pie for breakfast, potato salad for lunch
Last night I ate pasta, drank half a bottle of wine, shared a joint, ate chocolate cream pie, had a two-person dance party, smoked five cigarettes, and had sex three times, not necessarily in that order.
This morning I was unwillingly awakened at the ungodly hour of 7:30 a.m., prepared Harold for his little vacation to the bunny-sitter, and dug back into the pie with my morning cigarette. I then decided that the pie was not a suitable meal to begin my day, and subsequently feasted upon some fabulous mustard potato salad as a supplemental snack.
Now I'm sitting in my last class of summer school, feeling anxious to head off to
HOTlanta in about an hour. I'm going to visit Best Friend Roommate, we're gonna get krunk ATL style with a bunch of white folk.
mollys
It was March of last year. He'd been trying to talk me into it for months, and I had obstinately refused, proclaiming that a chemically induced influx of Seratonin couldn't possibly be healthy. For months it had been a battle between me and the drugs and the Xbox and a
cult of chicken fingers for his time. I realized, finally, that I couldn't compete, and so I would conform. If I wanted to spend time with him, I'd have to do what he was doing. I was desperate to save a relationship I could feel dying. And so I said I'd do it, and he smiled, and we went.
Next thing I know I'm in a pay-to-park lot in New Orleans, discreetly popping a pill into my mouth behind a pickup truck. I felt nervous and excited and open. We walked across the street to some dive bar, Polynesian Joe's or something like that, or maybe it wasn't a dive and I just thought it was because they were having some wannabe rave and there were pool tables and old raggedy couches and a courtyard with a volleyball court and it just all seemed very strange to me. And my buddy, my buddy Josh, Jesse's brother, was spinning, and for what seemed like forever but probably was only a few moments I stood in a trance and watched and swayed...but that was later.
Earlier, it took me forever to come up because it was my first time. And I was nineteen and out of my element and trying to relax, and David was aggravating the shit out of me because he was already up and wouldn't
shut the fuck up about how much he loves us all and what do we really think of him and why do I think he doesn't have a girlfriend, and I didn't want to talk about it right then, or ever. And Bryan and I, we sat on the couch and talked, and as I came up we just started talking about all this shit, and when I realized I was up it was strange, I felt so open, and suddenly, apparently, this place felt very much like home. And I interrupted him midsentence to tell him, and he understood, and we went back to talking about why we fought and what we both really wanted and how much we really loved each other, and then everyone else came over, and it was like a little party in this little seating area, but we were so caught up in this conversation we knew we would never have sober that we just kept talking. And there was this sense of urgency, like we knew that morning would come and we would come down and back to the games and the pulling and the pretending, never really being honest with each other, hurting more and more with every day that we continued in this unhealthy pattern. Somewhere deep down under all that pain, we knew that we really loved each other, even though he had a big nose and I was codependent, and we found it somewhere that night through the drugs, through the seratonin, but it was fake, because if it has to be chemically induced to really see the truth of it, it's too far gone anyway, and we should have left it then.
And the whole night was kind of like that, making appointments to talk with people, this juvenile sense of, "Dude, I just feel so
in tune with you right now," sitting in this bar with the techno beat and the chemicals flowing, trying to pretend that it's our friendship that's so deep, and not the drugs. And I think we left around 5 a.m., and went to meet Erin and her friends at their place uptown, because apparently they were just getting home from an innocent night of alcohol, but they were cool with us coming over. And I was coming down, and feeling like shit, and wanted to leave, and apparently made some comment to Erin that was entirely too honest, because she's my friend and she'd been a slut, fucking too many guys, and from what I've been told I told her so, and she started screaming at me as we walked out the door, and I was freaked the fuck out. "What, why is she screaming at me?" But we were leaving, and the sun was coming up as we walked to the car, and I was still so confused, and starting to feel shaky. I just wanted to go home and sleep, but I had work in three hours, which was a crock of shit.
And the moral of the story is, that I missed work the next day, and Erin and I didn't speak for nearly a year, and that conversation with Bryan in which all of our hopes and fears and wants were laid out on the table didn't stop us from going right back into our same patterns, our same fights, and we stayed sick until finally we couldn't take it anymore, and pushed the whole thing away. And all I got out of this was some cheap contrived talk masquerading as profound, a pissed off friend, and a day's loss of pay. Not for me, not anymore, not ever. I value my reality too highly, I'll stick to pot.
on falling
Here I go, rushing right into another relationship. I'm neurotic, and thus terrified. I've always had a tendency to want to plan everything out in meticulous detail, and the inclusion of a romantic partner in the eqution throws in all kinds of unpredictable possibilities. What if I fall in love? What if I don't? What if I don't want to say goodbye in a year, and end up dragging his ass off to grad school with me? Would that be good for me? Would I be happy with that outcome? Or worse, what if I want to embark on that adventure alone, and tell him he can't come along? Is it fair for me to throw caution to the wind and fall in love with a boy whom I know I'll be leaving?
