Love and Some Verses

   My last remaining grandparent- my father's mother- died Friday night. She was in the hospital for a week beforehand, drifting in and out of consciousness, shifting restlessly, occasionally crying out to ask where her husband was- my grandfather, who died two weeks before my ninth birthday-  and when he was going to arrive. I spent that final week with her exclusively through secondhand accounts, trying to limit my intake of updates, forcing out the impulse to live vicariously through my father, the oldest of her six children, who wandered through the house, quiet and misty-eyed, physically present, but mentally a million other places. I found myself wondering every time he entered a room: Where is he now? Is he three, and screaming, demanding her attention? Is he eleven, ice skating in the backyard, waiting for a cup of hot chocolate? Maybe he's sixteen and sliding out from underneath the body of a car, begrudgingly fulfilling her request that he clean himself up before dinner. Hoping he wasn't in the hospital with her, I silently begged his memory to stretch out beyond the immediate, to lull him back to the comfort of her now-absent maternity.
   I couldn't stomach the wake. I walked into the funeral home silently repeating my mantra of detachment and distance from reality. I looked through the pictures, noticing I wasn't in any. I shrugged it off, rolled my eyes at the exclusion; it meant nothing. Pulling my jacket closed, I entered the room full of family members. I noticed my father at the casket, and felt my throat begin to close. I made eye contact with a cousin, felt my eyes begin to fill and gasped "I just need...I'll..." and stumbled backwards out the door where I pressed myself against the wall and felt my composure crumble. I raced to the car and fell apart.
   The funeral was easier. I concentrated on keeping my composure, and managed to, aside from a few stray tears. Eagle's Wings gets me every time, you guys! I can't help myself.
   It was the first time I'd been to church in over two years. I examined the pews and the altar with a sense of nostalgia, infused with a mild amusement. Mass seemed kitsch in a way I had never noticed before.
   Religion is too big. My mind has no room for it. I have a distinct aversion to anything that could swallow me whole like that.
   My grandmother was lovely and sweet. I won't say a single prayer, but I'll keep her wrapped up tight in my heart forever. That's all I've got. It's the best I can do.

Teenage Dream

   I have a confession, you guys. I think I'm a pedophile.

   Now, I know what you're all thinking: That's creepy and disgusting, and seriously, put this bitch in jail, that is so fucked up! but calm down: I'm not that kind of pedophile. I have, like, standards. I mentioned Mark/Matt AKA the bearded minors in my English class, and I've been sitting with Matt for a couple weeks and that beard is nothing to shake a stick at. What does that even mean? Is that even a real expression? Whatever, I'm not changing it. Learn to like it.

   So, aside from Mark/Matt, there is the kid who commented on my "two first names" (whose name is Adam), and I work with another 17-year old named Alex. They're fucking everywhere. Initially, I was finding myself being driven to the brink of madness, their young flesh serving as a constant reminder of my old age, until, feeling desperate, I decided it's time for a new perspective. I've interpreted all of this as the universe's way of telling me 20 is the new 40 and it's time for me to go all Cougar up in this bitch. Get out of my way, Courteney Cox. Your show sucks anyway. Seriously, have you guys seen it? It's terrible. Like, painfully bad. Why was it renewed for a second season?  I mean, think about it: They're young, inexperienced perhaps, struggling to find their place in the world during their first months away from home (or, in Alex's case, his senior year of high school, oh my God that's disturbingly young, hey maybe he'll take me to prom-) and I could be a real resource for them. I could give them a place to belong. 

   So I've spent English class mentally planning my various illicit escapades (English 102 is really boring you guys, forreal) and today we were assigned to do group work. Matt and I were put to work together with some other kid named Tyler (who I couldn't help noticing is also pretty easy on the eyes), and we got to talking. "Wow, did he just ask me what a thesis is?" I asked myself, feeling a mild sense of panic. "Calm down, Linnea," I ordered myself. "Now is not the time to be pretentious. Just think of the beard." 
   I laughed and played with my hair as I directed him to the page in our book that explains how to write a thesis. "It's like, right there!" I said, giggling.
   "Wow, I'm like, jealous of your writing ability," he said, reading my introduction paragraph.
   "Yeah, well it's my third year of college, so I have like, a lot of like, experience...with this kind of thing," I said shrugging. "So when do you turn 18?"
   "A little over a month," he answered excitedly. "I'm so ready. I can't wait to drive after 9."
   "Yeah, that'll be really- wait, what? Holy shit. Oh Christ, this is... I am old as fuck," I said, gathering my things in a mad dash.
   "Hey, do you live in Spaulding?" he asked.
   "What? I, oh- what? No. I-I d-don't live here. I don't live here. I'm-I have to go." I muttered, running out of the classroom.

   They're so hot until they talk.

Wish You the Worst

   Can I write a seething post about how bitter I am over the fact that I spent four fucking years in a dead end, terrible relationship with a selfish, lying asshole who came and went as he pleased with no regard to how I felt about it, then suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth to reappear blissfully ENGAGED to the least attractive girl I have ever seen in my entire life?
   I'm trying to dismiss it and concentrate on other things, but it's always in the back of my mind. I have anxiety-inducing premonitions of myself publicly drunkenly sobbing and insisting how much prettier I am than she is, and I've been hiding from alcohol to avoid them coming true.
   I need more self-control. I'm still masochistically stalking his facebook, hands shaking with anger, frustration and jealousy at their idyllic romance. (I almost said picturesque but, you guys, seriously, there is nothing picturesque about this bitch. She's a total ugg-o.)
   Sorry I'm whining. This post is a catastrophic waste of your time.

