Painting

There is a blank spot on my wall. I lent a painting to the cause of movie making. I woke up today and it hit me that the painting is the first thing I usually see when I wake up. I stare at it when I'm on the phone, or when I'm laying in bed feeling sorry for myself. In my mind it looks like Central Park, but no one else would ever agree with me. But I painted it so I'm right. It just takes a little imagination to see it. It's a bright spot on my wall. I miss it.

How fitting. The thing I look forward to every day is gone. It's like my painting broke up with me. Now all I have is the empty hook sticking out from the wall. No more Central Park.

Such is life. I don't even want to go in there and see where it used to be. This is why people don't talk. Or maybe just me. I don't want to see that empty spot inside myself where I used to be so vibrant. The hook hanging from the wall. I used a hook instead of tape because I thought it would be permanent. I committed to decorating myself with this painting, Knowing I could work around it. Knowing it would be staying there. But it didn't.

I don't want to look at that part of myself that used to be good. That hook is so unsightly. Guess I should have used tape. But I'd rather have the painting.

Campus Building

Campus Building
Originally uploaded by ocean1000.

All of Me

Someone I know ran through a crass version of dating from beginning to end. He talked about how it all starts with a man trying to impress a girl with carefully planned dates, carefully planned make-out sessions, and carefully planned sex. And then he finds he's not interested in anything she talks about and he's started tuning her out because her stories bug the shit out of him, and so he stops calling her and starts avoiding her. And then he meets someone else.

And he followed up his story with "I didn't mean you".

As if it matters.

Because that almost exactly describes the last 20 years of my life. How sad to realize you really are the stereotype. They get tired of me and move on. Like flipping through TV channels. Girl surfing.

But what is it that keeps men interested?

For a while I thought I made a pretty good case; like I had stuff to say. But looking at my track record I see now that I have made an egregious error in self-scrutinization. I'm not exactly sure what's wrong with me, but I know there's something. Or I wouldn't be the stereotypical "date girl". People would want to be with me and stay with me instead of get tired of me and avoid me.

Puppies are more loveable.
People are more attached to their cars than they are to me.

Perhaps I am a bore. Or a boor.
I talk too much. I eat too little.
I sleep too much. I clean too little.
My chest is too small and my nose is too big.

There are so many things to blame, but they all add up to me. It's not them, it's me. All of me.

Lone Memory

So it's back. The pain of my regular life. My hands are aching and numb. My back hurts. I had to get up early. I had to make phone calls. I have to run errands. I just want to lay on the couch and stay on holiday. I guess the only thing that never left was hunger. I never got rid of my yearly turkey craving.

This weekend marks an interesting anniversary of the beginnings of how I got here. A year ago, I worked in a sports bar. I hated it. More than most people usually hate their jobs. But I was there, working during the after Thanksgiving football onslaught. I went to the bar to pick up my drinks, and there he was. Sticking out like a sore thumb in a sea of testosterone drenched men and women wearing jerseys and bad haircuts. His Guiness cast a dark shadow against their Bud Lights, and he sat quietly. Not our usual clientele.

I debated whether or not I should talk to him, but finally decided to rescue him from sports bar hell. It was awkward, but nice. I knew he didn't come for the beer or the football. It was for me, even though he meekly offered "would you believe I was in the neighborhood?"

It was the first time he made my fingers all tingly. Not the last. Because I knew that he liked me like I thought he did. And I liked that. I often think back to that day; what would have happened if I had left him to his beer. Where would I be now?

And does he ever think about it? Did he look around him yesterday and think, one year ago I went to a nasty sports bar to see a girl? A girl that was intriguing and alluring then, but not now. I presume that I remember these milestones alone. And sadly, it is only one of the first of many that will run me down in the near future.

Hello, Life

Strange weekend. It seems weird when it's so long like this. And there's lots of stuff I should do, and I'm not doing it. I was going to clean. Didn't. But it doesn't seem like it really matters anyway since most people think I'm a total slob anyway. And then they spread the word to others and I'm doomed. So what's the point of cleaning up when people point and laugh when you do? And they're not visiting anyway.

