We Got Annie

My mother’s birthday looms in the future, as do her faint cries of dissatisfaction and disappointment. This is how being away from her is ideal: freedom from things like my mother’s birthday.

So, for now, and especially in this instance, my present tense (literally and figuratively) is not just a bathroom break during the road trip of my life—or better yet, the starter bar, where plans are organized and people’s roles and presences are determined. It’s real time. The night. Tonight. The event for which I’ve lived all this time to experience. This, DC right now is not rehearsal.

But, despite knowing this, the temporality of my surroundings flash like neon signs. I’m knocked in the face with this realization. That it’s fleeting. That there’s more. That I’m waiting for something to happen. If this is it, fine.  But if it is a rehearsal, then I hope I’m prepared. 

Phoenician

I.               I think my body is getting sick. I know my mind is already infested with something, at least lately. Love is looking fairly bleak and my tendencies towards the dramatic heavily contribute to this conclusion. I envy the Phoenix’s rise—where did it find the courage? To burn in your own fire and in those ashes sounds comforting. Self-pity has comfortably and marvelously settled upon, instead of the ashes of my rebirth. It triggers no reaction. I fail to rise.

II.              That was the coward’s half. This half I will give to the heroes. Their rise. Surviving and strengthening from their own wounds. They grow from the ability to stretch it out, cleanse it off and discuss this warrior’s rise in all its stages. This is the introduction to their story, and I now depart to set fire to this first half, so as to rise at the end with the other warriors. 

Periods or Commas

I suppose too that this is an important facet: S*, the boy I’m dating became a statistic tonight; another one who bit the dust to declare his love for me—for the first time—drunk from a battle of whiskey. In an email…he wrote “I’ve had trouble avoiding punctuating each sentence with I love you, I love you, I love you..” and I freaked out. He didn’t fall in love with me, but my persona. The concept of me. And I’ll continue to present her until her novelty wears off. Until the pleasure gained from the charm and  the wit enervate and my reality creeps in. Then I’ll watch him run. 

Bridal Veils

I despumated him—from my life and my thoughts. We arrived at the overrated conifers of Yosemite and while feigning enthusiasm for its towering mountaintops and shooting waterfalls, I ceased feigning affections. It had reached its end much earlier, but I was not yet ready to say goodbye. A road trip was a bad time to reach that point, but so is life. I was tired of playing a game I hated for a prize I didn’t care for—but time worked in my favor, as time is wont to do. I was neglected and devalued to the point that I bid him farewell and asked for a rescue from my sister while I sat on a suitcase on a street corner like a hobo. He called three times to apologize and I responded with ‘OK. But this really doesn’t matter anymore’.

So that’s that and it’s ok. I feel great. It’s sad when I think about his beautiful arms or the one time he served me breakfast in bed. But a nice body and a nice gesture don’t erase all the aggressive persistence in telling me his doubts and that he didn’t want me around. He denied my person, as I was willing to offer and it made me doubt my self-worth…because of how easy his rejection was. 

Man Plans, God...is There Sometimes

He called last night. We broke up 3 months ago—a fact I realized at a very traumatic and interesting two weeks ago. When mastering numbing myself I wonder as to the psychological mind-fuck of which the individual is incapable.

The situation is messy and exhausting. I still don’t know why we broke up—realizing only after he told me that he’s commissioned into the army that we were never going to be together again. The secret fairy tale wish of Columbia and the East Coast cease to conjure any truth—not that they ever did. But there was a hope and I being incredibly good at this, made this hope into a reality.

The point is: what? Just what the fuck do I do with the man I could still be in love with moving to Monterey for specialized training in the military. Do I start dating a man I broke up with? I’ve already done that with mark and john and this is not a habit I’d wish to discuss in therapy. The topics are so numerous that developing another issue would only burden.

I look in the mirror—directly into the peepers and repeated; I don’t love Jeremy”. It felt wrong. It felt like a lie. But my last sentence also felt like one. So…

Coroner at the Corner

Surprisingly, my mother offered solace tonight; she reminded me of the seriousness by which I approach life…myself…everything. I am successfully and consistently unsuccessful at just ‘being’. My head is jumbled and school is secondary to the ever so prevalent idea of ‘boy’. I’ve been seriously considering ending things with the unsure and detached B*. He told me that I was ‘incapable of hurting’ him, and since one person is bound to be hurt in the end it’s going to be me. Soothsayer is what he is?

My mother in her indefatigable efforts of nurturing me reminded me that I tend to be rotten, difficult and serious which launched negative reactions. He told me that he ‘already threw in the towel’ of us. So what the fuck am I doing? 

Rain on your Wedding Day

Last night I made out with four boys. Tonight I am alone and incredibly sad. Of the four it is the one who seems to show the least interest to which I have taken a shine. Define irony. 

The Ides of March

I live in a different state than a man whom I was dating in a mediocre relationship in the first place. Do I want to continue this bullshit masquerade of a relationship? The head-fuck part is that we’re not in a relationship when we’re in different cities; yet when our geographies are aligned, we practice monogamy, communication, and good-heartedness. This is so fucking hard to keep straight. Maybe I need to stop dissecting this and just end it. All of this arranging and planning how to be with someone shouldn’t be so hard. 