99 Problems

   Today started at 4:58am. I woke up suddenly, noticed the clock and thought to myself "Man, there are those crazy people who wake up at times like this and then somehow don't fall asleep! What stupid assholes! Ha ha ha! What's wrong with them? They need to get it together! Thank God I am the master of slumber! I make dreams my bitch! If sleeping was a super power, I'd be the hero of the land! Of ALL lands! Ha ha ha stupid assholes with insomnia!"
   Then I, of course, lay awake for about five hours.
   Now, perhaps there are those of you out there wondering why the hell I didn't get up after, say, the first half hour, and that is because I am really, really, really stubborn. I was in severe denial about being one of those people I had laughed at derisively and was determined to fall back to sleep. It didn't happen.
   I got up at 9:42, made some breakfast, then sat at the computer until 10:06. Then I plucked my eyebrows and gazed lovingly at my own reflection until- oh shit! 10:12! I'm supposed to be out of the house in 3 minutes! And I have no makeup on and I'm not dressed and my hair is disgusting!
   It turned out to be a messy ponytail, blush and mascara kind of day.
   I got to school at 10:59 for my 11:00 class and decided to go to the library first to print out a paper for my 12:30 class. My first professor doesn't even take attendance, and my second one is pretty uptight, so this seemed like the right order.
   I went to a computer and took my sweater off as it turned on. Then I looked down and realized there was an extremely inappropriate amount of cleavage happening and had to put it back on. Annoyed, I made a mental note not to wear this shirt to school anymore.
   When I opened the e-mail I had sent myself with the homework files attached, I wanted to slap myself. I had saved them in .wps and the school's computer only opens .rtf which I am 100% aware of.
   I then remembered it's the 14th which, aside from being my parents' 36th wedding anniversary (Congrats guys!), is also the first day I need my iClicker for class.
   Cue mild panic attack.
   I realized then I was not going to make my first class. I hate missing classes. A lot. A whole whole lot. 
   I eventually resigned myself to this and decided to make the best of it. I started calling people to see who could open the files on a different computer, convert the format and send them back. Finally finding a willing sister, I asked a librarian where to find the stupid iClicker. After telling me it was going to set me back 50 bucks, she gave me directions to the University Bookstore, which I didn't understand a word of.
   I left and called Johnny, hoping for some clearer directions. He didn't answer. I wandered in a sort of frenzied haze until I heard from the distance: If you're having girl problems, I feel bad for you son. I got 99 problems but a bitch aint one!
   "Whaa?" I found myself wondering.
   Then I noticed it seemed to be coming from my pocket. Curiously, I removed my cell phone which was vibrating and, yes, supplying the sweet sounds of Jay-Z. Apparently that's my ringtone? This had escaped my notice for God only knows how long because my phone is constantly on vibrate. Johnny was calling me back. He gave me directions that made sense and I found the bookstore.
   By 12:30, I was in class, with the required assignments. I should mention that this is Writing 102. For some reason my English credits didn't transfer and I'm being required to take WRITING 102. It's mortifying. Except there's this one bearded, nature-y kid who I think is named Mark (who is totally 17) and he's extremely hot. Anyway, he came in a bit late and started to walk towards me. I got excited that he was going to sit next to me, and then he broke my heart by instead sitting in the open seat in front of me.
  In the middle of silently reassuring my bruised ego that he was just making the studious decision and not avoiding the creepy older chick who always has dirty hair, I looked to the front of the room and saw another bearded, nature-y guy. Confused, I looked at Mark sitting in front of me and realized it wasn't Mark. It was some kid named Matt. Mark was sitting in his usual seat. I spent the rest of class trying to decide which one was hotter until the kid who sits next to me (who is ALSO 17- I'm surrounded in them) looked at my paper, pointed at my name at the top, smirked and said "You have two first names!" I smiled and said "Yeah," (I'm a first-name-last-name... as in, my last name is also a first name) and then I got creeped out by myself for having to remind myself I could literally get arrested.
   Walking between classes, I kept noticing men very openly staring at me as I passed by them. I kept rushing to the bathroom to make sure I didn't have anything weird happening, because I really didn't look so cute. Glasses, dirty hair in a pony tail and almost no makeup? Seriously guys, have some standards. And I was still wearing my sweater, so they really have no excuse.
   During my third class, I suddenly noticed a remarkably strong smell of urine. I wrinkled my nose and wondered where it was coming from, looking around me condescendingly and judging everyone for being so gross. Then suddenly I got nervous and was like "Oh my God, what if it's ME? DO I SMELL LIKE PEE RIGHT NOW? DOES EVERYONE AROUND ME SMELL PEE AND IT'S ME AND I STINK LIKE PEE AND EVERYONE KNOWS? OH MY GOD!"
   I spent most of the next hour having that conversation with myself until class ended and I got out of the room and realized I, in fact, did not reek of urine. My sweater smelled kind of bad though, I'm not sure what was happening with that. I guess I don't remember the last time I washed it. I'll have to do that. Hopefully before I wear it out in public next.

So Long Sweet Summer

   Fall is settling in and, for the first time in a long time, I'm finding myself seduced by the biting chill that has undercut the stifling heat of summer.
   I smile to myself as I layer fabrics on top of each other, reveling in the newness of the season.
   I'm grateful for the change. This is the first fall I'll enjoy at home since my senior year in high school. I'm missing the mountains I spent the past two autumns in on an entirely different level, with an aching, bitter force that leads every step I take.
   My new school is still odd and foreign. It's overwhelmingly large and the atmosphere is decidedly different from my little, relaxed Adirondack home. There's a pretentiousness I can't stomach. But I'm learning a lot in my classes, and, as I keep reminding myself: that's what I'm there for. I'm relieved I don't live there. The distance between myself and the self-congratulating student body is worth the commute.
   There are five classifications of students that attend my new school:

1. The Kid Who Wrote "AP" On All His Folders In High School To Remind You How Smart He Was:

This is the main group of students. They ALL carry bags and wear clothing bearing the school's emblem, as if they're rubbing it in that they were accepted. I get it, assholes. You go here. So do I, that's why I'm in your class. Now please stop hinting at what your SAT scores were. I don't care. PS: Mine were higher.

2. The Hot Girl In All Your AP Classes Who You Always Thought Was Real Dumb:

Aside from their presence, they generally offer little evidence to prove their intelligence.

3. Douchebags

Self-explanatory. 

4. The Kid You Always Thought Might Shoot Up The School

They're just as scary in college.

5. The Adult Going Back To Get Their Degree

Present at every school in the country, this is, hands down, the most annoying person at school. They never stop asking questions or telling stories about their busy lives and their children, which, unfailingly, are not as impressive, interesting, cute or funny as they think they are.

   Anyway, I had my first day of work, but it was all paperwork and orientation videos. I start for real Wednesday. And one week from now is my birthday! I'll be 20! And have no excuse for angst!

A Good Man is Hard to Find

      Friday during the day I was facebook chatted by a man almost a decade older than I, whom I have met a handful of times, who has always been overtly interested in me. If you've read carefully (which I'm certain you all have, right?) you will know that I am instantly put off by that. I hate it when people awkwardly stare and smile at me for extended periods of time. It actually makes me mildly disgusted. I'm sure there's something Freudian in there, but I'm not particularly interested in the psychological underpinnings of my sexual interests. I digress.
   So, he's facebook chatted me before, and asked for my number a month or so, which I begrudgingly gave him. I don't really know how to refuse my phone number to someone who isn't a stranger. I just feel like it's rude. Anyway.
   Our facebook convo went something like this:

Man Pushing 30: So, any plans for the weekend?

Self: Drinking. To excess.

Inappropriately Older Man: Want a partner?

Self does not reply.

Elderly Guy Who Lacks Subtlety: So, can I tell you something? It will sound weird in this context, but life's about taking risks, right?

Self: Uhh... maybe. I guess.

Senior Citizen: I think ur really cute :)

Self: Oh, thank you. That's nice of you to say. 

Social Security Recipient: So uh, can I ask you the same question?

Self: I'm not sure what you mean.

Retiree: What do you think of me?

Self: Oh, I think you seem very nice. But I'm... off the market, so to speak.

   He texted me that night asking where I was, and I told him I hadn't left yet but intended to go to a bar in our town. He replied that he was at a different bar, but would meet me there. I groaned in misery.

   Esther unsympathetically insisted that I agree to meet up with him, pointing out that he would pay my tab at the end of the night. I rolled my eyes and muttered something about not needing or wanting a man to do that.

