Paramore'd

On a good day, I'm crushcrushcrush. I get that I'm pretty freaking head-over-heels and I'd like to charm you into maybe realizing that you at least like me, too. A few details are off; you have no little spies (or at least I don't THINK you do), and I don't catch you looking at me all the time. You might stick by my side a lot when we're with a group of friends...but that's probably just because you realize how insecure I am. I do know that one thing is very, very much the same: I want something more than this. I want to be more than just your friend. I want us to be all alone and to tell you to gimme something to sing about.

On a bad day, I'm All I Wanted. I'm mopey. I lay on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket, watching TV. I feel like crying. A lot. I'm tired. I want to scream. I want to do something, but I also want to keep lying there and doing nothing at all. I just want to feel you beside me, even if you're not holding me or even acknowledging my presence. I just want you to be by me. I just...want...you. And that's all I want.

On a normal day, I'm The Only Exception. Now, I have to say, you're not the only exception. I'm a normal girl with her normal, multiple crushes. I've even liked a guy or two to the point where I thought there might've been some love involved. And there probably was, but I'm almost certain that what I felt then wasn't anything like what I'm feeling now. On these days, I realize what I feel is pretty strong. And I know that it hurts. And I know we're only friends. I know that you're going to go when we meet up, and I know that anything that I might perceive as a returning of feelings is just you being a good friend. I feel bad that that's all it is, but I realize that's the way it's going to stay, now and forever. You...you don't love me that way. You probably care, but only as a friend would. I'll probably never get to have that.

I thought today might be a normal day, even a good day, or a really, really good day, which I can't even think of a song title for. But, no, I see you log on and lookie there, I'm just wanting you. I'm just wanting you so, so bad.



I find it kind of funny that the one person I'd love to read this probably never will.

......dammit.

What's in a name?

(Most cliched title for this sort of thing EVER.)

Hokay. So I had this GVSU writer's camp thing. And we wrote about our names. So here's my tidbit, 'cuz, well, I liked it. :D

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Jenna. J-E-N-N-A. People usually get it spelled right without asking, but every once in a while they'll ask "with two N's?" At least everyone assumes correctly, whether they are unsure of it or not. There have been a few mispronunciations, though, like Jeena or Jenay. I fend them silly because, well, does it really look that hard to pronounce?

And then there's my last name: Crouch. You'd think I'd be just fine with that because it's a word in the English language, right? Wrong. People want to spell it with a K, they say couch instead, they think it can't be as simple as it sounds, ever. One girl even asked if my last name was "crotch" (I must say I didn't like her much after that--nor did I think her very smart).

I've also come up with a few nicknames over the years. Jenjen and Nenna are the ones that have stuck the most. I refuse to respond to Jenny because it's a female donkey (as opposed to jack-you-know-what). My sister calls me Genevieve, like Madeline's dog (don't know who Madeline is? You suck).

I know only a few others with my name. They range from ex-porn star (thiiiink about it long enough and you'll get it) and an animated husky (from Balto, of course).

I think Jenna means pure, white, and little bird. I don't know about pure, but I'm certainly white (darned Irish blood) and definitely short. And I sing, so...I guess it all fits, huh?

typey typey.

I'm a little girl who just wants to smile. I don't want to deal with my troubles or any responsibilities. I just want to be five and worry about what crayon to use next. I don't want to worry about offending this person or that person. I don't want to worry about losing friends. I don't want to deal with this. I just want to be a little kid again and be happy forever.

Smooth: Entry One.

Sooooooo. I'm attempting to write a new story called "Smooth." I'm not entirely sure what's gonna happen in this one yet, but it's set in a regular old high school and focuses on this girl, Moira (either nicknamed Mo or Rara, I haven't decided yet) and her trying to figure herself out. It's probably going to be written in a diary format, since that's kinda how I started it, and this is the first entry. Feel free to leave any comments. c:

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September 29th

I was five years old when I first thought of shaving my head.

Usually, that might not be so weird, I guess. Some kids like no hair at all, right? You see little boys with buzz cuts all the time. But, of course, I wasn't a little boy, so it was understandable when my mom had looked at me strangely and laughed it off nervously.