It's just that I'm not
that young anymore. My parents were married when they were our age. I'm terrified of getting caught up in something that I'm not sure I'm ready for.
and now, for an abrupt change of subject
There's a toothbrush in my bathroom that is most certainly not mine. It belongs to a boy, who has left it there in a supposedly inadvertent attempt to mark his territory. It keeps looking at me like it wants a fight.
It's been there for several days now, and every time it catches my eye, I stop and stare for a moment. It's like a showdown between me and the toothbrush. The toothbrush knows the rules--personal hygiene items are not allowed to shack at my place. I believe I've been challenged.
I realize that it may not be entirely logical for me to consider coping with the presence of a toothbrush to be facing my fears of commitment, but I'm taking baby steps here. One personal hygiene item at a time.
Angry Girl Time
There comes a time in every girl's life when it's appropriate to grab a beer, put "You Oughta Know" on repeat, and sit down to draft a very long email.
I hope it's beautiful
Engaged?
Almost engaged. That's the word on the street. A ring has been picked out, cash is being accumulated, plans are being made. Eight months after he told me he wasn't in love with me anymore, and that despite my suspicions, she was just a friend, he's getting engaged.
Eight months later, I'm terrified of trusting myself to love again, and he's getting engaged. To her.
He was never good enough for me, and we both knew it. All of our friends knew it. By far, the most common comment regarding our breakup I've heard from his friends is, "We couldn't ever figure out why you were with him anyway." But I loved him. And now he's getting engaged.
I could have jumped headfirst into the next relationship that manifested itself, I could be making plans for a wedding myself. This is the South, I'm at my prime to make a bride. Throw a virginal frock on me, thrust a bouquet into my hands and shove me down the isle. Tell me that's what I need to be happy. It happens all the time. Eight months later, I'm single by choice. And he's getting engaged. Why am I wanting to justify my solitude?
I wanted to believe it was a rebound, it couldn't possibly last. I wanted to believe that he'd need more time than that to get over the years that we spent together before falling in love for real again. I guess I was wrong. I guess he's in love. I guess he'd moved on long before he ever told me.
I keep reminding myself that I'm better than that. They both work at
Cane's for God's sake. He dropped out of school the same week he broke up with me, and she's been saying "I'm going back next semester," for two years. They
roll every weekend.
But this isn't about them, or where their lives are going, because it's irrelevant. The point is that I've got plans, I've got shit to do, I've got a happy, successful life. I have people who love me and a bright future. I'm where I am now because I choose to be. I don't need him, I don't need a ring on my finger, and I don't need to dwell in the past.
It just would have been nice if he had taken a moment to get over me.
and every time you speak her name, does she know...
I like to move it move it
Oh how I love to dance. Unfortunately, I subscribe to the "Dance like nobody's watching," philosophy, and so for many years my idea of "dancing" was more like, as described by one quite harsh friend, "a female dog in heat." Levi, you ass.
A few months ago, a friend of mine who teaches hip hop at a local studio shined her grace upon me, teaching me how to roll my hips, isolate my rib cage, and (kind of) bounce. She attempted to teach me the Ratchet, yet failed miserably (my body just does not move that way, sorry.)
The point is, that being A)a very sexual person, B)someone who loves to dance, and C) very easily entertained, I now find myself unconsciously swiveling and rolling my hips at quite inappropriate times, such as standing in line at the grocery store. Gyrating absentmindedly to the music of my soul, I look like a two-cent ho trying to catch a date while picking up eggs and milk. Killing two birds with one stone, just my style.
four
I upped my number this morning, guys. And now I'm freaking out.
It was easy for me for a long time to say, "I don't have sex with guys I'm not in love with," because I was in love. And I think it's pretty good, with all the guys I've dated since I've been single, combined with the serious boyfriends I've had in the past, to only have a total of four. But that doesn't console me much.
