience, you may be as moved as I was upon first hearing this. Anyway, the kid taped yarn to his face. You have to give him some kudos.

Goodnight, friends.

Cibola, my life for thee.

Today has been endless. I come up with different blog posts in my head on the way home, and then file them away for later use. This is one of them.

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To a friend.

I know you’re upset. It’s evident in the stark white of your knuckles as you clench the door of your locker, fighting for control and really, lost inside. You lose the fight, and your locker door slams shut with a crash. You stand there for a few seconds with your head resting on the cool metal, looking more weary than you should at your age, for what seems like an eternity. You shrug your coat on and shoulder your messenger bag, pulling on a hat in silence as you prepare for the walk home.

I am sorry. I am so, so, very sorry. I never wanted it to end this way – but in truth, deep down in my core, my soul, I know I did as well. You’re in pain, and it crushes me as well. But I cannot deny that when I overheard your conversation I was privately elated. The grimace on your face soon quashed my brief happiness, but I felt it. I was overjoyed, even though you were clearly suffering. That is what I am sorry for.

I am sorry. I’m sorry it had to turn out this way, that events didn’t go as planned. That you had to find out something you’d rather not know. That something you believed in turned out to be false. I’m sorry she hurt you, I’m sorry any of this went wrong.

But I’m also happy. Humans hate to be told ‘I know’ by other people. We yearn to scream ‘No, you don’t!’ when someone insists that they share your pain. But I think I know, in some form. That all-crushing despair. I know. I know. I’m sorry. But I’m not. I hate that I’m so smug, so pleased. But I have to admit, I was crushed before, and now I’m not. Well, I am in some form. But not as much as you.

I hate that. I hate it. I take pleasure in the fact that you were used and tossed aside, and I don’t even care if the reason why is true. All I cared about for that brief second was myself, and I am truly sorry. I find myself crying as I type, because I don’t want you to be in pain. I don’t care if the reason I’m so sad seeing you like this is because of some mild high-school drama, that doesn’t make it any less real.

The pain of seeing another suffer, multiplied by how much I care for you, is terrifying. I was told, after you’d walked down that hall and out of my sight with your head down and eyes on the ground, that I looked like a zombie. I was too wrapped up in the implications of past events – for an while, I didn’t take in the fact that now instead of me, you were hurting.

I am sorry. With all my heart, I apologize. This letter you will never see may not help you, but maybe somehow you’ll sense that someone cares. I’m so, so sorry. I can’t say it enough. I’m trying to lighten the burden on myself by writing this, but I am so, so sorry. I wish I could tell you in person just how sorry I am. But I can’t. And for that, I am sorry.

Caroline.

————————————————————-

To a dear one.

I have no idea how hard you work. I can tease you and razz you all day long, but at the end of it, you’re why I’m here. Without you, I would not have grown to be the person I am today. I know I can come home every day to a warm smile, although sometimes gruff and businesslike. I can get a hug when I want, providing I’m not interrupting you. Even then, you’ll impatiently gesture for me to do it quick and then get out of your sight.

You work tirelessly. Late hours every day of the week, more nocturnal than diurnal. You take time off once in a while to relieve stress, bu I can understand. You and only you have managed to keep a roof over my head and food on our (gypsy) table for my entire life. I’m truly more of your child than anyone’s.

I yearn to make you proud, more than anything in the entire world. I want you to be able to see my name on a book, up in lights, somewhere the whole world can see, and know that YOU put me there. That something in your life has turned out right, that all of your hard work has not been entirely in vain.

I have a way to go, until I can do that. I hope you’ll stick with me until then, because honestly – I need you. More than anything in this world, I need you to keep accepting me for me and I need you to be my rock. You’re my anchor. When I go off on tangents and spiels, you sit and listen patiently until I run myself down and dissolve into tears. You come and sit on the couch next to me and rub my back and talk to me, letting me know I’m not insane and that everyone in the world can feel a little crazy sometimes.

We have a million inside jokes, you and I. Ranging from obscure to hilarious, hawk-based to nicknames, we share a joke about it. I love being able to say something that will cause your (aging?) face to break into a wry little smile, before we both bust out in laughter. I relish being able to talk to you with no holds barred, no masks or walls left. I can be myself, my true me with you, and that is my greatest prize.

You’re getting older. You hate to hear it and I hate to say it. But you are. I’m sorry.