It seems strange, but I wish I could stay in today. Today, there is no work and no school, and for the most part, no bad stuff. Sure, it sucks that I don't have anyone and I'm pretty much alone, but nothing can get me here either. I have no responsibilities right now except to take a shower. And I think I can do that. But even if I don't, who cares? It would just be one more thing that people can point and laugh about. I'm getting pretty used to it.

Tomorrow begins the return to the life that I drag around most of the time. But in a couple of weeks, maybe I can ditch it for a while again. I misplaced happiness a long time ago, and I'm thinking I'm not going to find it again. It's gone for good. So the only thing I can do is try to hide and often as possible from the regular disappointment that is my life.
So this ends up being a vacation on more than one front.

He returns tomorrow. I don't know when. He'll call, of course. But then I'll feel strange because I want to see him and he just wants to be alone. And he'll just wait to see me when he sees me. Life doesn't gradually come back, it returns in a heartbeat with the force of a train. Hello, life, wish I could say I missed you.

Cellular

Well, it finally happened. I picked up my cell phone to check if it was still working, or if no one really was calling. And it wasn't working. It seems like it should make me feel better, but it doesn't. Because phones are a pain in the ass, and so is replacing it. Now I have to learn how to use this new thing that has all kinds of crap on it. I told the guy at the store the cheap phone was good enough, that I didn't need fancy stuff. But then I confessed that I'm really just cheap. Because it doesn't really matter. I don't have to make excuses to a salesperson. I can tell the truth. So I have a good reason why no one is calling, but only temporarily. But at least I'll have this shiny new thing that will never ring.

Vicarious Living

Sometimes, I forget what a pathetic life I lead. But I'm always snapped back to reality somehow. In this case, it's online shopping that makes me pathetic. I know that doesn't sound that bad, but it is when I'm not even shopping for myself.

No, I'm not looking for gifts. No one wants to exchange gifts with me this year. Which of course hurts me deeply, because I like giving gifts to people I care about, but other people just see it as a hassle because I'm really not that important. But that's another story.

So I'm shopping for a dress for my roommate, because she needs one for a Christmas party. So I'm randomly and pathetically searching through pages and pages of stuff that someone else needs because they have a life and I don't. I'm vicariously shopping online. I tried to think of something that I could shop for for myself, but I couldn't come up with anything. Too bad no one is auctioning lives on e-Bay. I could really use one.

And now, it really hits home even harder because I'm sitting at home alone on Thanksgiving and I'm starving and I'm sober. And my family hasn't even bothered to call and say hello or how are you or even Happy Turkey day. Who knew long distance charges were such a deterrent for keeping in touch. How ridiculuous. I keep thinking about my roommates, who are with their families having a good ol' time, and they'll come home and go right to sleep from the oodles of tryptophan they've ingested and I'll still be starving, but probably not sober. Is it sad to drink champagne by yourself? All I can hope for from today is that one of them will bring some food back for me.

But basically, right now I am dead space. Space eating up heat and energy and making USA network think I actually care what movie they are showing on a holiday where no one else is watching. I could be vaporized right now and not only would no one notice, but no one would care either. How nice. Most people are lucky enough to be with families they can't stand on the holidays, but I get to be completely and utterly ignored by mine.

So anyone who thinks they have a family that sucks, just remember mine.
At least yours talks to you.

Shocker

Shocker
Originally uploaded by ocean1000.

I Plead No Contest

I'm finally beginning to realize why the quirky blonde makes me so uncomfortable sometimes. I bump into her and he together at school, and I am determined to not let it bother me. I try to act natural, even though I wish she weren't there.

I take a seat, and she keeps talking.
And talking.
And talking.

In order to get any words in, I have to be louder and more obnoxious. But I can't compete with her in her sassy black skirt and black stillettos. I feel so frumpy in my thrift store sweater. And she keeps talking about guys who hit on her and I feel smaller and smaller. I might as well not even be there.

Any subject I steer the conversation to, she eventually turns back to herself. It is not even a conversation. It is her talking. She crosses her legs and plays with her necklace and I finally just have to give up.

