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Leftovers.

 

AH! I love making so much food and having leftovers waiting for me in the fridge. I think the best meal, even better than its original, is left over popcorn. I love day old popcorn. Either that or left over pizza (but since this whole gluten-free lifestyle has taken over, I’ll spare the cold pizza for a colon healthy lifestyle.) Sometimes, I purposely make too much food so I can have left overs for tomorrow or the next day. 

 

I wish leftovers were good in other areas of life. Left over minutes on a cell phone plan usually don’t roll over. Left over money on a budget is never really spent. Left over hair dye goes unused. Left over players in a dodge ball game see the bench more than the agony of the game. Left overs are only good left in the fridge.

 

See, in relationships, leftovers aren’t really good. It’s what’s left after the original portion has been cut. It’s the piece you really don’t want but will save for a later date whenever ready. Leftovers, though they have a good intent, are not helpful, but they are also hurtful.

 

I’ve never felt like someone’s first choice. I know that sounds like every other book written by some 20-something year old author with good looks and good intentions, but I truly mean it. I have never truly felt like someone’s first choice (I mean, besides for God…). I mean, I was never picked first for basketball games or dodgeball or even for group projects in school. I’ve never been a guy’s first choice without him wanting another part of me in return. I often feel like leftovers.

 

And that’s alright. I don’t have to be everyone’s first choice. I don’t even have to be your choice. But, I want to be someone’s choice. Perhaps I am, but clearly, I sit here, sipping on leftover coffee, wondering why I often feel so leftover.

 

I’ll tell you another thing, leftover words are NEVER healthy. I often find myself making up scenarios in my head where I could tell that person exactly what’s on my mind and my heart. I have these leftover feelings and heartaches that are eroding me from myself. These left over words have divorced me from vulnerability. I replay these words, these conversations, and it leaves me upset and wearisome. I think about what I could have or should have done. I wish I could go to those people and say all these leftover words..

 

… but these words are all toxic, as leftovers can be. 

 

Words have an expiration date. Sometimes, it’s too late to say I love you. It’s too late to say, “Try harder.” It’s too late to say, “You’re going to hurt me,” even when those red flags show their head. Yet, the sting and poison of a leftover word is fatal. I’ve been burned far too many times by leftover words like, “We didn’t really want you to come anyway,” or, “I didn’t want to say anything, but he’s a real douchebag.”

 

I have all these leftover thoughts I want to say to specific people. These thoughts I want to scream from the roof tops to validate my existence. I want someone to hear what I have to say and not be pushed aside to some random post or blog or book on the shelf. I want you to listen to what I have to say for once instead of you shoving your face into your life because it’s better than mine. I want to be heard, and you are just NOT listening.

 

Leftovers are fun in theory, but they’re never good. So, I sit here with words I could have said. I sit here with words I want to say. I have to put them somewhere, but for now, these leftover words fester my heart and poison my OTHER words with deceit, malice, and shame. My heart is a bit lost and confused waiting for someone with passion to love it. 

 

I am waiting to be someone’s first pick. I am waiting to be in that starting lineup. I’m waiting to be MVP, first draft pick, multimillion dollar winner. I am waiting to actually win.

 

However, in the meantime, it’s leftovers or nothing. Do I choose to feel nothing or to feel the leftovers corroding my thoughts and leave me unresponsive to my hearts call. Where did my passion go? Oh, it’s in yesterday’s leftovers.

 

 

 

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