You are an amazing person. You’ve done so much in life that I can’t even begin to write it all down, you’ve been there, you’ve done everything you should, you’re the epitome, the apex of everything in life that I love. You are incredible, astonishing. You are the greatest person I know. My favorite person on earth, the greatest person I know.

I can’t get over how incredible you are. Just writing this makes me realize how much you do for me every day. I never thank you enough. I will never be ABLE to thank you enough. You are…indescribable.

I love you, Daddy.

-P

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To you.

I love you. I say it often enough, in my mind, but never write it down. This letter is short, because I have no words for you that I’ve not already voiced. I love you. I love you. I love you. Truly, truly.

-me.

The idiosyncratic musings of an INFJ

Today. Today, today, today, t-o-d-a-y. TODAY.

I like to repeat words so much that they lose their meaning. Speaking of things losing other things, my cat will soon lose his tail, happy home, and loving slaves if he does not IMMEDIATELY cease his incessant biting and meowing. Seriously, I wasn’t aware that an animal could be THIS ANNOYING. He’s almost as annoying as elementary school kids – cute when you first see them, but then they start whining. Sam is the same, but not quite. Born sometime in August, somewhere around 5 years ago or so, this little devil has been bred to know EXACTLY what he wants and EXACTLY how to get it. Little vermin.

So. Soooo. So – S – O – SP! SP! Scissors project. That just sounds so cool. School today was epic-boring, epic-long, and epic-sucky. Not to mention the fact that after my brother coerced me to get him lunch at Wendy’s, my Dad decides he’ll come home and confine me to my pitiful VHS tapes and pretty TV. Alas, alack. I need more things to DO in life. I’ve got like…no life outside of school. Seriously. I come home every day and then i just sit there, and now that we’re down to one computer [thanks, Dad. Thanks.] I can’t email Sor or Nii after I finally drag my frozen butt inside.

I know, I know, be grateful for what I have. Ugh.

So, down to what the title is about. I took this personality tester thingy in English today, to help us determine jobs to research for our 3rd quarter research project. Evidently I [and my bud Nii] are INFJs, introverted/intuitive/feeler/judgers. Isn’t that spiff? I was stoked. Only about 1% of the population is this type, and I happen to fit into such an exclusive niche? Aww, shucks world, that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Gawrsh.

Speaking of the word ‘Gawrsh,’ I really hate dogs. Little dogs, not big, pretty ones. I can stand the big, gorgeous great danes and saint bernards, but I HATE those little chihuahua purse-puppies. Speaking of PET HATRED, FOR GOD’S SAKE SAM, I AM GOING TO MURDER YOU. Sorry – he just knocked over a stack of papers and I SWEAR I am screaming myself hoarse about him.

Never mind, nevertheless, I am fine. Isn’t everyone loving this green, vibrant, malachite-licious season? Oh no wait…it’s the middle of an endless Ohio winter.

You know what? Sometimes my heart just isn’t in my blog. That’s one of those times, so I’ll leave it here. Good night, wish me luck. On what, I’m not sure. But I could always use a little extra, in this day and age.

Grace Episcopal

There is one faucet in the Grace Episcopal Church bathroom: cold. That little ‘C’ is daunting, to say the least, when you go to wash your hands. You rationalize, tell yourself that it can’t actually be too frigid, and then you turn it on. Maybe your skin is just in shock for a few seconds, because it first it really doesn’t seem to be that cold. But then it hits you. You envision your fingers turning into icicles as you race to soap up your hands, and then shove them under the faucet as shivers race up and down your spine. You turn it off quickly, numb digits barely feeling the cold, rusty metal, and dry your hands with the roughest, scratchiest paper towels known to mankind.

That’s my favorite place. If you add up the minutes and hours I’ve spent at that church, you’d have a good couple of weeks on your hands. I have vivid memories of sleeping on the couches outside the sanctuary during the service as a kid, having someone just bring me communion, before I even knew what the word ‘communion’ meant. Going over right after Judd and I rooted through our Easter baskets and threw all the black jelly beans at Dad, being dragged along to organ practice on Saturday nights, tying those insane bows to the windows every Christmas, some of my favorite memories were made there.