  When he arrived, he proceeded to awkwardly smile nonstop at me and never break his gaze. He basically cornered me and rambled his life away for a couple of hours, told me he was going to marry me, repeatedly asked me "how crazy was it, what I said to you today?" and otherwise just generally creeped me out. I made excuses to leave every 10 minutes or so. 

   During these breaks from torture, I would take Esther into the bathroom and explain how much I hated what was happening. She drunkenly (and rather condescendingly, I might add) informed me that I needed to "deal with it" because "he was buying me drinks" and did I know how many guys stare at her and she deals with it? She insisted that I "learn to go with it." She then proceeded to bring up a few unfortunate looking fellows in the past month she has spent the night talking to at the bar in exchange for drinks. Frustrated, I insisted that I wasn't interested in leading men on in exchange for access to their wallets, and that I wanted to get the hell out of the situation immediately.

   "He's not that bad," she insisted. "He's not ugly."

   "I don't hook up with people because they're not ugly," I interjected, hotly.

   I realized pretty quickly that these trips to the bathroom were doing little, aside from enraging me further, and miserably stepped back into the bar where he would descend on me like a piranha.

   He gradually moved in closer and closer and awkwardly began rubbing my back and legs. I moved as far away as I could, but it was pretty crowded in there.

   I eventually found Esther outside and incomprehensible. Seizing the excuse, I told him we had to leave immediately and made an unceremonious departure.

   After we left, the night improved substantially. We went back to the apartment of two guy friends where she got something to eat and we all hung around laughing for a few hours, until Bobby picked me up and took me home.

   It was the first time we'd seen each other in weeks and, thrilled, I spent the car ride home basically just grabbing and squeezing him and shrieking about how happy I was to see him. He just laughed the whole time.

   When we pulled into my driveway, I took my seatbelt on, leaned over and grabbed him in an embrace.

   "I MISSED YOU I MISSED YOU I MISSSS YOUUUU!" I squealed.

   "You're squeezing my head," he replied.

   "I KNOW! I AM! I love you! Ahhhhhhh I love you so much I can't stand it! Oh, shit, I'm squeezing your head!" I released him, and he leaned back in, grinning.

   "No, no, I like it."

All the Right Moves

   Readers! I got a job! I start Wednesday! I work in a store at the mall. My father is beside himself with joy.
   I started school this week. It's all right. I'm not head over heels in love with it, but I didn't really expect to be. I think you only get that once in your life, and I had my perfect college already.

I can't really believe I left sometimes.

   Anyway, just wanted to let y'all know, I'm employed and in school. And tonight I'm going to drink too much, so get ready for a post of shame. You're likely getting used to those by now.

Almost Lover

   Well readers, here I am, tail between my legs, to confess my drunken foolishness.

   Tuesday night, Esther & I went out to the bar. We invited that guy I mentioned who liked me and then didn't like me so much and told him to text her if he wanted to meet us. Eventually he called her and asked to meet her at a store about a block away. Just her.
   I immediately began freaking the ef out, convinced he was going to tell her how annoying I am and why would she ever hang out with me, et cetera. She drunkly reassured me that this was a good sign.
   I stayed at the bar with a few girlfriends who were also there while she left. About fifteen minutes later, she texted me saying his ex girlfriend had showed up.
   Long story short: He went somewhere in her car with her while she waited in the parking lot and I waited at the bar. Already more intoxicated than I should have been, I nervously started pouring drunks down my throat with a speed that, in a contest, would have been impressive and garnered applause. Unfortunately, I was not participating in such a contest, and was actually just sitting at a table singing D'yer Mak'er really, really passionately. For over an hour. 
   Finally, Esther returned. Alone. She said he had forgotten something at home and was getting it and then coming to meet us. I mumbled something about exhaustion and she suggested leaving to meet him.
   When we did, I was wasted, exhausted and bitter about having been kept waiting for such a ridiculous period of time, so my contribution to the conversation mainly went like this: "I need to go to bed. I'm so tired. I need to go to bed." with the occasional aside about having been at the bar alone for over an hour. (I wasn't actually alone, but he didn't know that, and at the time, I didn't feel he needed to.)
   We did return to the bar, and he kept a noticeable distance from me. Esther whispered to me that they hadn't had the chance to talk before his ex showed up, and that all he had said was that he "doesn't want to date anyone right now."
   In my mental state, I took this as a personal affront and was devastated by it. We sat in the back room, the three of us, and eventually were joined by this old ass pervy guy I worked with in high school. He sat next to me and blatantly stared at my boobs until finally asking "Did you ever work at Water Street?" 
   "The Clarkson House," I slurred, dropping my head between my hands.

   Suddenly, Esther and I were alone at the table together and I felt my eyes get teary. My exhaustion and misery had collided, with this awful result. She consoled me and I managed to pull it together by the time the object of my drunken unrequited love returned. He immediately began asking me what was wrong, and I insisted nothing.

   When we finally left, he walked us home. All I really remember about this trip was making some weird comment that didn't make sense that may or may not have included this little gem: "Sometimes I think that's the reason boobs exist, it's so fucking cold."  I don't remember what my reason for the existence of boobs was, but I do recall that my comment on the weather was completely unrelated to the beginning of the thought, and I got confused looks from both Esther and our male companion.
   When we got back home, he & I ended up outside alone together, and I started drunkenly rambling about how embarrassed I was and how unlike me this was, which is true. I know you're all remembering this ridiculous night and not believing me, but really guys, I'm not usually that girl.
   This conversation I remember little of, although I do recall saying something to the extent of "I'm kind of into you." and him offering some lengthy reply about having trust issues. The thought of someone explaining trust issues to me as I was unfamiliar with them was funny to me, and I may have laughed, which I'm sure was offensive and made him think I was even more of a crazy bitch than he already thought I was.

   I eventually went inside and totally fell apart, fortunately without witnesses. I realized suddenly that I was finally upset about the engagement I had been ignoring, as well as the fact that Bobby up & left for school without so much as a goodbye. Then, when I asked him if he was coming home for my birthday (which is on a Friday night, and it's barely an hour drive), he just said "No, I don't think I'm going to do that. This was especially offensive because I was 500 miles away for his past two birthdays, and I spent whole days and hundreds of dollars on public transportation to surprise him BOTH years. (And I bought him a good luck present for the coming year! It's this really awesome hat he would have totally loved. He isn't going to get it anymore though, because seriously, dick move. Times two.)

   I woke up the next morning and went to a job interview (I've been to 3 this past week!) and then went home and wrote an apology message via facebook for my drunken antics. I tried to sound as rational as possible, and explained my lack of emotional intelligence and how feelings confuse me and I need time to process them. I went on to say that, because I was drunk, rather than contain my emotions and determine where they were coming from, I simply started guessing out loud what the problem was, and projected my unhappiness onto him because he happened to be present.

   That was over 24 hours ago. No response yet. He thinks I'm a grade-A nutjob. There goes that, I guess.

   Next?

Don't Phunk With My Heart

   Can I be honest with you guys?

   I'm taking your silence as a yes.

   I'm totally fucked, you guys. Like... completely, unbelievably, insanely F-U-C-K-E-D.

