Note To Self [narry storan]

i.

I flip the over the front page of my notebook... Notebook. Notebook. It's not a diary, or a journal. It's my notebook, my book of notes. Notes to myself, to be more specific.

You see, after living on this wretched earth for eighteen years, ten months and twenty two days, you learn that you need reminders. Notes, per say, to help you remember how to avoid getting in trouble, making bad decisions, getting hurt.

Call me OCD, but I've done this ever since I can remember. My notebook goes everywhere with me. And when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere. There was one instance where I thought I'd lost it. It sent me into an unexplainable rage. Let's just say, that when my annoying-ass thirteen year old brother hides my stuff, he can expect to be punched. In the dick.

I've got everything written in here. From things to not eat, to places not to go to. It's my bible, my holy grail. And, truthfully, it's helped me through a lot. Sort of.

Okay, I have lied to you. I haven't had it since I could remember. I've had it for about three years, now. Three reasonably happy years.

I got it because I got hurt. 

On one hand, I was a foolish fifteen year old boy who was as naïve as puppy, but that doesn't mean it didn't rip out my heart, throw it onto the floor and spit on it multiple times.

Guys are assholes, and they're even bigger assholes to other guys who are openly homosexual. And they're even bigger assholes when they're closeted homosexuals who have to converse with open homosexuals. And they're evenbigger assholes when you give them fucking everything they've ever wanted, you've given them all you had to give them. Your love, your time, your money, your affection- and then somebody sees you kissing in a café out of town. Somebody sees you sharing a small yet intimate moment and decides to tell the whole school. And then the closeted homosexual asshole decides that you complicate things for him, you make his life difficult. You make him lie to people and you know what? He never really loved you in the first place.

And then he breaks up with you. Down the road from school where you usually meet for him to give you a ride home because he doesn't want people at school seeing the openly gay boy getting into the car with him. And he drives off, leaving you with no way to get home, and no cell phone to ring anyone else to come pick you up.

So you walk home.

You walk for one hour, twenty minutes and seventeen seconds back to your house, whilst you're trying not to break out into sobs on the sidewalk.

And you cry to your mum about how he broke your heart, and she strokes your hair and gives you a cuddle and tells you you're amazing, but it doesn't fill that emptiness you feel in your gut. That sudden sense of loneliness. The only thing running through your mind is, "What did I do wrong?" But you're a naïve fifteen year old boy, and you don't realise that it never was you. It was him. It was the closeted homosexual asshole who played with your emotions.

So you buy a notebook. And you write notes to help you remember how to avoid getting in trouble, making bad decisions,, getting hurt.

The first note I ever wrote to myself was the one that I've stuck by the minute the pen touched the lined paper. That note has been everything I live by to this day.

Note to self: Harry Styles will break you in unimaginable ways. STAY AWAY.