I didn't like my desire being laughed at, though, and started to throw a fit like most five year olds do when they don't get their way.

"Why can't I get my head shaved?" I had screamed. "I wanna be like Mr. Clean!"

"Moira, honey," my mother had said, trying to calm me down, "girls don't do that. They don't shave their heads. That's what boys do."

I frowned, but hadn't pursue the subject further. Even at five years old, I knew when to quit. And I left the whole thing alone for a long, long time...ten whole years. But I've decided to bring it up again because, well, it feels right. Why? I have no idea, little diary of mine. It just does. Just like locating an old notebook and scribbling down my thoughts did. I'm very spontaneous that way; I like to do things without much thought and because they're different. Most of my life has reflected this, from marker tattoos to bright clothes and hair dye. I've stood out from the crowd as much as I ever could. The only thing I've really wanted to do that I couldn't though was shave my head. And it really bothered me. So what'd I do?

I went out and got my head shaved, dammit.

I had just enough for a haircut saved up from various odd jobs around the neighborhood. There was a hair salon perfectly on my way home from school today, so I popped in and got it done. When I stood up, my head about a pound lighter, I gawked at all my sandy blond hair on the floor. Surely it was not all mine! It amazed me that my short bob had actually been made up of so much hair.

The stylist, coincidentally named Shirley, laughed at my expression.

"Didn't realize there was that much hair on your head, did you?" she asked.

I shook my head vigorously, shocked that there was no swish of hair. This would take some getting used to for sure. I was grinning widely, though. Finally, all that stupid hair was gone. With the lightness of my head, I also felt a lightness of soul. I 'd finally done what I had wanted to do for ten years. I was bald. I ran a hand over my head, savoring the smoothness. It felt beautiful.

I went home and went about business as usual. I did my homework and started a load of laundry like I was supposed to. The only difference was the mix of eager anticipation and worry. I was curious to see how my mother would react, but also deathly afraid. What if she took away my iPod? I wouldn't be able to survive without McCoy. He was the only thing that kept me sane most days.

But, that's the risk with these sorts of things, isn't it? You do them as haphazardly as I had, then you were met with the consequences. And I would just have to deal with them.

My mom eventually did make it home from the pharmacy, where she worked. I met her in the kitchen, which was always her first stop after a long day of work.

"Hi, Mom," I said, watching her carefully for a reaction.

"Hello, Moira," she replied, distracted and not noticing my hairlessness. "How was school?"

"Fine," I told her, still watching, "got a B- on my math test."

"Oh, good," she said absentmindedly.

I frowned, ready to just tell her I literally cut all my hair off (well, not literally, really, because Shirley did it, not I). She finally looked at me, though, and her jaw dropped. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from giggling.

"Moira...what did you do?!"

"Oh, this?" I asked casually, touching my smooth cranium. "Just decided to get a haircut is all. You like?"

At first, her expression said she most definitely did not like. Then Mom's face changed to one of complete concern. She rushed off and I heard her go up to her room.

I'm still confused now. Why was she all worried looking? I swear, I'll never understand her.

I want you to want me.

The girl was dancing across the stage, off in her own little world enough to have fun, but focused enough not to fall off it. She smiled out at the crowd, her body a little tired from this small concert but at the same time ready to go on forever. This was what she lived for. This performing, it was her life. She loved it. She never got a chance to do this in real life. She was never herself off this stage. It was just timidness, this shy little girl no one ever noticed. But now? Now she was a little rocker, ready to belt out the lyrics and make the audience scream.

"I want you to want me,
I need you to need me,
I'd love you to love me,
I'm beggin' you to beg me!"

It was an older song, admittedly, but the crowd still knew it. How do you not know "I Want You to Want Me," no matter how young you are? It's one of those songs you just KNOW and have as long as you can remember. Her voice was a little higher than Robin Zander's, but she had a way of mimicking the original singer's voice that just made it sound perfect. The band around her, made up of friends and a guy she'd definitely love to love her, were playing perfectly. They had better all be doing great; it'd only taken hours and hours in the past weeks to make this work.

"I want you to want me,
I need you to need me,
I'd love you to love me,
I'm beggin' you to beg me!"

The simplicity of the lyrics already had the audience singing along and they all looked like they were having a great time. She smiled even wider, if it was possible. Yes. Yes. This was all so, so perfect.