   So this guy I mentioned staying up until seven in the morning with? How he seemed interested, then not-so-interested? I haven't heard from him since the night he seemed uninterested, unless you count me writing on his facebook and him answering, but that's a little desperate, isn't it? And I am freaking. obsessing. my. life. away. Like... looking through pictures he was tagged in on facebook and deepening my infatuation ON PURPOSE. WHY AM I DOING THIS?

   He's kind of fascinating, guys. I don't know what my life is right now, but I'm pretty sure that I'm failing at it.

   When we were at the bar with Esther, some guy was hitting on her and we were standing in a group of 4 while he talked. I found myself examining at him as he stared at his drink. He glanced up at me and caught me staring at him and rather than smile (which would have been flirtatious and a bit saucy, in my opinion) or even moving my eyes to the conversation at hand, I, with a suaveness the likes of which I'm sure you've never seen, awkwardly jerked my head to the opposite side of the room to look at the wall as if there was something fascinating happening on it. There wasn't. It was an empty ass wall.

   Also, as we stood in the doorway before he left, I casually DID THE WWE DX CROTCH CHOP AND SAID SUCK IT. Yes, I do that on a daily basis, but REALLY did I have to do that the second time we spoke? Really? I did? He looked really confused and then went "Did you just..." and I hung my head in shame and mumbled "...yes."

  Seriously... If anyone is available to smack me upside the head and tell me to get my shit together, it would be much appreciated. It's badly needed.

Over the Hills and Far Away

   It's funny how long things can seem to stay exactly the same for so long, and then how suddenly everything seems to change all at once.
   Mr. Fantasy asked his very-recently-new girlfriend to marry him. I'm not that upset about it. I'm not sure if I'm still in shock or just over it.
   I stayed up until 7am talking to a stranger this week- I guess we're not strangers anymore. :) We met through Esther, who has been friends with him for years.  We talked about a lot of things- past relationships, religion (his unwavering faith in God, my lack thereof), and politics (again, siding with opposite beliefs).  Somehow we barely noticed the hours passing and suddenly the sun was up.
   I'm trying so hard to evolve, emotionally. I read somewhere that introverts delude themselves into thinking they don't need anyone, and therefore they internalize everything, and end up emotionally underdeveloped because of it. I'm certain I'm in this situation, and thus am struggling to develop more personal relationships where I feel comfortable divulging things. So, when he asked me questions, I answered them. For the most part.
   When he tried to share my bed in the morning, I shrugged apologetically and got up. He left, after a few embraces, and went home.

   Last night I saw him again and he seemed a lot less interested. Naturally, this caused me to be maddeningly attracted to him. The more standoffish he became, the more fervently interested I became, and at the end of the night when he went home, I went to bed in a frenzy of restlessness and laughter, peppered with self-loathing.
   I was hoping the infatuation would have worn off by the time I woke up this morning, but no such luck. All day I've been wandering around dizzy, barely able to stop smiling for longer than a minute at a time. I'm stumbling around like a damn fool.

   He'll get a name if he comes to deserve one.  So... new beginnings, anyone? :)

We're Going to be Friends

   I believe that everything you consume with an open heart changes you. Some things, like love, come in like an explosion, destructing and rebuilding you from the inside out. Others creep in more quietly, gradually tugging at your mind or heartstrings, softly making room for themselves and letting you adjust to them.
   I have had the tremendously good fortune in my life to have had multitudes of such experiences. I've stayed up all night talking to people and walked away imagining I had a different mind, feeling their ideas whirring around in my head, brightening mental corridors I hadn't known were there. I've had countless books and albums recreate me in the days, hours and years I've spent absorbed in them.
   Here are some of them:

BOOKS

ISHMAEL - DANIEL QUINN

STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND - ROBERT A. HEINLEIN

A TREE GROWS IN BROOKLYN - BETTY SMITH

LIFE OF PI - YANN MARTEL

SOMETHING HAPPENED - JOSEPH HELLER

THE STRANGER - ALBERT CAMUS

MEMOIRS OF A GEISHA - ARTHUR GOLDEN

1984 - GEORGE ORWELL

ALBUMS

THE WALL - PINK FLOYD

LONDON CALLING - THE CLASH

AUGUST AND EVERYTHING AFTER - COUNTING CROWS

THE SPARROW AND THE CROW - WILLIAM FITZSIMMONS

THE MOON AND ANTARCTICA - MODEST MOUSE

GRACE - JEFF BUCKLEY

MOS DEF AND TALIB KWELI ARE BLACK STAR - BLACK STAR

THE CLARENCE GREENWOOD RECORDINGS - CITIZEN COPE
ONE OF THE BOYS - KATY PERRY

MOVIES

DAZED AND CONFUSED

ALMOST FAMOUS

INTO THE WILD

PARIS, JE T'AIME

LAST DAYS

THE LIVES OF OTHERS

ONCE

THE PRINCESS BRIDE

   Also, every book Kurt Vonnegut's ever published, many more by Joseph Heller, and the TV show West Wing.

    What are yours, readers?

Love Will Tear Us Apart

    I've been reading a lot of poetry blogs lately, and while I don't write all that much poetry anymore, I figured what the fuck.  I just found this. I think I wrote it in October.

You're the best thing that ever happened to me
You showed me how to be ruthlessly mean
You lent me sweetness and love gone insane
I just want to warm you a little with flames.

You are the brightest light in my life.
I'm delighted to be your submissive wife.
I just want to absorb all your beautiful pain
and suffer the weight of your endless disdain.

You are the happiest time in my day,
When you get home and display your dismay.
I've never been so enraptured before
as you sulk and you sigh and you punish me more.

You are my favorite thing in the world.
My love for you deepens with each strand of pearls
Hanging so delicate, lovely and loose
White, cold and breathless, so fragile a noose.

Being with you is like warmth from the sun
May our days together never be done.
Scowl and hiss and mutter I'm plain
As my sweet, stealthy bullet gets lodged in your brain.

   

On the Night my Love Broke Through

 The anxiety starts early in the evening and I attribute it to my typical disillusionment with the conundrum I find myself in; I am close to constantly uncomfortable with how much or little I am being noticed at any given time, alternating between feeling oppressed and neglected by the microscope I struggle to keep myself under. I stumble so haphazardly the line between overexposed and attention-starved, often feeling I coexist in these extremes, never knowing which I feel more alienated by. Overexposure has the appeal of insincere company; being routinely assaulted by recognition, be it over-indulgently affectionate or bitterly distasteful, while neglect has the sincerest of companies; a kindred loneliness, a silent camaraderie, solidarity in commonness, anonymity, mediocrity. They're both such a relief and such a burden at the same time. I can't find a balance. I drown myself in hyperbole.

   Anxiousness manifests itself firstly as a thin line from the top of my pelvis to the back of my throat, darkly pressing itself against the inside of my neck, making it an effort to swallow. As it thickens, I pull myself in, limb by limb, employing my typical defense, contracting, withdrawing. I compose myself carefully, pulling my shoulders up and backwards, raising my head, centering and tightening my posture, trying to silently soothe my shaky breaths with syllables I always find reassuring; grace. composure. femininity. power. delicateness. tastefulness. I try to exhale the negativity, but I can't seem to expel it. I can't find its source, and that gives it a strength I'm not prepared to battle with.