It's the implications I'm concerned about. It's not that I don't want this guy as a boyfriend, I actually like him a lot and he's really sweet to me. It's just that the idea of a boyfriend freaks me the fuck out. I came so close to spending the rest of my life with the wrong guy. I'm so scared that the next guy I commit myself to will end up turning into husband material that I get all neurotic.
In the hyper-analytical perfectionist mindset I've created for myself, I can't see myself spending the rest of my life with this guy, and so I refuse to spend six months with him. Is this healthy? Perhaps not. It's not rational to require that a guy be husband material for me to take him seriously when I'm twenty-one years old.
I know myself, and I know how fast and hard I fall once I allow it to happen. I know that breakups are no fun and neither are dead end relationships. I know that I don't want to commit myself to a guy who's great for now when I'm twenty-one because I may miss out on the guy who will still be giving me butterflies when we're eighty-three.
I'm having all of these conflicting ideas about what sex really means to me and what I want and who I am and where I'm going. I don't know how to proceed from here. I'm so confused.
And this is not fun.
and I feel fine
I got a little bit of closure recently, my friends.
Someone who has owed me money for a long time finally paid me back, pretty much severing the last tangible connection between us. From here on out, there's no real
reason to keep in touch.
His new girlfriend waiting in the car, he handed me the check across the threshold. Averting his eyes, he said, "Sorry it took so long."
"That's okay!" I said with a smile, and I meant it.
Closing the door, I realized I had actually smiled without telling myself to, that I was actually more happy about getting my money than sad about ending his debt to me. I realized I'd had no desire at all to say, "Where's that diamond ring you always promised me as interest? Does she know all the promises you made to me that you've broken?" (I can be very Alanis when bitter)
I pictured him standing there, in my front doorway, and I thought, "You can have him, honey."
I'm so glad he broke his promises. They would have been poison for me, and I would have drunk them right up.
This is so much better.
inertia
There are some mornings when I wake up and cigarettes hold no appeal for me. I light up anyway, because nicotine is a quickly forming habit, and think the entire time how unpleasant this activity is for me. And yet I continue to smoke. I do not say to myself, this is disgusting, and put it out. I smoke the whole thing, miserable with every puff.
There have been relationships in my life which ceased to fulfill my needs. I stayed in them anyway, because apparently I'm big on routine, and thought every day about how unhappy I was. And yet I continued to tell myself that this was what I wanted. I did not say to myself, this relationship is no longer good for me, and move on. I stuck it out, until the decision to end it was made for me.
I fill my body with poison, deluding myself into complacency.
Objects in motion tend to stay in motion, and objects at rest tend to stay at rest unless an outside force acts upon them.
Meme who?
I stole this meme from
my favorite wino.
10 years ago...Ha, I was 11. I was madly in love with Ricky Cetrone for the sixth year in a row, furious about moving out of the house I'd lived in my entire life (to another house a whopping five blocks away), and I was convinced that my glasses were the sole reason I was not the most popular girl in school and the boys weren't falling at my feet. I was an underachiever, I fought with my sister, and I loved to read and write.
5 years ago...I was sixteen, and I was
crazy. As I've mentioned before, I did not like to be told what to do. I got my first car, my second job, broke up with the dorky boyfriend and started dating a
drug dealer. I gave my parents hell, and am frequently reminded of the karma I've got coming for me when I have kids. I was still an underachiever, but maintained a careful balance between skipping school to smoke pot, lying to my parents, working, actually doing some homework, and sucking up to my teachers, so that I managed to remain exceptionally responsible financially and somehow maintain a 3.0 GPA and score decently on the ACT. I still fought with my sister, still loved to read and write, and certainly still was not the most popular girl in school, despite my successful campaign to obtain contact lenses.
1 year ago...I was in love. I was no longer an underachiever, quite the opposite (my logic is that no one was telling me about my unfulfilled potential anymore, and so I felt compelled to excel). I was in
AmeriCorps, working 40-60 hours a week for a living allowance of $380 a month and loving it. I thought I had my husband picked out and my life all planned, and I'm so glad I was wrong. I had just moved into an apartment that I loved, and still love, and I was not nearly as happy as I thought I was.
Yesterday...I met my Grandpa's new wife, more than a year after they married (coincidentally, we're also related by blood, as she was related to my Grandma, which sounds creepy and incestuous, but it's not. It's complicated). My mom said the funniest thing I have ever heard her say, which she would kill me for sharing here. I ate homecooked food and washed dishes so I'd get to take home leftovers (I will always work for food). I talked to two boys on the phone, because I'm a pimp like that. I worked the overnight shift on the crisis hotline, and thankfully it was very quiet.