I'm no match for her.
She will always be better.
She will always be quirkier, funnier, wittier, prettier, sexier, louder, perkier, smarter, richer, and just altogether better than I could ever be. It's silly to even think I could ever get someone's attention when she is present.

I ask her what she is doing for Thanksgiving, hoping for some reason that she's going to Guam or at least somewhere far away until Monday. No, she's going across the tracks where some guy will get drunk and hit on her, like the other 3 guys that hit on her just this week. She returns the question to me, but only long enough to put in her two cents and talk about herself some more.

I keep looking at the clock and wondering how long she's going to stay and chat, because I'd rather leave if she's going to stay. I can't stand it, but I'm trying really hard not to let it show.

Now I'm getting paranoid that people will notice that I don't want her there, and they'll notice how I don't even begin to compare with her, and they'll notice how paranoid I'm becoming. I hate this. It's stupid. It's hard to manage knowing that you're not better at anything than someone.

As soon as she left, I felt a weight being lifted from my chest, like I could breathe again. It's terrible. I don't not like this woman. I actually kind of like her. I just have a hard time playing second banana all the time. It sucks.

Holidays

I was out driving today, and I could feel the emptiness of imminent holidays settling all around me. The roads were already eerily undercrowded, and the air is filled with the expectation of goodwill. What a load of crap. I hate holidays. Or maybe holidays just hate me. They don't offer fun and family, only isolation and neglect. I'm on the outside, looking in. Like a kid outside a candy store, pressing her nose against the glass to watch other lucky kids eat confections bestowed upon them by people who love them. I am the orphan, the waif, the urchin that is left wandering around with no place to go. This sucks. Anyone who invites me in is engaging in the holiday spirit of charity; helping those less fortunate. Which is so patronizing. What good are holidays if no one cares about you? These holidays are supposed to be about being around the ones you love, but what if they don't want to be around you? What if they don't love you? What then?

Average

Nothing is worse than disappointment. Except maybe for being average. But I guess being average is a disappointment, so they kind of go together. I always wanted to be that kid, the one that was separated from the group because of some amazing quality. That kid that people picked out of a crowd because of her movie-star good looks or her natural singing voice or limber and graceful dancing or something like that.

Never happened. Not once.

But for some reason I still cling to the hope that somewhere, at some time, someone is going to find me special. I've toned it down quite a bit since I was 8, but it's still there. I'm just not as surprised when someone doesn't notice me. Or when I'm not the one they think of first.

I like attention. Lots of it. But I lack the things that get people attention. I lack the looks, the talent, the wit, the charm, and that other certain something that seems to bewitch people. Nope. Instead they talk to me while thinking about someone else that they wish they could be talking to. They tolerate attention from me but long to get it from another. They turn to me when all other options are exhausted.

It's disappointing. It's depressing.

To know how not special or amazing or intriguing I am not to just someone, but everyone. Being average is lonely. Sometimes I wish I could board up the door of my little bedroom and unhook every outlet to other people and just stay here forever, without having to face the bitter disappointment of being lost in the middle. I would never again have to see how unnoticed I am, or hear how unexciting my voice is, or feel how unwanted my body is. I could be average, but the best at it in my own little space where no one could tell me different.

But that, too, is lonely. Safe, but lonely.

So it appears the only solution to the dilemma is to not be average. How does one go about that? How does one set themselves apart from the rest? Who is going to notice? That is the question. Who notices is the answer. The "noticer" is the one that makes you feel like you are above average, like you are special, like whatever talents or traits you have, it will always be the best, that no one will ever be able to top you.

I have performed all the tricks in my bag, and I have failed. I put up a long and arduous case, and was handily defeated. Fine. I quit.

Library

The library is one of my favorite places at school. It has this quiet energy, with people always working but not talking. I like being surrounded by books. They are comforting. They make me want to try harder to not be an idiot. I want to know what's in them. The library is an erotic, mystical place where it seems like just about anything can happen. Maybe that's why the fantasy men have about librarians is so prevalent.

Actually, it's probably the best place to get down and dirty if you just don't want to wait. Since that's where people go to be responisble, hard-working citizens, it's a lot less likely that you would get caught.

