Something I always wanted

A few weeks ago, work sent out gift certificates to a website where we could choose something. I am guessing the gifts were around $20-$25 dollars (based on comparison shopping and the fact that the gift site didn't give much on specifics, like dimensions or electric capacity). So I rummaged through, looking to see if anything jumped out and got my attention (like I usually do). A few things struck my fancy, but I dwindled the list to my eventual choice... a glass pen and inkwells.  I had always been facinated by the concept.  I had been lusting for a set for a while, and although it was a much "cheaper" version than the ones I would fall for online... it is being eagerly awaited.  It *should* be at my door tomorrow.  I guess I adore it because I enjoy reading so much, and that words are so valuable to me.  The idea of hand dipping your pen, making sure that what you intended to write is exactly what you want to say... taking the pause to remove the excess, as not to oversaturate your page or have excess as you finish your thought.  The fact that not people handwrite anything... letters, notes, etc.  I remember keeping a lot of the notes I shared with friends in high school... I kept most of them until last year.  The pages were soft, the folds deep in whatever scrunched dimensions they ended up as while we jammed them into lockers and notebooks.  The paper felt much like cloth, warm and supple, from all the times I would open and close them over the decade.
Why, you ask, are they disposed of?  Because I impetuously thought that was what my friends had done to me.  I was going through a rough patch; a heartache, the eventual rebellion of "I'll show him... I'll get some other guy interested in me..." and utter failure.  I was not a picnic.  I was trying too hard.   I felt my friends had thrown me away, but knew it was because I wasn't the person they had grown to love... she was replaced by a bitter, boy-crazy, hurt womanchild.  I had trouble dealing with it.  So I made a promise to myself to try to heal, and get back to who I was before... even if my friends weren't there to meet me at the finish line after a year.  I tossed the notes, forcing myself to remember the feelings by not having something to remind me.  I was going to re-create that passionate teenager, and have her mature into a woman... in 12 months.  The reason all this came to mind? Someone I know (and yes, just like a lot of my friends and friends' friends... a person whose blog I read when they post) wrote something on his  blog.  I smiled when I saw his post.  Because as you can see in my previous entries, I think I succeeded.  I wish he was having an easier time, and am unsure if, since we really don't know eachother that well,  I can or should attempt to help.A mutual friend of ours said we were somewhat similar, and I remember feeling like I wanted anyone to just offer a hand.  No, I am not thinking of "fixing things" (bad habit of mine-I'll eventually post about it), just offering an ear or new perspective.  Sometimes a new set of eyes and ears can be more comforting than ones that have heard your stories and seen your pain many times.  Then again, I doubt he knows I have been passively part of his background. If I did openly offer an ear... the worst woudl be a hell no, the best, a new friend.  And that's something I am perpetually seeking and rarely find-someone similar to me to befriend.  I assure you, based on his posts and our mutual bud, we should either get along great or make an emo band.  Good thing I can't sing, lol.  But who am I to say someone needs help on their path, based on what I needed? So, for now, I am silently in the background. 
Oh, and the buds I thought left me by the wayside?  They helped, and are there... waving from the finish line as I get ready to cross.
But I do still have a lot to do off my 101/1001.  :D