Today...I gave a presentation in my Communication Studies class juxtaposing the emotional impact of Eminem's "Mosh" and Alan Jackson's "Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning)," which was interesting. I typed this post during a pointless lecture in another class, and went to work afterwards. I have a date with
Justin the Cheerleader tonight, and will probably spend at least an hour on the phone with
Jona the Crush. (amazing how those two guys, they just never go away)
Tomorrow...I will go to class, go to work, spend a ridiculous amount of time on the internet, and probably go smoke pot with Jona. I'll sit in my room listening to music and fucking around in the blogosphere, thinking about how much I still love my apartment, and wondering how long it will be now until Best Friend Roommate comes home.
In 1 year...I will have just graduated, I will know where I'll be going to grad school, and I will be preparing to close a chapter in my life, bidding farewell to my beloved/bittersweet home state of Louisiana, my college years, and all the people I've grown to love here in Baton Rouge.
In 5 years...I'll have my MSW. Ideally, I'll be working for a small nonprofit doing life problems counseling with deinquent youth. I hope to be in love, although marriage is not a necessity at that juncture. Most of all, I hope that I'm able to find happiness in my circumstances.
5 snacks I enjoy...Tortilla chips and salsa/sour cream/fiesta blend cheese (that's right, all mixed together, folks), canned pears and cottage cheese, canned corn, Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice cream, Ghirardelli squares (milk chocolate and caramel, in case you're feeling generous. Comment that you want to send me chocolate and I'll most certainly email you my shipping address)
5 songs I know all the words to..."What I Got" by Sublime
"Bad, Bad Leroy Brown" by Jim Croce
"Boys of Summer" by Don Henley/The Ataris
"Tequila Sunrise" by The Eagles
"Your Love" by The Outfield
5 television shows I watch daily...I really don't watch five shows daily. I mostly just watch CNN, with the semi-frequent diversion to some dorky documentary channel (Discovery, Court TV, History Channel, etc.) During the season I watch Desperate Housewives and Grey's Anatomy fairly religiously.
5 things I would do with $100,000,000...Give almost all of it away.
Invest it so I'd have more to give away.
Buy a hybrid.
Buy a house.
Pay for grad school.
5 locations I would love to run away to...
The beach, any beach
Anyplace with a steady supply of Louisiana boiled seafood.
New Orleans, even post-Katrina
Somewhere with somebody who loves me
My parents' house
5 things I like doing...eating, learning, writing, holding intelligent conversation, giving my time to help others
5 famous people I'd like to meet... MLK, Clinton, Bill/Melinda Gates, Warren Buffett, Wendy Kopp
5 biggest joys of the moment...Summer, straight A's, being able to publish my thoughts on the internet, having a job that I love, being eight months out of a relationship I thought I could never live without and being happier than I ever would have thought I could be alone.
unwilling
Now I remember why I stopped.
I used to be the kind of girl who thought too much, liked too much, cared too much. I fell fast and hard, and wasn’t all that picky. It was usually the guys who were more reserved and wary of commitment. Now, things are different. The tables seem to have turned.
I’ve had my fill of hasty beginnings and dead end relationships. I’m tired of it. I gave too much of myself for
too long and saw it all go to waste.
I want something real. I want something genuine, not contrived out of loneliness. I want a guy who wants me because he’s taken the time to get to know me, because there’s nothing better than being known and loved. I want someone who gets me, and I’m willing to wait.
These guys, I don’t know where they come from. Maybe they see me as a challenge, or maybe they’re just lonely, but they freak me out. One date, that’s usually all it takes, and it’s all, “I miss you, can I come over?”
Dude, you don’t know me at all. How can you possibly miss me? And I’ve got plans. Is that harsh?
You don’t know what makes me laugh, or what my favorite things are, or how I like to be touched. And please don’t ask me if I miss you, because of course I don’t, and I won’t lie to make you feel good. I don’t know you. I can’t possibly know you. Talk to me like you’re not trying to fuck me, listen to me when I speak, act like you care about who I am as a person, and not the quality of my blow jobs, and maybe I’ll grow to care for you, and when I miss you, I’ll tell you. Trust me.
It’s not nearly as much fun to fuck with
this guy as I thought it would be, because it turns out he’s just like so many other guys I’ve dated. Whether it’s a good fuck or a girlfriend he’s after, the point is that I don’t matter at all in this situation. I could be any girl who’s willing to give him the time of day. He wants to see me all the time, he’s always texting, calling, saying he misses me, but he doesn’t listen to a word I say. He thinks I’m beautiful, and not a word I fucking say matters to him.