The best place is in the basement, where they store all the old books; the ones no one checks out anymore but they keep anyway, just in case. The stacks move, so you can customize your space, and no one is ever there, not even to study. It's like a dark den that pretty much everyone forgot about. It's wonderful. Check it out sometime to see for yourself if you don't believe me.

Caffeine

Coffee is not your friend, dearheart. I am trying to make it my buddy, but it seems that it is not being friendly. It tastes funny, it's bitterness runs all over my tongue and zaps the back of my throat. I want it to be sweet like its caramel-chocolate color that is always so inviting. It is like vanilla extract, it seems like it should be tasty, but then in shrivels up in your mouth like a dead leaf.

Caffeine is absorbed into my veins, giving my forearms a strange, otherworldly feeling that seems to disconnect them from my elbows. My brain is moving quickly, but not getting anywhere. It sweats on the treadmill of broken concentration, waiting to slip off the track into utter chaos.

It is a chemical that my body loves, just like all the other chemicals. It loves whatever foreign particles I can ingest.
Steroids left me so hyper I thought my skin might shake loose from the bustling molecules underneath.
Herbal relaxer numbed my brain so that every sentence trailed off into confusion.
Antibiotics turned my frown upside-down.
BCP keeps the OBGYN away.
Aspirin kicked the ache.
Caffeine makes my heart palpitate, makes my body live separately from my brain.
Strange.

My body likes drugs. Drugs like my body.

Does that make me an addict?
Does that make me healthy?

I have not acquired the taste for coffee. I'm trying. I want to fit in like all those cool coffee-house cats. I want to ask for dates by suggesting a casual cup a joe. (They don't like the suggestion when I end up drinking cocoa) I want to understand the addiction. I want to understand the flavor. I want to speak the lingo while I dive into pretentious poetry.

I want to be cool. If cool were a drug, I would have already had it.

Winter Unwelcome

Winter is not welcome here. Go away winter. Go away cold. Go away wind. Go away chill. Go away memory.

It's really cold right now, and my toes gave up the fight a few hours ago. I need summer back. Because there is no warmth in winter. There is no heat. There is no relief.

It is back to sleeping in sweats. I miss having the other body to help warm me. To negate the need for clothes. It was decadent, frivolous to do so last winter. It was like throwing caution to the wind because I knew there would be heat under the sheets to soothe me to sleep. It would be crisp in the morning, and I would jump to the kitchen over the cold wood floors and stand near the kettle as he made his coffee. And his warmth was there too, wrapping itself around me like the blankets on the bed. There were fires and there was wine, and blankets in the cold room when we watched movies. There was sun sifting through the windows, through the sliding glass door, through the mutton-riddled front door. There was heat from the old metal radiator, steam lifted from the bath. It soaked through my skin and kept my inner status quo.

We could walk to the beach at midnight, and the warmth would follow us there. We looked at the stars, at the silhouettes of palm trees, with the heat slipped under our coats and the sand like silk on our feet.

This is the winter of my discontent. Of my fully-clothed cold body left to shiver solo. Warmth must be carefully generated and saved before it slips away. It doesn't lie next to me anymore. I have to snatch it and hold it under the covers to silence the chatter of my teeth. It is gray. It is dark. It is wet and windy dreary. I will it to be April. Past the time of winter, past the time of memory.

Winter is not welcome here. Go away winter.

Gay Johnsons

Gay Johnsons
Originally uploaded by ocean1000.

Flying

For some reason, it seems like things from your past come back in waves. Something you might not think about on most days will surface in conversation over the course of several days, then melt into obscurity again. So it is with the circus. I don't talk about the circus. Most people I know don't know about the circus. But it pops up occasionally to remind me that I will never be like these other people, and they will always look at me as an oddity. There is no escape.

I joined a trapeze troupe when I was 21. I figured what they hey, I'll only be 21 once, and I'm old enough that there's nothing my parents can do to stop me. It was going to be fun. It was. But not all the time. When I was freezing because I was living in a trailer with no insulation, it wasn't fun. When people asked for my address and phone number and I said I didn't have one, it wasn't fun. When I was alone with no family and no friends on Thanksgiving, it wasn't fun.