   As the night continues, so does it, in varying degrees, intensifying in the moments when I find myself away from him, which is so puzzling. I've never been so unsettled by his absences, particularly not when they're this brief and harmless. 

   It starts gnawing away at me, and I'm suddenly confronted by something I've been shoving into the distant future for years. It's like I've discovered a gap in my armor- a vulnerability- and the honest mistakes of a couple of strangers have stabbed it directly. 

   Lying awake, alone, I'm paralyzed. Anxiety becomes terror, infiltrating my body from the chest outward. I am unexpectedly aware of feelings that threaten to inundate me like a tidal wave, from the inside out. "I haven't felt anything like this since I was fifteen," I find myself thinking, nervous, scared, frantic. 

   When I wake up in the morning, it's still there, and throughout the day it thoroughly permeates my mind, dragging me to the keyboard and drafting confessions I remain deeply afraid of.

   I'm sorry, I know this is cryptic, but I don't know if I'm ready to admit any of it to myself yet. If this turns out to be real, I'll quickly find myself unable to suppress it and honestly, I think we'll be the only two surprised.

Worthwhile

   And finally...

The Mailman Part IV: Dinner Part II

   We take our seats at the table as Arlene pours us each a glass of water and a glass of wine. The Mailman sets our salads at our places and we begin to eat. They're... delicious. Like really, really delicious. There's this crazy-good dressing and mounds of creamy goat cheese and all sorts of fabulosity happening. (I may or may not have been watching Kimora: Life In The Fab Lane the entire time I've not been blogging.) I eat delightedly, both at the unexpected deliciousness and the excuse for silence. Until...

   A cat approaches. The Mailman immediately begins a full-fledged conversation between himself, me and the cat. It's requiring a level of conscientiousness I usually lack to keep from dropping my fork. 

   "Pet me!" he purred/squeaked. 

   "I, uhh... Uh, I... eating. I'm... I'm eating. So... right. Yeah. Later," I stutter out.

   "Daddy pets me while he's eating!" the Mailman's cat insisted.

   I smiled awkwardly and shoved a giant forkful of lettuce into my mouth to avoid answering.

   May I add here that my expertise on which fork to use for what originally came from the movie Titanic? Because it totally did. Thanks, Kathy Bates. Anyway. The main course arrived on the table and consisted of chicken in a wine/mushroom sauce, pasta in a basil pesto, rolls and a corn casserole. The Mailman loaded up everyone's plates, ignoring our insisting that we had plenty; "You need more than that!" he hollered, piling on the food. The dinner was equally delicious.

   A few bites into the pasta, the Mailman's face went sour.
   "It's too dry!" he hollered, and sprinted out to the kitchen, returning with a bottle of extra virgin olive oil. He then poured it all over his own serving, then moved on to our individual plates.
   "Oh, no thank you-" my mother began, as he coated her plate in oil. I sat silently, accepting my greasy fate.
   When he got to Arlene, she covered her plate with her hands and asserted "No thank you. I don't want it."
   "You need it," the Mailman insisted, drizzling it over her hands a bit.
   "Well, I'm not going to have it," she stated, calmly.
   Very obviously disgruntled, but aware that he'd been bested, he shrugged and set the bottle down.

   We sat at the table making small talk and things started to seem more... normal. After dinner, we cleared the plates and everything was ordinary. Until...

   Arlene and I were put in charge of scraping plates. Background: Our local newspaper comes folded in a small, orange plastic bag. The bags generally aren't suitable for any other purpose, as they are designed specifically for protecting newspapers from rain and snow.  The mailman handed us one of these orange bags and requested that we put the discarded food inside it. We looked at each other confusedly and fumbled through the task, awkwardly stretching the bag to dangerous angles and trying to avoid making a mess. 

   "Don't you have another bag, sweetheart?" Arlene asked.

   "No," he answered. "Well... I do. But that's the one I want you to use."

   Looking at me with a slight smirk, she remarked, just loudly enough, "It looks like we got the hardest job."

   In a bold step outside my comfort zone, I... forced a smile and laughed awkwardly. 

   The Mailman then escorted us to the front door to teach us to use his security system. After giving us an unnecessarily thorough explanation of the process, he proceeded to punch in four numbers and open the door. I nodded, affirming my understanding. Arlene completely froze.

   "I... don't think I'm going to get that. I... I don't know, it's a lot of technology. I don't understand it, I just don't! I won't be using it," she insisted.

   "Well, you have to," he answered bluntly.

   "Why don't you try it?" I offered, sympathetically. I then walked her through it a few more times, until at last she proclaimed

   "Why that's easy!"

   I smiled and turned to walk back to the room my mother was in, when he stopped me to show off his picture of Obama's inauguration. I expressed my genuine appreciation for it and it seemed to satisfy. I again started to leave the room when he stopped me again to ask who I had voted for. I told him proudly that I had traveled 23 hours to cast my vote for Obama and he smiled broadly and launched into a speech about the election.  Arlene eventually interrupted him to tell a story of her own. I don't remember it verbatim, but it consisted of her car breaking down on the side of the road, her husband being unable to fix it and a crazy-seeming man pulling over abruptly and fixing it for them. She explained that he had terrified her, as he had essentially stormed their car with a giant toolbox and fixed it with no explanation. They weren't sure what he was doing, and considered his murdering them a real possibility until he finished and explained to them that Jesus had ordered him personally to drive up and down highways helping people with car troubles.

   "You'd think Jesus would have mentioned that he ought have some decorum," I added, smirking snobbishly, and basking in my own wit. The Mailman and Arlene stared blankly at me in silence until I turned and led the way back to our mothers. 

   We then spent about 45 minutes sitting in the living room having a lively conversation, much of it centered around Jon Stewart and how wonderful he is. I finally spoke up, mentioning I had a paper due in the morning.

   "What's it on?" the Mailman inquired.

   "Eng-Psy-The History of Economics in the United States," I stuttered out, desperately. The room nodded and my mother and I returned to the car and drove away.  About a minute and a half into the drive, we burst into hysterical laughter and didn't stop until we reached home.

My Best Friend

A friend is a person with whom I may be sincere.  Before him I may think aloud.  I am arrived at last in the presence of a man so real and equal, that I may drop even those undermost garments of dissimulation, courtesy, and second thought, which men never put off, and may deal with him with the simplicity and wholeness with which one chemical atom meets another.  

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

A friend is someone who lets you have total freedom to be yourself.

- Jim Morrison 

   I'm not sure why I'm feeling sentimental enough for this blog post, but evidently it is so. Friendship is delightful, isn't it? 

   I've been negligent, and I'm sorry my beautiful readers. Your presence and readership means a great deal to me. I will be back with you soon, I promise.

Keep the Car Running

   Now,  for the third installment of the mailman saga!

The Mailman Part III: Dinner, Part I

   The drive to the mailman's house is mostly silent. My mother fills gaps in the twenty minutes with alleviating anecdotes about the scenery we pass. I sit paralyzed by dread. Anxiety I have managed to ignore for days begins slowly overwhelming me. My only consolation is that I know how fucking hilarious this is. I try to focus on that, but the immediacy of the situation makes it harder to swallow.