I can remember Palm Sunday and Halloween, the ice cream socials in the summer. Those are Grace/Brownella memories – they’ve started to meld together in my mind. I can recall making rootbeer with Mrs. George in a kettle that was (unbeknownst to us) full of ants. I remember changing into costumes for the Halloween tours in that tiny, cold-watered bathroom, and it makes me sad. I know I’ll probably never get to attend a good old-fashioned church service there, never get to play musical pews with my crazy organ-loving father, and never have to put up that messy nativity scene. (Though I have to help Dad take it down soon, I suppose.) I’m not sure about the future of the building itself, but I know it will never be the same.

Grace is a shelter from the storm. No matter what happens to go wrong in my life, going to Grace has always made me forget about it for a little while. When I peeled a piece of wallpaper off of my bedroom wall on accident and was wracked with guilt, going to Grace let me forget about it and engross myself in dropping candy into the vents while Dad was busy looking the other way.

It makes me feel guilty, how I don’t particular care for the church services themselves. I love the people, but I’m not the most pious teen you’ll ever have the misfortune to meet. The building is the most important part of the experience to me [little Thomas = me], and I can’t help but wonder if any church will ever be the same for me. I’m not too interested in the services I go to, and Father tells me that there are other places like Grace in the world, but I think it’s one of a kind. No other church will be exactly the same. I don’t know how to open random doors in other churches, I’ll never be able to root through any given cupboard to find candy and duct tape, and in no other church can I dig under a couch to find the same games I’ve played with since I was knee high to a grasshopper. Heck, I don’t even know if those are still under the couch there. But anyway.

I can sit here, sippy-cup full of diet coke in hand, and recall a million little things about that building. I have countless stories about Annie and I trying to make concoctions with berries, grass, and bricks behind the bushes. I’ve pumped that hand water pump in the grass so many times I’ve lost count. Dad always parks in the same spot, I always sit in the same spot, and everything stays the same.

Maybe that’s my problem. I don’t want my life to change this radically. The loss of my Elementary and Middle Schools wasn’t too big of a shock, but losing Grace is painful. I’m not losing the building itself – I hope to God that Grace stands tall and strong for another hundred plus years. Knowing that it’s open to other people, that someone other than my Father is playing the organ there, that I’m not privy to some well-kept community secret that no one can take from me – it hurts a little. It’s a selfish emotion, I know, but the thought of someone I don’t know coming to (my?) church to listen to someone I don’t know play music I’ve not heard before feels like an invasion, like someone has stolen part of me that I’m not going to get back.

I’ve got terrible memory. I can barely remember a thing from a week ago, much less years, but Grace Episcopal has imprinted itself so firmly in my mind that I will remember forever.

I can hum along with so many songs that are now the background of my childhood. I can recall the sound of Father E.T. preaching when I close my eyes, and I know exactly where the floor creaks when you step on it.

This isn’t so much a blog post as just a list of things I never want to forget.

The feeling of the soft red carpet underfoot as I fake-pranced down the aisle to a song played comically slow. The day Annie was baptized there. The bishop visiting. The bowls of AA candy we ransacked. The candles in the hurricane-lamp, wrought-iron poles at the ends of every other pew. The two plushy kneeling-bar-things that I still love to sit on for fun. Not being tall enough to reach my own, less comfortable perch and being forced to war with the pew as I teetered on the edge. The comforting thud of my Father’s feet against the pedals of the organ. How the floor buzzes when he plays lows notes. The gold collection plate, worn ever-smoother by countless hands ferrying money up and down the aisle on cue. The times I thought the vacuum tracks on the floor were the tracks from where they wheeled my mother’s casket in, carefully preserved for a decade. The wooden cross and its heavy gold counterpart, both equal in meaning although not equal in material. The stupid, stupid wallpaper border with its sheep and bibles and grapes. The ugly gold coat rack. The never-in-tune piano. The freezing-cold room to the left of the altar, always smelling faintly of communion wine and dust and smoke.

I miss it, I miss it, I miss it. Grace is where I learned the true meaning of ‘sanctuary.’ I’m not allowed to yell in there, or to run or eat or fight my brother, but nothing has ever stopped me from sitting in the same creaky pews for an hour or two on a Sunday morning to listen to people I know and love tell me things. There is no war in there, no arguments and no being afraid. I can go and sit in there, staring at the same crack-riddled ceiling and know that for a little while, everything can be alright.

