Tell Me Lies

by Carola Lovering

I shiver, thinking about how easy it is to be totally wrong about people—to see one tiny part of them and confuse it for the whole…

Such is the strange reality of life at twenty-five: the newfound threat that everything—jobs, people, decisions—matters in a way it never seemed to before. Wasted time is a luxury I’m worried I can no longer afford.

As I watch this new, sophisticated version of Bree talking closely with her soon-to-be in-laws, I can’t help but feel nostalgic for the girl I met the first night of freshman year seven years ago—the scrappy, never-done-drugs, never-had-sex Bree.

nostalgia has my stomach in knots, because I remember that first night by heart.

For such a small woman she’s freakishly strong—it’s all the Pilates.

Even if I don’t want to give a fuck, even if I convince myself I don’t, I always do.

Some dominant, semiconscious part of me had forced myself to go hungry, to whittle down to nothing, and now I couldn’t stop. I wasn’t even trying to hide it.

It’s funny how so many people end up finding such comfort, even contentment, in their misery.

“How would you even know that?” “I’m in the health industry.” “You teach Pilates.”

People always talk about realizing they’re in love during the happy moments, but I think you realize it in the bad ones. The ones that knock you off center, scaring you when they prove that no matter what kind of logic is in your head, it’s what’s in your heart that determines fucking everything.

but fuck that kid. He’s a dick. And his girlfriend is a bitch, and she dresses like a lesbian.”

My twentieth birthday was in four days, the tenth of June, and I’d barely been thinking about it. I was secretly dreading it, hoping it would pass quickly and quietly.

Someone holds a gun to your head and asks you: “What do you want to be?” That, the first thing that pops into your head, is what you should be. You just fucking make it happen. If you want to be a doctor, go to med school. You want to be a writer, write something. If you want to make movies, go to Hollywood and pursue it. Just do something about it.

It’s always boggled my mind the way the majority of individuals sit around waiting for the next event, then the next—subconsciously waiting for life to end.

Even if it was just some fake feeling, I still wanted to know how “I love you” could be more than just spoken words to someone whose company you enjoyed a decent amount.

“You know what they say—charm is the ability to make someone think that both of you are quite wonderful.”

Do you follow your head or your heart? Which do you do? Your heart, always. Right? I didn’t think I would ever stop believing that.

I felt blissfully calm as an electrifying euphoria hit my brain. I felt indescribably better. I fucking love drugs.

That kind of pain was the risk for choosing to rely on another person, and reliance is always a choice.

maybe it’s just a part of growing up and realizing things when you’re ready to realize them,