   We pull in the driveway and approach the door, a bouquet of flowers in hand. Noting the sign that says the doorbell is broken, we knock. After a minute or so, the mailman appears. He is out of breath. And sweating. A lot. Like... a whole lot. I'm not sure if I'm communicating this to you adequately. This man is panting, beet red and accompanied by a fuck-ton of sweat. Sweat is literally pouring from him; his face does not glisten with a few mere beads. Sweat instead floods from his hairline like rain. He is really, really, really fucking sweaty.

   Our first step into the house is shocking. The smell of cat hits like a freight train. Literally. We stumble in, gripping each other for support, struggling for oxygen. This house smells like you tied a cat around your face and wore it as a surgical mask. And I've told you that I don't fucking like cats, right? I mean, I know I said awhile back I wanted to adopt one but I was obviously out of my damn mind that day. 

   "Where's Jerome?" he bellows. (Jerome is my father's name.) 

   "He was caught up at work, unfortunately," my mother explains. 

   "OHHHHH NO!"  The Mailman bellows. "My mother was really looking forward to meeting him."

   We follow him to the kitchen, where his mother is sitting. We head into the living room together while he remains in the kitchen. My mother and I sit alone and look around.

   "I've never seen so many cat figurines in my life," my mother whispers. 

   I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Seriously guys, there are hundreds. Every surface in the house is literally covered in cat figurines. They line windowsills, fill tables and cabinets and stand single file against walls. Porcelain, china, bronze, painted, wire sculptured, stuffed animals, figurines and everything in between. Everywhere you look is another multitude of cat figurines to digest. 

   Even Christmas Cat thinks The Mailman is craycray.

      After a few moments of silence, The Mailman's mother joins us, accompanied by the other guest: Arlene. Arlene is a seventy year old resident of our town who will be caring for the cats the first week The Mailman + his mother are gone; I'll be taking the second. We sit together and make surprisingly pleasant conversation. Arlene and The Mailman's Mother are as socially graceful as my mother and they maintain an impressive fluidity, despite my random, ill-timed and awkward interjections.

   The Mailman's Mother informs us that she knew my paternal grandfather's family; all four of his siblings, in fact, though she had never met my grandfather himself. 

   "I knew I'd be able to tell as soon as I saw him," she says, of my absent father, on whether or not he was descended of the family she had known. "They all had very characteristic features... those prominent blue eyes," she explains, slowly.

   "It's funny, all five of my sisters have my dad's blue eyes, but I have my mom's eyes," I blurt out, weirdly, forcing a laugh. The room smiles and nods before moving on to a new topic, and I sit stewing in shame for having spoken at all.

   At this point, The Mailman rushes out of the kitchen to join us. He stands in the middle of us, wiping sweat on his apron, huffing and puffing. He introduces me to two of his four cats, telling me their names. I smile uncomfortably and say hello to them. What happens next nearly knocks me to the floor.

   "I'm a Princess," The Mailman rasps in a high-pitched feminine voice. "I think I can do whaaaaateeevvvverrr I want!" 

   "Yes, of course you are. You're so beautiful and spoiled!" he coos back to the cat in motherese. "Daddy loooves you soooo much!"

   "Hey, what about me?!" he cackles in a similar but decidedly more masculine voice. "I'm a Prince! Feed me already! I love to be pet! I'm so spoiled and wonderful!"

   "Of course you are," he answers back, nuzzling the cat.

   I observe in horrified silence. I lack the ability to react whatsoever. It takes every ounce of strength not to dissolve into a full-scale emotional breakdown. Fortunately, the need for a response is eliminated by The Mailman yelling.

   "OH NO!" he hollers, sprinting full speed back into the kitchen.

   His mother then resumes the conversation and goes on to tell us about her recent hip surgery, but it's hard to concentrate with the sounds I'm hearing from the kitchen.

   "GODDAMNIT DON'T BE BURNED, OH SHIT, NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO, WHAT THE HELL OH NO OH GODDAMNIT PLEASE NO, DAMN IT, GODDAMN, DON'T BURN, NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!" 

   The shouting and swearing is accompanied by the deafening sounds of pans crashing and clanging. "I can't laugh, I can't laugh, this isn't funny, I'm not allowed to laugh, my Mom will be mortified if I laugh right now, it would be so inappropriate and unacceptable and rude!" I mentally scold myself.  After a few minutes of this, he returns to the living room.

   "Was something burning?" his mother asks, calmly.

   "Yes. but it was just a little bit of garlic. I started it over," he explains.

   "Can I help you with something?" Arlene offers.

   "Well, I would certainly like some company," he answers, heading back into the kitchen.

   She totally ignores this.

   That exchange is repeated a dozen times before dinner is served, and she ignores his request every. single. time.

  

   He makes multiple trips between the kitchen and living room, each time complaining that his pants are falling off. Arlene suggests a belt or suspenders every time, and he brushes off the solutions, choosing instead to continue with complaints.

   Finally, he announces we should move to the dining room table, as salads are about to be served.

Wrong Thing Right Then

   This is going to be brief, I just have another anecdote about the mailman: I was camping with Bobby's family for Memorial Day weekend and the Mailman came up in conversation. Bobby's father, whom (It is whom, right? I'm not great with the who/whom thing) we refer to as the Ultimate Mystery and essentially worship, told me this:
   The mailman greeted him one morning and asked if his kids were off to college. Ultimate Mystery told him that Bobby's away in college and his sister is going away next year. He was about to add that his youngest hasn't started high school yet, when the Mailman interjected with "Well, you'll have a lot more time to chase your wife around!" The Ultimate Mystery stood in awkward silence for a moment, and the Mailman immediately repented.
   "I'm so sorry, was that inappropriate?"
   "Well... a little," Ultimate Mystery replied.
   The Mailman proceeded to apologize profusely, leaving the Ultimate Mystery to deduct that people had complained about the Mailman in the past and further complaints would put his job in jeopardy.

This is a picture of Bobby over the weekend in the middle of a game of Dizzy Bat.

I'm putting up one of him because I don't have one of his dad.

Nobody's Fault But Mine... and my Mom's

...Mostly My Mom's

   I'm sure you've all been quivering with anticipation (My college roommate was right, I should REALLY write erotica!), just waiting for me to continue with the mailman saga. The day has come, readers! We return to My Life is A Joke, to bring you the next installment of The Mailman.

