This is a story about plans, and how they usually don't work out.

 

This is the blueprint of a plan that never worked out. 
R.I.P., Dourtney.

 My friend, Haley, sent me this picture the other day. 

In high school, I half-loved a boy who half-loved me back. I remember thinking that our two halves made a whole, which, logically, should have been true. So, imagine my surprise when after ten months of angsty, pretend-to-see-the-future, miss-every-red-flag "love" stuff, we broke. Quickly, loudly, and realistically, in half.

This little number was the fatal juxtaposition of romantic ideals, teenage hormones, and the honey lipgloss song; it was the ridiculous scribble of a plot that blew up in my face. 

And, my word! How could I have not seen it coming?

I mean, please. 

Such an Exposition proves pathetic time, and time again. This one, no exception. A weak protagonist: the first downfall to any outline... non-existent rising action, and a conflict that begs the question: how many "I love you" phrases may be spoken before theirs meanings become obsolete? When does what we say not matter, and where do those words go?

I don't know the answer to that. Maybe because the meat of my story, my resolve, has yet to be found. Maybe the words for the way it all feels ran away with the plot, or maybe I've learned that it's braver to keep them holed up inside of me.

Or, could it be that the resolution isn't found in the story? Not in the plan, at all?

And so, after an entire year of trite pity parties consuming the majority of 2009, rehashing the story, searching for another step, I woke up. I put on a pair of pants, and I started a new day, sans plan.

After I realized that all we would be was unfinished, I began to finish myself, which was the only thing under my jurisdiction.

And I haven't made a plan, since.
 

(I hate to ruin the ending for you by revisiting the beginning, but plans: they don't usually work out.)