These guys, they try so hard to be nice to me, and I just feel cheap. It seems so superficial. Learn my value first, and then shower me with affection. Am I demanding too much?
The right guy's out there somewhere, and I don't mind waiting a bit.
having sex like a man
I fell off the wagon last night, my friends.
I decided to hell with this abstinence thing, and back to dating. I wanted a date, and I wanted one right then, like an addict needing a fix. I thought it was terribly unjust that I couldn't call up some adoring chap to take me out that very night. Scrolling through my phone, I came across
this guy, who has been calling me pretty much incessantly since we met trying to get me to go out with him, with no response whatsoever on my part.
I stopped, thought, what's the harm? I'm hungry.
I figured, if there's one way for me to get this guy back for treating me like a sex object, it's to take complete and total advantage of his desire. Let him buy me food, let him buy me drinks. Let him try his damnedest to get me to sleep with him, all to no avail.
So he bought me dinner, bought me drinks, showed a valiant effort to make intelligent conversation despite his limited capabilites (okay, perhaps I'm being a little harsh. He's not dumb, he's just very obviously trying to have sex with me).
A few hours later, I got mine--and it was quite good, might I add--stretched complacently, yawned, and rolled over to sleep, leaving homeboy high and dry. It was very Carrie-esque, turning the tables on toxic bachelors and all, and it was awesome.
I went to sleep with a smile on my face, and he wants to know when he can see me again. Oh, this is going to be fun.
will date for food
So what's been going on with me? Not much, guys, not much.
A fantastic holiday weekend, a pretty bad sunburn. Class, work, etc. It's all good.
This whole not dating thing, if you've been wondering, is a bit of an adjustment. It's a little rough, a little lonely, and I think it's good for me. Obviously, I'm having to actually keep food in my apartment now, which kind of sucks, but that's minor. I'm looking in the mirror and telling myself nice things every day, instead of relying on superficial relationships to keep me convinced that I'm attractive. Again, this is probably something I should be doing anyway.
I've had no problem filling the time, in fact I'm wondering now how I ever managed to fit in all those dates (I guess you make time for the things you want to). It's really just the male attention I miss (romantic--I get plenty of platonic male attention, sometimes from people I wish weren't platonic at all. I'd definitely much rather have a dysfunctional sexual relationship with him than a healthy friendship any day, and yes, I'm aware that that makes me a little bit crazy), and the cuddling. Yes, I think it boils down to the food and the cuddling.
What's funny to me, is that there are
two guys who just don't seem to go away. They're like lost puppies I just keep feeding.
water
I love the way it moves, the way it feels on my skin. I marvel at the rhythmic rolling of the foam. I love that I feel so infinite when close to it, so peaceful and serene. I wonder where this water has been, and how many times it's been here, how many bodies it's nourished, how many homes it's destroyed.
I lay there on the sand, sweet summer sweat. I don't mind at all. I bake, I glisten. Broiling, it's time for a dip. I love the way it rushes around me, pushing, pulling, rolling in and out. And did you know, that if you time it just right, you can ride on one of those ephemeral whitecaps? I love it.
Every time I go, I can feel it as I get near. I can sense that the ocean is growing closer and closer, until I can see the endless expanse of azure with my own two eyes. And I always have that same thought, "How nice it'd be just to stay."
And in the very next moment, always, comes the rebuttal. That if I were to stay, to make a life here, the awe and the wonder would fade, giving way to the norms of daily life. The roar--constant, unchanging, yet dynamic, a soundtrack to my temporary escape--would become an unbearable annoyance. I would hate the traffic, the tourists, the sand everywhere. The ocean would never be quite as beautiful, it seems, if I saw it every day.
And so I go, just for a little while. And as I head north away from the coast, I can feel it pulling me back. Something inside of me is begging just to stay a little bit longer. And I've got to go.
I think I like it this way, with these short, frequent visits. I've never been far from water. I grew up in a town laced with bayous, sitting (vulnerably, it seems now) right on the shore of Lake Ponchartrain. I live now barely a mile from the Mississippi, althought with the levee I often forget it's even there. I wonder how all those other people survive, living in the middle of the country, in places like Kansas and Oklahoma, so far from the ocean.
Back in Louisiana now, my skin still smells of sand and salt and sunscreen. I'm hot, red all over. It's okay. This is my favorite thing.
