The Bad Boys Obsession

.:: four ::.

.:: four ::.
.:: Things Get Real ::.

  It doesn't matter where you come from. You are who you are because that is the person you choose to be.

Its been almost six years since I lost my parents and although it's hard living without them I do the best I can to continue their legacy.

I know of others just like me thanks to group therapy, who have lost the ones that are fabled to always be there for you. An I know that sometimes moving forward is hell but you have to at least try.

The way I see it, you have to put your best foot forward or your always going to trip on every step after.

  I make that choice everyday to start off on a good step because everyday is another without them. Yet everyday there is a chance to honor them.

It's Friday afternoon, schools out, and I have no homework to finish or projects to jump start on.

Sometimes it really does pay to be a 'nerd,' in terms of having good amounts of free time because your always on top of everything.

Not literally of course you naughty minded reader.

Yet free time for me also means time to think. Time to think meant analyzing memories. Majority of these memories bring about a small ache.

An ache that eventually leads to the desire to be active. Being active only lead to one thing for me.

Cleaning.

I know it's weird but not really OCD-ish- that's nothing to joke about, but I like cleaning.

Picking up things that I usually toss aside, brings back good memories.

Its my to do- strategy when I'm over thinking. Which happens to occur a lot during the weekend, especially Fridays.

  I sat on my floor with a half full family photo album in my hands. The edges were black, the paper slightly a palsy yellow crisp, while the cover a stark white but dirty with black ashes. One single word written in cursive at the center.

Ohana.

   A simple word that never fails to remind me of my seven year old obsession with the Disney cartoon.

"Ah what I'd give to have an alien dog like stitch." I sigh to myself. I sit alone in the center of my room, clothes scatter about, my legs crossed beneath me.

"Or to at least be eight again dreaming of living in Hawaii," I amuse before opening the booklet.

  The first image, is of my parents when they were teens. A Polaroid picture to be specific, of them on their first year anniversary as a couple. 

My mother looked beautiful with her hair cascading all over the throw pillows, her smile shinning bright, her eyes closed.

My father on the other hand was well aware of the camera, clearly being the one who took it, stared directly at her.

The love in his eyes brings me to tears every time I looked at it.

I had gotten his eyes over my mothers steel grey but I got her dark hair and smile. Or at least that's what I remember people telling me. Nether which of course, matter to hinder me in terms of wanting to fit the socially acceptable appearance.