Dollface/Barbreath

I realized that to write was to do the extraordinary, and it makes me sad. Really, I am so bored., I can’t think of the last time I did or heard about anything interesting; reading the Communist Manifesto has saved me a bit. But one can’t expect the Marx/Engels spark in everything.

I was worshiped in an SF bar Saturday night. I was flattered to be called ‘gorgeous’ by the handsome friend of a friend. He made the statement ‘my god, you’re beautiful,’ by what seemed like an incredibly-surprised-to-see-a-pretty-girl-guy from Seattle, and ‘dollface’ by a man to whom I humorously referred as ‘Green’.

My ego is expanding. I have fallen in love with myself and with those facets which make me so fucking charming. 

Solutions

Some twists and turns. Goods and evils. We have started a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ dynamic…which is headed straight for Doomsday. My girlfriendly insecurities linger; I know that if he sleeps with another, he’ll be safe. But will I, in the end? The drive of maintaining the purity of our relationship is obsolete. There is no purity. We’re both smudged. In this tacit fuck-other-people-in-silence dynamic, I am incapable of movement.  

Guttenberg

My controlling nature has erupted. All over everyone around me. I can’t accept that things can be good even if they aren’t living up to my expected design.

I position my relationship against a pattern of perfection, and even though I don’t live up to that pattern, I continually continue to continuously fail. I forced open the doors of communication with B* and faced imperfection head on. When will I find the man who isn’t afraid to let his guard down…who won’t resent me for expressing myself. When I said that I had the right to do so, he responded that he had the right to be withholding. He’s right.

He claims that I am a confusing part of his life. That we won’t last another two months. That this only works because I’m in far away and that he wouldn’t want a full time girlfriend. He asked me to try treating him the way he wanted to be treated and that he questions us all the time.

My mother told me to stop putting him in uncomfortable and unfair situations. That the more I push the farther he’ll run. She called me out on my control issues. What the hell am I doing all this for anyway? Is the gray, stringy gross nebulous cocoon of our relationship  going to metamorphose  into a butterfly? Idealism. That’s all this is. 

Affected? Moi?

“Mirror, mirror, what do I see?” 

“A familiar image in love with thee”

What could come of egoism? An invitation to hell, really. I have self-love oozing from every pore on my perfectly smooth, hairless skin, and confidence coats the soft, shining locks of magnificence streaming from my head....

And then there’s truth: ego and bravado are not self-esteem. I have a hunch that what I savor in the mirror is actually glossed over in lies. This ugly duckling put swan-shaped glasses on and turned quickly to the looking glass, where she was greeted with ecstasy. And the rave reviews she gets for ivory feathers and slender necks, all became a dazzling dream. She will fly close to earth however, yes, as close to ground as possible, in order to hear all the comments about her remarkable wing span. There is always a body part untapped. Waiting to be described with a wonderful and fresh adjective. And she will continue to base her self-worth on these adjectives. Because it took a long time to leave the Ugly Pond, and going back, while always an option, is terrifying. She likes the lake of Beautiful People. But she doesn’t know the rules. Swimming is different here. She mistakenly assumes that she can glide atop these beautiful waters in front of anyone…but can’t really copy that effortless glide of all the other swans, as they’ve been here for years already.

Self-love is beautiful and stems from acceptance and candor. Ego is ugly and feeds on the opinion of others.  Now that I'm pretty, how do i do this?

All the World

I asked B* if he ever refers to me as his girlfriend, and in typical B* fashion he mumbled something vague so as not to surrender or betray emotion and keep him firmly set to earth. And I realized…I can’t control his response. I can’t expect the reaction I’ve laid out in my head. In short, and again, I don’t write the scripts. 

Long Distance is the Wrong Distance

My relationship is more work than suspected. In my set of expectations was realistic longing, sure. It ended there. It’s actually developed into a mental brain fuck which is fed by all the physical distance. Fulfilling him in order to compensate for this distance is exhausting…and how can I fulfill if I’m not fulfilled? Intellectually, emotionally, carnally…but I made this space between us. At least the physical one. And he’s retaliating by making an even bigger and bleaker emotional one. So I continue this charade…

Another Roosevelt Bomb

Moments like now make me wonder if leisure time means idleness. I have so many projects that I visit sporadically. It’s not enough. It’s not consistent. I spend more time thinking about calligraphy and writing my thoughts than the time spent actually doing it. 

Underachievers—how I always avoided it. The funny thing is that I’ve achieved more than most people my age. Sort of well I should, or at least I have. I’m feeling really hard on myself. 

"It takes as much energy to wish as it does to plan"

-Eleanor Roosevelt

Irregardless

This is what I’ve realized whilst rereading former posts:

1.     I don’t write the scripts

2.     I like men (not love) with too much intensity

3.     I’m incapable of successfully dating unless I’m comfortable and satisfied with my everyday goings-on

4.     I make myself easy and available