30 April, 1997

You were meant for me... Or was I meant for you?

[The below entry was not written by me. It is from a portion of a journal entry that was written by one of my early girlfriends. Names have been modified to protect the shy.]

The threads that hold your life together are woven by the choices that you do not even think about making for yourself. Often, those threads are the imposed expectations that society has painted for us since our earliest ages. The threads that were holding my life together during my seventeenth autumn were the hopes of love. I had met a younger man, if he should be called a man. He was fifteen; I was seventeen. We met on a bus going to play with a band at a football game. I was the flutist, he the drummer.

"I'm [Jane Doe]," I said nervously, astounded that this very handsome teenage guy with exotic eyes and John Travolta's smile would have chosen to sit by me when there were so many other seats available.

"I'm Eric," was his reply. It was thoughtful but yet distant, just as our relationship would prove to be.

The first time he called me was New Year's Day. It was getting pretty late in the evening. Mom answered the phone and told me that it was for me. When I heard Eric's voice on the line, my heart skipped a beat for about two hours. He told me about his dog and his life.

He called me, and I called him. For that whole month of January, we talked and talked. We grew closer and closer, escaping to the library (where we were sometimes kicked out for Eric making me laugh so hard!)

Some time between the night of February the first and February the second, we proclaimed that were officially going steady. We both confessed to liking each other.

We were walking together,and he started to walk very quickly. I asked him to wait up a second. He said that, if I wanted to walk with him, I better hurry and that he didn't wait for anyone.

The cruel emotional abuse was all that I could stand . I only called him about thirty doxen more times. No
matter ho extreme the [sic]

Everyone was staring at me on the ferry at the so-called happiest place on the earth. Disney World paralleled to the Titanic in that the happiest place can quickly become the worst place to be.

I called him once more. He said that he was busy. I never called him again. Months later, when I had a job at a video staore, he came in to talk to me. I treated him like a complaete stranger, but with politeness that I swould show the average customer. I looked at him blankly and said, "Do you need any help?" He looked annoyed and did not respond.

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