The trampoline was fun.
Watching old trapeze home videos was fun.
Flying was fun.

It seems like the more things change, the more they stay the same.

It's freezing right now, which isn't fun.
I wish I had a fireplace to sit in front of, with a nice glass of wine to keep me company.
No one asks for my address and phone number anymore.
I'll be alone on Thanksgiving again.

I bought some champagne to celebrate, though. There is something oddly comforting about being alone on the holidays. There are no expecations, no silly conversation about stuff that you are obligated to talk about when someone says "so what's new?" because the real answer is nothing, but they never accept that. SOMETHING has to be different, and they suddenly turn into detectives to find out what it is.

You don't have to get dressed up. But I always do. Mostly because I can. I get to wear whatever I want and will never be over or under dressed if it's just me. I set my own dress code.

I can eat whatever I want. I don't have to eat that disgusting cranberry sauce that still has rings on it from when it slid out of the can. I don't have to eat green bean casserole. Or stuffing. Or any other godawful concoction that someone has decided would make their feast complete.

I can eat Cheetos with my champagne while I lounge on the couch in my grey velvet evening gown that I made and only wore once. I can watch artsy foreign films and not have anyone say, let's watch football. Or I can watch football and belch and yell like an idiot. I can eat chocolate covered strawberries and not worry about anyone thinking I'm a pig when I eat them all. I can take a two hour bath. I can sleep till 2.

It's the bright side to a depressing situation. Still not as much fun as flying.

Memory

I once knew someone who drank himself into a drunken stupor every night and passed out instead of going to bed. Functional alcoholic, I think it's called. It was terrible to share a bed with him. He had violent nightmares that he could never remember, and I would have bruises in the morning because he would inadvertently hit me in his sleep. I took to moving to the couch in the middle of the night to avoid it, but always felt bad when he woke up and I wasn't there. It really bothered him that I didn't want to sleep in the same bed. It's understandable, but a girl's got to protect herself.

I asked him once why he drank all the time.

He said it was because he always hoped he would wake up and not remember anything that had happened before that morning.

At the time, I thought it was the saddest thing I ever heard. It still is.

But now I understand.

Another weekend has borne down upon me, and has brought the same melancholy, sadness, and ennui that it always brings. I am relegated to remembering things for a few days instead living things. Memory is a weird tripwire that never seems to stop. One thing always leads to another.

I went to the store today, which is something I don't really take much pleasure in. This particular store is loaded with a memory that leads to such other memories, I hesitate to go there, much less think about going there. One day on an impulse, I bought flowers there for someone and told him I loved him. Little did I know it would be the last chance I would ever get to say it during the course of that relationship. It disintegrated quickly from that point on, and was dust a few short weeks later.

I think of it every time I enter that store and see those flowers staring at me. They are bright and cheery and seem to reach out and beg to be taken home, like a puppy in a window. I want to get more flowers, but what for? They are only sad reminders of what I thought I had once. I have to use another entrance now.

And the trigger of this memory leads to the immediate knowledge of where that person is now. I note the time of day and think about what he must be doing right now. And who else might be there. And what a good time they're having. And I'm not. They're talking to fun kids in Lyttle Vegas and laughing and joking and having dinner and other fun together stuff.

My phone rings. Not him. Remember, he's having a good time.

Yes, there is jealousy. But more than that, it's loneliness. No one has stepped up to fill his shoes. Not even a little. Not even temporarily. So I sit at home on a Friday night, realizing there's nothing on TV because people go out and do stuff on Friday nights. My roommate suggests a 'girl's night', which really only means we'll eat dinner together and I'll watch a movie I've already seen while she falls asleep and ends up going to bed at 8.

So the rest of my night is flipping through channels, periodically looking at the clock, wondering what they, or rather he, is doing right now. Wondering when I will hear from him. Wondering if he thought of me at all today. Wondering if he remembered things like I did.

Flowers

Flowers
Originally uploaded by ocean1000.