The Mailman, Part II: Bad Moon Rising 

    Very shortly after I moved back home, which I'm certain you all recall, as we here at Endless Contradictions are nothing if not attentive to detail, was last December. What? You guys don't remember that at all? You forgot I ever lived anywhere other than my parents house? So did my parents! They're all "When are you getting a job? Are you planning on moving out any time in the foreseeable future? Could you at least watch Youtube clips in your room with the door closed? Fine, stay on the couch, but could you turn the volume down?" And I'm like "WHY DON'T I JUST MOVE BACK ACROSS THE STATE AND GO BACK TO JUST TALKING TO YOU GUYS ON THE PHONE?"and they're like "No, please God no, those phone calls were unendurably long and boring! Did you really think we cared about what you learned in your Women's Studies classes?" and I'm like "THAT SHIT WAS FASCINATING!" and then I turn the volume on my laptop up really, really, really loud to drown out the sound of my own failures. Anyway, the point is, back in December the Mailman mentioned to my mother that he and his mother were going on a cruise in the spring and asked if I would take care of his cats while they were out of town. Pause: I. Hate. Animals. I know they're fuzzy and soft and loving blah blah blah but they stink and are annoying and frankly, they can suck it as far as I'm concerned. I like looking at animals from a distance, not sharing a bed with them. I do like specific animals, like Bobby's dog and our duckies, although I'll admit I can only play with them for about a minute and a half before I get bored and creeped out. I'm not an animal person in the least bit. My mother responds that "maybe" I would be interested. When she asks me about it, I reply with a firm, absolute no. "There is zero chance I will ever do that in my life. Helllllllllll no," I answer, and promptly forget the conversation has ever occurred.

   If only me forgetting about something meant I wouldn't have to deal with it! Speaking of, there's tons of shit I should be doing right now instead of blogging, but ehhh... So, suddenly it's spring and the cruise is fast approaching, and The Mailman simply informs my Mother that he will be having myself and both of my parents over for dinner on Thursday to "introduce me" to the cats.

   Upon receiving this news, I unleash the moody bitch. My mother is all apologies (10 points for Nirvana fans!) and I start sighing repeatedly and refuse to make eye contact with anyone. I'm still a teenager for four months guys, let me get it out of my system while it's still socially acceptable! I leave for the afternoon and upon returning, apologize to my mother for my ludicrous behavior. "I mean it's... honestly, it's totally hilarious," I confess, and suddenly she and I are in laughter-induced tears, totally unable to breathe for a solid five.

   As the days pass, my dread for Thursday grows from a slight nag to the smoke monster from LOST. (Speaking of which... I don't even have words. I'm in deep, deep grief, guys. I don't know if I'll ever be okay again. Why why why did it have to end?!)  I complain ad nauseam about the cruelty of my fates to anyone who will listen, and anyone who will blatantly not listen and repeatedly beg me to shut up. My father keeps insisting that it "at least will be a story we can tell for years!" He then adds, optimistically, that he "could turn out to be a wonderful cook!" and it might "be a great time!" I shake my head lethargically, emphasizing the single tear sliding down the left side of my face. Okay, okay, so there wasn't a single tear. But it made the story better, didn't it?

   I spend Wednesday night awake in bed, sighing loudly to myself, lamenting miserably my unbearable misfortunes. LOST is ending and I still can't find a job and I have to have dinner with the mailman?! And I don't even know where I'm going to college next semester! Why me? What's going to happen to Sawyer? Why can't they just have one more season? What am I going to do on Tuesdays? I eventually fall asleep, but The Mailman keeps interrupting my Josh Holloway dreams right before they get good (Yeah, that is what I mean, you gutter-minds!) to make sure I have his vet on speed dial!

Don't tell Desmond, but I'll miss you the most, you beloved incarnation of sex appeal, you.

   Thursday morning, my father "realizes suddenly" he has "a lot of work backed up" and "won't be able to make it." Which leaves just me & Momma to face dinner. 

There would be the creepy LOST animation & music playing right now, If I knew how to do that.

Love Always Remains

These people used to define my daily life.

So Far Around the Bend

   I'm thinking of sort of reworking the general concept of this blog, which is essentially a collection of verbose lamentations on my failed/failing relationships, because that's not really entertaining or something people want to read about it. My life is actually pretty outrageous and should be documented as such, rather than being all whine, whine and more whine. So, my pledge to you dear readers, is that I will do my best to be less annoying and emo. I've decided to start including a segment I'm going to call "My Life is A Joke." Here is the first installment.
   A temporary break from your regularly scheduled programming of whining about dysfunctional relationships, to bring you a saga called The Mailman.

The Mailman, Part I: An Introduction

   My mailman is insane. Seriously, guys. He's nuts.

    Many people have two doors; a heavy door and a thinner door, often with a screen, so you can leave the bigger door open in the summer months to allow air into your house. Unless you're into air conditioning, but I'm not. If you choose to leave your door open, the mailman takes this as a personal invitation to enter your house and announce his presence. Very, very, very loudly. It usually goes something like this: "GOOOOOOOD MOORNINGGG! HELLLLLLOOOO! IIIII'VE GOT YOOOOOUR MAAAAAAIL!" 
   I can't tell you how many mornings I have woken up to the sound of his hollering. Yet somehow you never get used to it or expect it; every single time you hear it is as terrifying as the very first

   He's 62 years old and stands about 5'5''. This is two years and four inches beyond my mother. Whenever he sees her, he holds his arms wide open and yells "WHO'S THE CUTEST MAILMAN IN TOWN?" My mother, God bless her and her social graces which I wish I had inherited, smiles politely and assures him "It's gotta be you."

   My town has about 2,000 people in it, and probably 1,900 vote Republican. Maybe a slight exaggeration, but you get what I'm saying. I'm surrounded in old white people who spend their winters in Florida and their summers on sailboats in the river my town is on. Have I ever mentioned I live by the river? (10 points if you now have "London Calling" in your head!) 
  So, I mention this because the mailman is a rabid Democrat.Which I understand, respect and appreciate. I spent 23 hours on public transportation to vote for Obama, okay? I'm as hardcore Left as they come. But the mailman is something else entirely.

   The day after the 2004 election, I wore all black to school. I was 14 and "deep" and "taking a Political stand," as if Bush himself was going to hear that a freshman in high school dressed kinda goth for a day and would resign or something. Whatever, I was weird. Anyway, the mailman went a little further than I did.

   He ran into my mother at the bank that day, and essentially lost it. He knows we're Dems because he delivers our mail and sees the type of things we subscribe to. Feeling a disillusioned (and seriously misplaced) camaraderie, he began to express his disgust with the election results, which very rapidly escalated to a point where he was, as she puts it, "screaming, spitting and foaming at the mouth." At the bank. In front of everyone. In our 90% Republican town.

   Now my mother is a classy lady. She is nothing if not demure. She stood, absorbing his dementia, mortified and desperately seeking an escape. Granted, she was pretty disgusted with the election results herself. But she was far too dignified to spit all over people's faces about it.

 

This is the river I mentioned.

  

   One time, while on his route, the mailman made Bobby come to his truck and carry a package to an address down the block, claiming it was "too heavy"  for him. Bobby was about 17, and while he's over 6', he was skinny as a rail- as he said yesterday, about an old picture of us, "I look like a lanky cricket man here... That was my look back in the day."  He did this with such nonchalance, I can only assume that it isn't out of the ordinary for him to recruit teenagers to perform his mailman duties for him.  And the funny thing is, Bobby says the package wasn't heavy at all.

 

This is the "lanky cricket man" picture he was talking about. And yeah... a little. 

By the way, we were 15 in this picture if anyone's keeping track.

   My sister's boyfriend, his brother and his father run a landscaping company. They're called Triple H Landscaping. If you're in the area, hit 'em up! Hooray family businesses! 

