The Last Post

This is my last post on The Last Classic until August.

While the blog URLs have changed repeatedly, the title of the blog, and my username have remained the same. The Last Classic is my anchor. My source for comfort and advice. A place where I can tell stories, my stories.

This is the end of a giant chapter in my life. I hate change. I truly, truly hate change. But this is what I want. This Summer I turn eighteen, Heather gets married and I leave the state. I’m leaving because I want a clean slate, a fresh start.

This whole thing started for a lot of reasons, but I can’t deny it started simply because I was a kid with some time on her hands, a computer nearby and a knack for writing.

Ya’ll know how to get in touch with me – I have a Twitter, and my e-mail address is on my Gravatar profile (contact me any time!). I’ll probably comment on your blogs throughout the Summer using my other blog account, so just look out for Hannah-Elizabeth, instead of Classic. My other blog, unlike The Last Classic, is not going to be a secret from my family, so I won’t be writing as freely as I do here. I will be posting and continuing the People Who Read People series on the other blog. As soon as some recent personal difficulties have cleared up, I’ll start posting on the new blog and tell ya’ll the URL.

I’m sad. Today I’ve reached the point of no return. I hate change – have I told you that? I hate knowing how soon I’ll have to say goodbye. And I’m afraid of how scared I’ll be to leave everything behind on my own. It’s one thing when it’s all just an idea, just a notion, just a pleasant thought to escape to on difficult days. But when it’s real, when there is no turning back, it’s easy to just wake up in the middle of the night from a nightmare, and just keep looking around my room at familiar things. Over and over and over. I know that wall. I arranged the books on that shelf. I stared out of those windows for hours during the last heavy storm. And I begin thinking about how one day I’ll wake up, and I can’t look around at familiar things. I can never again wake up to the sound of my alarm and tell myself I need to get ready for church, because Heather will drive up soon to take us there. I can’t be annoyed at the sound of my brother playing his guitar at two in the morning. I will be alone, but I have no regrets.

Until August,

–Hannah-Elizabeth/Classic

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Call Me Crazy (Or, Just Call Me.)

This would be day four. Day four of being awake past three in the morning. Being awake past three because I can’t stop thinking about Josh.

I know what I need to do, I’ve been fantastically logical in my actions about the whole thing. I’ve left him alone and have decided to wait patiently until late May when I’ll see him again. I’m not a patient person, I never have been (and if I’ve ever claimed to be, I was flat-out lying,) but I’m perfectly content to be patient in this case, and restrain the constant impulse to send him a text-message every hour.

I was so restless tonight that around midnight I found myself pacing my room (my room that I had just spent an hour rearranging because of said restlessness) just thinking about him. About his voice, his face, his walk, his stare. Dozens of books from various stores and libraries lay scattered across my floor, leaving to the imagination any range of scenarios that could have led the area into a state such as this. As I walked I scooped down by one of my windows and picked up The Psychopathology of Everyday Life by Freud, I flipped it open and read a few sentences as I paced. I reread the words when I realized that I couldn’t understand any of them – not that they were no longer legible to me, it was simply that I couldn’t sink my teeth into any of them, wrap my head around the phrases, make sense of a single concept. They were just words. Just black against white. Nothing more. I tossed the book aside, making my cat jump upon hearing the slap of one book cover against another. The feline looked up with murder in her eyes for a moment before returning to her nap. I picked up another book, which ended up being French Essentials for Dummies, I didn’t even bother opening it before tossing it away, much to the fury of Abby Num-Nums. My mind sent me into a flashback, Christmas Eve, as I was snipping away behind my register (using receipt paper to make snowflakes) I saw him watching me with a tired, contemplative expression in my peripheral. I looked up and smiled, waving with the scissors still poised in my right hand. He nodded and smiled back. I thought to myself how he must like me, and went back to focusing on my task.

Just when I think I’ve pulled my mind away from a memory, I’m sucked back in. And there comes a point every half hour where I ask myself if I can make it four months without doing something downright stupid.

A lot can happen in four months. I remind myself. You might just find someone else. Then I see his face in my mind and I drop the idea. I’ve never felt this way about a guy before.

I’ve been turning over every single moment I spent with Josh, like a part of me is looking for some deeper meaning, a hidden message, something in his facial expressions I missed. Maybe a moment I couldn’t remember previously, like when you switch to Monk when you see it on the TV guide late at night and discover with an understandable dose of joy that it’s an episode you’ve somehow never seen before. But I run the idea around only to find myself right where I started. I’ve seen this episode before. Darn.

All of this to say, simply: I miss him.

But suppose he made it clear from day one that he felt the same. Suppose he were to call me now at three in the morning and say he cares about me. Suppose I’m out and about tomorrow and he walks right up and says he stopped into town just to see me. What could I do? I couldn’t do anything, because I don’t even have a silly license. We couldn’t date anyway because until I’m 18 all gentlemen must get 100% approval from Mother Madame (and I tell you now, this is not possible. So far my relationships have just happened suddenly and somehow end up private the entire time. They also all end up distant and 90% of communication is done through a digital medium.) By the time I am 18 (July 6th) Summer will be about over and I’ll be off to college, and then what? There doesn’t seem to be a window of time where it would work out. And that’s assuming he’ll still fancy me by July.

This, dear friends, is the point in time where my mind gives me the most radical idea, just to see how it seems to fit. The idea being that tomorrow I just call and say the following:

“Hello Sir, just wanted to let you know that I’m crazy about you, and that I haven’t slept in about a week because I’ve been up pacing and thinking about you. How I think it’s funny when you get annoyed, how I love the sound of your voice, how I love how you treat your family, how you know what you want out of life, how I loved the way you’d lean back against the register with your arms crossed and your head slightly tilted when you were tired, your eyes seemed softer when you were tired. I just wanted you to know all of that because, see, I miss you more than I’ve ever missed anybody in my life, and I can’t very well imagine anyone who could deserve you. Except (if I’m being honest,) me. I think this is just something you should know, because you make me happy, and I know I’ve made you happy once or twice. I suppose I hope this is a bit of a shock, a pleasant surprise, actually. Have a good afternoon.”

A radical idea indeed, but it felt nice to put all of that in writing.

Goodnight,

–Hannah-Elizabeth/Classic