You lose her when you forget to remember the little things that mean the world to her: the sincerity in a stranger’s voice during a trip to the grocery, the delight of finding something lost or forgotten like a sticker from when she was five, the selflessness of a child giving a part of his meal to another, the scent of new books in the store, the surprise short but honest notes she tucks in her journal and others you could only see if you look closely.
You must remember when she forgets.
You lose her when you don’t notice that she notices everything about you: your use of the proper punctuation that tells her continuation rather than finality, your silence when you’re about to ask a question but you think anything you’re about to say to her would be silly, your mindless humming when it is too quiet, your handwriting when you sign your name in blank sheets of paper, your muted laughter when you are trying to be polite, and more and more of what you are, which you don’t even know about yourself, because she pays attention.
She remembers when you forget.
You lose her for every second you make her feel less and less of the beauty that she is. When you make her feel that she is replaceable.She wants to feel cherished.When you make her feel that you are fleeting.She wants you to stay. When you make her feel inadequate.She wants to know that she is enough and she does not need to change for you, nor for anyone else because she is she and she is beautiful, kind and good.
You must learn her.
You must know the reason why she is silent. You must trace her weakest spots. You must write to her. You must remind her that you are there. You must know how long it takes for her to give up. You must be there to hold her when she is about to.
You must love her because many have tried and failed. And she wants to know that she is worthy to be loved, that she is worthy to be kept.
And, this is how you keep her.
Vanilla Sunshine Cupcakes! Too cute to eat! (at Cupcakes by Sonja)
I saw a sign in the window of the pet store. It read “mONKEYS fOR sALE”. The store was selling them for five cents a piece. I thought that was odd since they were normally a couple thousand each. I bought 200. I like monkeys.
I took my 200 monkeys home. I have a big car. I let one drive. He wasn’t very smart. In fact, none of them were really bright. They kept punching themselves in the face. I laughed. Then they punched me in the face. I stopped laughing.
I herded them into my room. They didn’t adapt very well to their new home. They screeched and jabbered, they hurled themselves off the couch at high speeds and slammed into the wall, face first. Although humorous at first, it became boring after an hour.
Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were on sale: they all died. No apparent reason. They all just sort of dropped dead. Kind of like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later. Darn cheap monkeys.
I didn’t know what to do. There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my room, on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It looked like I had 200 throw rugs. I had to get rid of them before my parents come home.
I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn’t work. It got stuck. Now I had one dead, wet monkey and 199 dead, dry monkeys.
I tried pretending that they were just stuffed animals. That worked for a while, that is until they began to decompose. It started to smell real bad.
I had to use the bathroom, but there was a dead monkey in the toilet and I didn’t want to call the plumber. I was too embarrassed.
I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them. Unfortunately, there was only enough room in the freezer for two monkeys at a time so I had to change them every 30 seconds. This wasn’t very efficient. I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so it didn’t go bad.
I tried burning them. Little did I know my bed was flammable. I had to extinguish the fire. Now I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys in my freezer, and 197 dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my bed. The smell was getting worse.
I became irritated by my inability to dispose of my monkeys. I was also irritated because I couldn’t use the bathroom. I punched one of my dead monkeys in the face. I felt better.
I tried throwing them away but the garbage man said that he wasn’t allowed to dispose of charred monkeys. I told him that I had a wet one but he said he couldn’t take that either. I didn’t bother asking about the frozen ones.
I finally arrived at a solution. I gave them out as Christmas gifts. My friends didn’t know quite what to say. They pretended they liked dead monkeys, but I could tell they were lying. Ingrates. So I punched them in the face.
I like monkeys.