   I mention this, because they are employed by the mailman. He routinely invites them in for meals while they are mowing his lawn, and they routinely politely decline. One time, he ran out into the front lawn in tighty whiteys and yelled "WHO WANTS SOME SAUSAGE?" Understandably taken aback, they all stood in awed, miserable, confused, awkward silence for about 30 seconds until he continued with "I'M THROWING SOME SAUSAGE ON THE GRILL, WHO WANTS SOME?!?!?!"

   Once the mailman simply set an extra place at the table and informed my sister's boyfriend's brother he would be having dinner with them. He sat at the table, dumbfounded, listening to the mailman bash and clang things around in the kitchen, swearing loudly the entire time.

   Now, I know it's 100% anecdotal, but is that enough evidence to convince you of his madness?

   Oh no, I'm noticing something alarming, and I feel compelled to make a list about it:

Things The Mailman & I Have In Common:

           1. We are 5'5''
           2. We live with our mothers

           3. We are passionate Democrats

           4. We have flipped a shit on my mother about some crazy shit that is in no way her fault

           5. We make Bobby carry shit for us, claiming it's "too heavy," when really, we just don't feel like doing it ourselves. 

           6. We don't think twice about going in the front yard in our underwear

           7. We have shared meals with the owners of Triple H Landscaping

   This saga has taken a turn I'm not sure I like..... But I'll still finish it.

As Lovers Go

   Last night I (very!) unexpectedly heard from an ex; the last on my list of favorite first kisses, which was maybe the most perfect first kiss I've ever had. I guess now he needs a name; I'll call him Dear Sergio.
  We met and walked through the streets of our silent little town, eventually settling on opposite benches in the park, catching up and reminiscing simultaneously.
   "Remember when we just walked up to those random kids and lay down next to them over there," I asked, pointing to a large cement circle that serves as a fountain in the summer months.
   "Yeah, that was... Why did we do that?" he asked, and we both laughed.
   "Remember when you used to break into my car during soccer practice and take pictures of yourself wearing my clothes and send them to me?" he asked, smirking.
   "Yeah, that was awesome." 
   "No wonder I had to start locking my doors," he said, laughing, and then added "Actually, I still don't."
   I immediately began plans to sneak back into his little red car and do it all over again, before remembering he's dating someone else. They got together three days after we broke up, almost two years ago. Ouch, right?  But I understood. I was shady and scared and secretive. We were young. I was leaving for school, moving 500 miles away at the end of the summer. Our relationship was as temperamental as the constant thunderstorms we had that summer; furious, fleeting, recurring. We spent hours in each others' arms, watching them, quietly absorbing our beautiful reflection. Until he found someone who would hold his hand in front of people. Someone willing to change her relationship status on facebook. Someone who could fall in love with him. Who did.
   "A lot of crazy stuff has happened in this place," he said, motioning around us.
   "Yeah... I think I threw up on you here somewhere," I admitted.  He laughed with his typical good nature, and pointed out the place where it had happened. (I've never understood how he had any interest in dating me after that, but he did. His libido's a champ, I guess.)
   "It all seems like it just happened, but it was so long ago. Years." Neither of us could comprehend how much time had passed.
   The time we spent on the benches stretched as slowly and sweetly as the years we'd spent together, and our subsequent years apart. We reveled in each others' company, in how easy and comfortable it still is. When we finally got too cold to ignore, he walked me home and hugged me goodnight, holding me a little too long, needing to decimate the distance silence and apartness had created.
   Lying in beds just blocks apart, we texted back and forth, him trying to admit to missing me as nonchalantly as possible. I sidestepped the issue repeatedly, not interested in making him a cheater. I've already done that. He has no impulse control and my ego is boundless. Those factors compounded with our mutual possessiveness is dangerous. It hardly occurs to us that we're wrong. Until the sun rises. And I'm sick of waking up guilty.
   I still did, this morning. I stayed in bed until noon, closing my eyes tightly to the sun's rays that peeked through my window, reminding me of the sins I've committed. For the record, we stayed in our own beds and just said goodnight. But I can't shake the guiltiness. 
   We've promised each other countless times; no matter what happens between us, we will always love each other. Because we were so blissful, so young, so volatile. And all our angst and frustration dissipated in our laughter and drawn-out embraces, our agonizing delusions. And we might. There will always be a deep current of affection and appreciation between us, I think; I hope.
   The dichotomy of night & day is hard to reconcile. The streets look so different without the sun, illuminated only by the moon and occasional streetlight. Traditionally, the night is filled with sin, but I still feel that teenage innocence under the stars.
   I'm happy for last night; the last time I saw him, it ended bitter and ugly, in heartbreak. This was sweeter. And, though I promised him the next thunderstorm, I think that's one I'm going to break. I'm not seventeen anymore, and at some point, I need to accept that he isn't mine, and hasn't been since I was. I think I'm ready to.

Birds Of a Feather

Bobby bought baby ducks!

I can't wait until they come home to meet their Mommy :)

Lucky You

   Are we over? I always knew what it would take; for one of us to really fall in love with someone else, hard enough to make us a faint, barely-existent memory. That has always been the inevitable, impending nail in our relationship's proverbial coffin. I just always hoped it would be me. You'd handle this so much better; you're so much easier to distract, and I'm so much easier to get over. 
   I swear to God, I will never, ever, ever forgive you. I wish that made me miss you less.

Love, Love, Love

   My niece is 18 months old. And she is perfection.
   Watching her with my mother is captivating. In The Poisonwood Bible (by Barbara Kingsolver,I recommend it!) there's a passage that struck me so much I reread it over and over again, unable to turn the page. Leah, the protagonist, is watching her mother with her baby sister and says: "..I could see the two of them in the mirror. Mother singing soft questions and kissing her answers into the tiny, outstretched palms. Adah and I were nine then, too old to be jealous of a baby, but still I had to wonder if she had ever loved me that much."
   Babies are magical. The moments I spend with her are pure bliss.
   We lie cuddling on my sister's bed, watching The Lion King before she goes to sleep. This is one of the rare moments she is still and willing to be (mostly) quiet; She is so like my sister: constantly in motion and never, ever silent. I play with her soft, curly hair and kiss her head. "You'll always be my little baby girl," I whisper in her ear.
   These moments fill up my entire heart. Infants and toddlers redefine your capacity to love, stretch out your heart to limits you never imagined it could reach, and then double it. It's unlike any relationship with a grown person; you want to memorize every inch, every giggle, every syllable, and ingrain it all into your mind. But you lose so much of it. I'm heartbroken for every detail I've already forgotten, and every detail I will soon forget. How could I bear to part with the vividness of the present, from the mischievous giggle right before she pours her cereal on the floor to the loud, repetitive song she maintains through entire car rides, the nonsensical chorus of DOPPA DOPPA DOPPA DOPPA she never gets sick of belting out? My current favorite is the way she repeats the word wow every time I say it; so incredulously, so sincerely: WOOOWW! She is genuinely thrilled by the tiniest, most insignificant things.
   Sometimes things are so goddamn beautiful it breaks my heart a little bit.