"I'll shine up the old brown shoes, put on a brand new shirt.
I'll get home early from work if you say that you love me.

Oh, didn't I, didn't I, didn't I see you cryin'?
Oh, didn't I, didn't I, didn't I see you cryin'?
Feelin' all alone without a friend, you know you feel like dyin'.
Oh, didn't I, didn't I, didn't I see you cryin'?"

She glanced over at the guitarist, the one she wished she could sing this to. Even if she was on stage, singing to all these strangers, she couldn't do that now. It'd be too true if she tried. He had felt all alone, he had felt like dying. She'd seen him cry, too. It wouldn't be right. As close as they were, he didn't know about her feelings at all. She'd thought it'd only make thing worse for him.

"I want you to want me,
I need you to need me,
I'd love you to love me,
I'm beggin' you to beg me!
I'll shine up the old brown shoes, put on a brand new shirt.
I'll get home early from work if you say that you love me."

This song was really repetitive, but that's what she loved about it. While saying the same thing over and over, it still made you happy and want to dance around. All the great old songs were like that. It was a surprise to her, upon more research, that this song hadn't made the charts. How the heck had people not loved this song? It was great and honest. You wanted someone to want you. You needed them to need you. You'd love them to love you. You were beggin' them to beg you. It was just this simple feeling of just absolutely wanting-needing-loving someone to want-need-love you. It was amazing!

"Oh, didn't I, didn't I, didn't I see you cryin'?
Oh, didn't I, didn't I, didn't I see you cryin'?
Feelin' all alone without a friend, you know you feel like dyin'.
Oh, didn't I, didn't I, didn't I see you cryin'?"

The return of this part made her look over at him again. She watched him instead of the crowd, an idea forming in her head as he focused on his guitar and playing. He had a rough life. Abandoned by his father, ignored by his mother. Her life with no money and a million siblings seemed perfect compared to his. At least her parents loved her. She'd seen him at his worst, when the others had already vacated her basement and practice was done. He had stayed over at her house instead of going home so many times she couldn't remember them all. She started the final part of the song, still looking at him. Despite her mind being elsewhere, she'd still managed to stay with the song.

"I want you to want me,
I need you to need me,
I'd love you to love me,
I'm beggin' you to beg me!"

Then, she decided. She started to walk towards him, the rest of the band too into the song to notice her.

"I want you to want me."

She ignored the audience and just focused on him. She sang to him. He still didn't notice and that's what she loved about him. He got so into playing that a train running right by him couldn't break his focus. She smirked a little as she continued to sing.

"I want you to want me."

Now she could feel the stares of the other band members on her. They were confused, obviously. This wasn't what they had practiced. She was supposed to do some weird-but-normal caressing of the mike stand while continuing to sing the last four "I want yous". This was too different from every other show for them not to take note. But they kept doing what they were supposed to be doing, a Godsend for her.

"I want you to want me."

He still hadn't looked up. She smiled a mildly frustrated smile and then stood so she was almost on top of him. He finally did look up from his playing, but kept his fingers moving when they were supposed to. Not a note was missed in his small part as he looked at her, trying to figure out what she was doing.

"I want you to want me."

This last line was soft, so soft that the screams in the audience very well drowned it out. But she was okay with that. He'd heard it. And that's all that mattered.


(I Want You to Want Me = Cheap Trick's, not mine.)

Post Numero Uno: Crying.

(This isn't actually what will probably go here half the time, but I feel the need to post SOMETHING.)

Crying doesn't need to be sad, no, not at all. It's just another release, another way to calm yourself down. It's just like punching a wall, screaming, or kicking a chair. It isn't a sign of weakness. It's a sign of life. You're not emotionless. You're not unreachable. You're a living, breathing person that someone can relate to. Someone that can be loved. Without showing any emotion, not a thing, how can you really be known? How can anyone ever know you? How can someone fall in love with you? That one cry in public, that single sign of "weakness", as you want to call it, could mean someone sees the real you. It could mean a new best friend. Or it could mean meeting the love of your life. So don't hold back the tears any longer. Don't hide your emotion. Let them fall and start to feel better. It can only go up from here.