Contagious Crying, Infectious Laughter.

It's my wedding anniversary. Eddie and I have been married for two years now. This one is for you, my love.

My husband has been dying to read my old online journal. I wrote it when I was a teen, but it is now completely private. Yeah, that probably makes it more intriguing, doesn't it? Well, my dear. Here you go. As you well know, I was a lot to handle back then—quirky and willful. So, I'm going to give it to you in tiny bites. Baby steps.

Today begins a series of flashbacks to an earlier me, a younger me, an absurdly aloof me. Me as a
'wounded spirit' teenager. Back when things were simpler, but yet every phone call, every glance changed my life and rocked my world. Jo: an over-emotional youth who failed at being elusive. Ladies and gentlemen...

November 15, 2004
Weirdness (n.): the ness of weird

Last night was weird. Or rather, I had a particularly weird moment that seemed to punctuate an otherwise normal evening.

As a precursor, you should to know: I need to be touched. Namely hugs, but occasionally cuddles. Usually this wouldn't be classified as a major issue. But... I’ve just, sort of recently been… well… demanding it from my housemates in very direct ways.

How? You might ask.

This evening, like most evenings, you could find me sitting at my desk, in front of my computer, a pile of homework assignments next to me needing completion... and yet I am aimlessly trawling the internet. Click. Read. Click. Tap. Bored! And to make matters worse, I have this bubble of untraceable, anxious emotion swelling in my gut. I have to get up. I need a hug, at the very least. I will go for more, obviously, but a I know a hug will hush this twisting, writhing feeling inside me.

Lindy, unlike me, is a diligent student. She procrastinates less, reads her books, goes to class, doesn't Google "the kookaburra song" when she's got a 5,000 word paper to write. Tonight she's in her bed, pillows propping her head up. She has a highlighter in hand and is reading her bio book. I walk into her room and crawl into her bed. Her navy blue fleece is wrapped around her and I, in turn, wriggle my way in and wrap it around me as well. It's shocking. This fuzzy cocoon, rather than deflate the bubble inside of me, feeds and eggs it on. This is the problem you run into when you live with girls: pheromones. They're contagious.

I whimper. She looks at me. That look in her eye. I expect a "Oh spare me, Jo" but her face falls and she whimpers too.

That's when I start to unravel. I laugh… and then cry… unsure as to which one I wanted to do more. Lindy follows suit.

I didn't come here to emote and fall apart. I came here for comfort. But now we're both falling apart like a house of straw in a hurricane. I can't stop crying, but I quickly find that making funny faces and strange crying noises seems to be the medicine that dries our eyes. Or at least makes the tears ones stemmed from laughter rather than confused, hormonal desperation.