Sew me softly.

Sometimes. I wear my shirt inside out.
Sometimes people notice. Other times, people don't.

"Hey Sam. Your shirt is inside out.

I can see your seam."

I think to myself:

I wish you could.

A shirt can be made out of beautiful fabric. 

But until it is sewn together, it is nothing but cloth.

It only has potential. 

I wish we could wear ourselves inside out.

So you could see the things that keep me together.

Or that can tear me apart.

All we really are, are pieces of cloth strung together hanging onto the hanger

for dear life.

Hoping somebody accepts us.

Some of us sell ourselves short, making us cheaper. 

So we persuade people by our cheapness and how easy we are to get. 

Even though we are one of the most 

beautiful pieces of clothing.

Even though the hands that made us, made us with care.

We just want to be bought. 

We just want to be worn. 

Felt love.

But the wearer doesn't really love you.

The wearer loves how cheap you were. How easily bought. 

No struggle to scavenge for money. 

The cloth we once were.

Full of color and brilliance. 

Is not appreciated. 

The time taken to sew each piece together is forgotten.

Sometimes. Never even noticed.  

If your wearer wore you inside out what would people see?

Better question is, what wouldn't they see?

They couldn't judge you because of your stretch marks or birth marks.

No longer are your scratched out names painted in ink shown.

The anger resulting in scars are no longer on display.

Just you. And your seams. 

The things that make you who you are.

Whether bad or good.

Whether uplifting or disappointing.

It is you. 

You can't cover yourself up by being the most elaborate shirt, if the shirt won't stay together.

 Customers may think you are beautiful in the beginning. 

But they soon realize what makes you, you.

Bad stitches. 

Luckily in both situations there is a chance.

A chance to be the most highly glorified shirt.

You can realize your worth. 

Go to a different store.

Be bought by people who care.

The fashionista. 

The model.

The designer.

Or you can make yourself better.

Go to a seamstress. 

Receive a good seam. 

Have beauty inside and out. 

We are all the same. 

Hanging on to the cold hanger. Waiting for a warm body to appreciate us.

But.

Somebody already does.

That little girl on the other side of the glass.

Window shopping.

She sees your beauty.

Wait for her.

In a few years she will be able to drive her scarlet bug to your store

and wear you the way you deserve to be worn.

She's there. 

You're just to busy making note of other's designs and patterns to notice her.

Start looking out the window. 

Realize that girl is waiting for you.

Saving up her money.

Wait for her.

Don't go on sale. 

Don't fool people.

She's worth it.

She wants to love you.

But she can't unless you are still there when she can drive.

Imagine the excitement you would feel.

Seeing her scarlet bug pull up in front of your window.

No longer waiting.

But it was worth the wait.

The hard work for the seams was worth it.

The simplicity of going on sale denied.

Patience.

And hard work.

That's all we need as a shirt with good seams.
Because good seams are worth it.

-The girl falling apart.

Ps.

If your name starts with B

Ends with rit

And another t.

Then you my dear. My twin. My harry potter fanatic. Need to drop that AP Bio.

XOXOXO

Typing for the heck of it.

I have a fish.

It's orangeish blueish.

Well technically Lexi, Maegan, and I have a fish. It is a birthday present gone bad, and nobody likes it. So I will be selling this fish, maybe I'll earn a cent or two. But my guess is nobody will want a used fish. So slowly, the classic ol' toilet bowl flush seems like a good dance for the fish to dance. But. Probably not.

So I'm looking at this fish, and I feel bad for it. I haven't cleaned the fishes' bowl in, forever. I can't really see through it, and that is somewhat really gross. I feel as if I should clean it, but my laziness is kicking in and telling me not to. So I won't. Poor fish.

Oh ya. It has a name.

Bathsheba.

Yesterd...

Actually, let's talk about Saturday first.

Saturday was the epitome of Summer. Jonathan, Lexi, John (although he ditched us for some foxy lady that I have no idea who she is), and I went to the Highland Fling later in the evening. So we slowly became bored, and had nothing to do.

So we went to Pizza Pie and bought an Oreo pizza to eat while sitting on our little rumps and watch the fireworks. After, we went to my house and as usual, played on my trampoline. Lexi left and then Jonathan and I called this stalker girl 21 times. It was too good.

Alright. Sunday was terrible. First off, I was late for church and missed the sacrament. Do you want to know why I was late? I broke my freakin' heel. I thought that only happens in the movies! Well, surprise! It doesn't. After spending about a good ten minutes looking for black shoes I found some in my closet. Go figure. Sunday school. Sunday school. Sunday school. Let's just say it went awful, and right after I went home crying.

I do not think it is right to judge another person's testimony. At all. Please don't tell me that I am not led by the Holy Ghost when I bear my testimony just because I am a logical person. You have no idea what my relationship with my Heavenly Father is like, and that is just plain disgusting to judge it. I love my Heavenly Father. Big whoop, I'm a logical person. That doesn't affect my spirituality at all. So please don't say it is.

Toodles.

-Jay.