I have to give that up. I know it. I want to get out of Galion badly enough. But Grace will always be a little part of me. Hidden away, sometimes forgotten as I get older and have more things in life to remember, but always there. I can come back to it in my mind when I need to, sink my feet into that soft, red carpet and remember.

Exams…

I get to go to an awesome sleepover-thingy at the Free Methodist church tonight – I slept in especially late to prepare for a momentous lack of sleep. Jess and Nii will be there, Beth, Toshia, Tiff, Vally, and a handful of others I’m too lazy to name as well. I expect a night full of Mountain Dew, heated bathrooms, air hockey, guitar hero and basketball. Sounds like a load of fun compared to what’s up now.

Alright – so my exams are over. M-O-O-N, that spells over. Today’s unexpected snow day gives me a [much appreciated] 6 day weekend, which I plan to use to my advantage. So in order my Exams were [ah, feels good to use the past tense]: BL (business law for you non-believers), Spanish, English, Geometry, and Bio II. BL I know I got a 93 on ’cause Mr. C graded them in class, so I’m happy it went better than I thought. Spanish was a doozy, although I think I did alright. Ms. E wasn’t at school for a week, so we had almost no chances to review our stuff (darn subs, not being fluent in Spanish. or telepathic.) It went over okay, but I was struggling with my grammar there for a while xD I forgot the first person singular preterite tense of ‘ir,’ and that threw me off a bit, but all in all I think I’m fine in that department.

Aside from the UNHOLY cold, It’s alright. English. Ohhh, my love, my sweet, my favorite class of the day – the exam was so easy I think I could have been sleep-writing and still done fine. Which isn’t surprising, oddly. I did write a little more for my essay question than I was supposed to (actually it was 3x the amount) but I don’t think I’ll get anything detracted for that. Geometry was one I was fretting over, but it turned out to be a breeze. I only had to use a calculator once – and that was because I was too lazy to divide 78 by 2. (I just suck at mental math.)

For some reason I’m always the first one done with my exams…ehh, I dunno. I read fast, so the questions tend to just fly by. Bio II was pretty hard, I must say, but I knew my stuff. I know I bombed a few questions (I couldn’t remember what kind of anaerobic/aerobic processes make the most ATP) but I was overall pretty confident. I’m glad it’s all over with, most of all.

I bought myself a new journal, a cute little 200-page, memo-size, spiral-bound, I-really-like-hyphens notebook. It’ll take me less time than I expected to fill it up – I averaged about 13 pages a day for the past week -.-…pity. It was only a buck twenty-five, so I’ll bu a new one without much hassle when the time comes. I like my handwriting, I really do…pity I can’t just blog on paper and then post the papers online somehow xD or just buy a tablet and write like that…that would be too cool. A friend of mine online got a new tablet for X-mas, and she calls it ‘TABBER.’ Yeah, all caps, always. She’s a bit crazy, muffin-fiend that she is.

Lori is a really pretty name. It’s short and sweet, common enough that little kids can get bike plates at wal-mart that say it, but also kind of unique. Not just because it was my Mom’s name, either – I’ve just always kinda liked it. If I was ever to change my name, it’d be to Lori. I’d love that…but then I’d want to keep all of my names as well, which would leave me with three middle names. I could hyphenate it…be Lori-Caroline…that’s weird, but cool… heh. If I hyphenated my last name when I got married (say his name was like…Mr. Roberts.) I’d be Lori-Caroline Alice Vera Palmer-Roberts. WOW. that’s amazing. Hmmm…how old do I have to be before I can change my name? I wonder.

I’m worried about my ACT. I have to take it on February 7th if I want to have time to apply for next year’s post secondary, so I had to send in my stuff by today, and It’s got me worried. Dad signed me up yesterday (darn late fees) and I’m all ready to go, but I’m frightened. I don’t test well. Certainly not as well as my innate-genius-I-got-a-32-ha-ha brother. So I will have to study, and plan, and take all the practice tests I can find. I had to fill out that application yesterday afternoon too – and It asked which 4 schools I’d like to have my scores sent to specifically. I had Bryn Mawr, University of Miami (the ohio one ), Kenyon College, and Cornell – and I think I’m aiming pretty high. I hope (hope, hope, hope beyond all hopes) that I can get into a good college, but these might be a little out of my league…

Cornell looks beautiful, but it’s Ivy league. Dad estimated I’d have to have a 30+ on the ACT – and that frustrates me. For U of M He said a 25 or so, with a 3.7, .38 GPA – which I might be able to swing…Kenyon is gorgeous, and I’d be able to get some sort of a discount for being an Episcopalian…and then Bryn Mawr, the dream school in Pennsylvania…

Pity. Pity, pity, pity. My fingers are frozen and my mind is reeling, so I’ll cut this short. (Or is it long?)

Getting out.

My hometown is pretty much dead. It’s like a ghost town – no one walking down the streets, no kids out and about, nothing going on but arguments and failed attempts to fix things that are too badly broken. Whatever changes could have been made here would have had to have been made a long time ago. Maybe even before I was born. It’s worthless, honestly. My Uncle evidently thinks that it’s ‘sad’ that so many teens here have a single goal – get out of this god-forsaken pit. No matter how badly you’ve screwed up in life, no matter how much you’ve got going against you, every teen here feels that if they can just LEAVE, everything can work itself out. And that’s partly true. I’m sick of hearing mothers and fathers and grandparents talking about ‘the good ‘ole days’ in those hushed voices of remembering something long-gone. It sickens me, how an entire city can decline how mine has. ‘Oh, there used to be factories and jobs here, so the city can’t be all bad.’ I beg to differ.

I don’t know what happened before my time, but if it led to this kind of outcome then it mustn’t have been good. The city is just a byway, a little group of houses that travelers pass through on their way to bigger and better things. Galion, in my humble, uneducated opinion, is too far gone.  Too much dissent, too many different warring factions, and no reason to stay. None at all. I can keep in touch with friends, if need be, but I’d rather do it from far away. The selfish kid in me is crying out, ‘If I stay here, I’m going to be a no-name, a no-one, and I’ll have only my as-of-yet nonexistent children to remember me.’ Galion can’t help me on my path to change my own life. It can teach me how to read and write, which I suppose are the building blocks of any life worth living, but not much else.

It’s like a broken down gas-station on the road to greatness. A handful of years ago, people just stopped using it. It may have had shiny chrome pumps and plenty of people to wash your windows and fill your car, but it fell into disrepair. The chrome was stripped and sold for booze money, the people all left for bigger cities with more opportunities, and all that was left was a little shell. Sure, you can still fill up your car there, but you’ll do it alone. It’s going to be cold, in the middle of an Ohio winter. No one will wash your windows or tip their hat and hold the door courteously, but you can still get gas.  There aren’t any cheerfully humming coolers, no little packs of gum for sale, just an angry old spinster who’s sick of wasting away behind a counter while people drive by. No reason to dawdle and make small-talk.  And when you finally pull out of that tiny, dingy station, you’ll feel this profound sense of relief that you’re out. You plan to fill up the tank in Mansfield or Columbus, just so you don’t have to stop there again. And then you promptly forget all about it.

Galion has nothing but family, for me. There aren’t any opportunities. Sure, we have excellent scholarships up for grabs, but after I [hopefully] leave for college, there will be no reason to come back. No outstanding jobs, no gorgeous and quaint downtown, and no reason to stick around. It’s like this poem I found a while ago – I had to go and google it to find it again.

Leaving
by Robert Elliott

Open your arms to change, but please don’t lose yourself
You are what makes you who you are in sickness and in health
A friendly atmosphere has made you who you are to be
Your character is in charge and will control your destiny

You’ll go someplace you’ve never gone, you’ll make your mark again,
You will reset your standards, and sure will make new friends
As soon as today is yesterday your heart will always give
I hope you won’t regret today, cause your future longs to live

If our paths don’t cross again, I won’t forget this day
Cause I’m afraid of change, I’m scared to shift my ways
My eyes will see things they’ve never seen, but I’ve always been here
The time that counts your moments gone will teach me not to fear.

You’ll look upon your life and see familiar grounds
You’ll hear the call of memories and recognize the sound
All the lives you change will make stars disappear
And as you’re settled down, you’ll realize you’ve never left here.

I don’t want to get stuck here, pulled back from what I want by some trifling, nagging moral responsibility to stay true to where I’ve come from. How I see it, Galion has never looked kindly on me. I’m afraid of spiders, the dark, change, and being alone. If I leave Galion, I’ll be facing all of those.

But I think it’s worth it.