Virginity

Today I was starving and thinking about lunch, and a strange feeling came over me. I started thinking about how I wish I had my virginity back. It was so long ago that I lost it, and I don't really remember what my life was like then. I don't know if it was different, but I don't know if it was the same, either. It seems that sex becomes such a part of who you are; it's both weakness and strength, tenderness and hardness, fear and hope, understanding and misunderstanding.

Someone said a man won't use double entendre and sexual innuendo around an unnattractive woman. Perhaps. But what about those who have no real sexuality in the first place?

Virginity is such a strange thing. I really wish I had it back. I had no idea how valuable it was. I think it's only now that I'm realizing how much of a prize it really was. It's really the only thing you're born with that people want to take from you. And once it's gone, there's no going back.

It's something that keeps you innocent and pure.
It keeps you naive and gullible too.

But I kind of wish I were more like that. I don't like being bitchy and skeptical when it comes to sex. I want to believe that it's beautiful. In a way I do believe. But it's also dangerous and ugly. I want to go back to the time when I didn't feel like I had to battle with men. When I didn't have to protect myself. When I felt like we were all pretty much the same. Back to a time when men and women got along, and so did women and women. But, as most people, the value of virginity was unknown to me, and all I wanted to do was get rid of it and be like everybody else.

Be hip and cool.
How deluded I was.
I would never be cool, no matter what price I paid for it.

And now I'm moping around campus, lamenting the loss of something I could truly appreciate now that I'm older. Wishing I had this one commodity, this one thing that everyone wants, but can only take from other people. But I gave up, gave in, gave out.

And now I'm just like everybody else.
But not quite.

About a month and a half ago, I went on a bra boycott, and haven't worn one since then. I've noticed an interesting thing since then. Men no longer stare at my chest. Women do. It's like they're staring and wondering where the plump, round breasts are. I look freakish to them. Or slutty. Or something. It's weird to have women staring at your chest as you pass them on the sidewalk. No, I don't have full, round lumps under my shirt naturally. They end up sitting there like tangerines; not quite round, not pushed to the upper-middle part of my breastbone, and not smooth like a cue ball. I'm actually happier, because it's much more comfortable, and one less thing to worry about every day. But it feels like I'm out of the club, like women won't fully accept me if I don't subscribe to the same mode of constraint they do.

I notice more when it's cold outside.

Comment

I like comments. A lot. They are like little presents that wait for me to boot up the little grey machine so they can sprinkle attention on me. However, I've only received a handful. Five, actually. But I like to scroll down to them and re-read them as little reminders that someone read the drivel that I wrote and thought enough about it that they should say something about it. I like it. It makes me feel special. So both of you, comment as often as you like. I want it. I need it. I like it.

Freak vs. Whitebread

I want to be funky. I'm not very good at it. I put pink streaks in my hair and painted my fingernails metallic green and got some black framed glasses and some Mary Jane's and a peacoat. It's not very funky. It's fake funky. I don't know how to be funky. I want to be an individual, who wears her own clothes that no one else would ever wear and has her own hair and style and all that stuff. Instead I look like everybody else. A freak in mall clothing.

I'm always wondering what's wrong with me, and maybe that's it. I'm stuck between normalcy and freakhood. I don't fit in anywhere. Too weird for regular people and too whitebread for freaks.

I wish I had a home.

It would be easier to be funky and look nutty. Unfortunately, I was raised by a whitebread town, and they will always be with me. Right now I'm just weird enough for normal people to look at me like some exotic animal at the zoo. They point and look, but they don't really want to know anything else. They're only there for the freak show. And my circus past doesn't help matters much.

See, the comfort in looking funky is that it's not "attractive". The garden variety SoCal blonde chick will look sideways at freak girl and go on listening to Britney or Christina or Ashlee or Avril or whatever it is those chicks listen to. And the guys do too. I am surrounded by men constantly; at school, at work, etc. No one asks me out. Actually, no one talks to me at all. I'm sort of like that fly on the wall that they notice during a boring lecture, but they forget about it before too long. I don't need camouflage.

At least if I were funky I'd have an excuse to be ignored. They would be afraid, or put off, or just weirded out. And that would be just fine. But I know that I look like everyone else. That's why no one remembers my face until at least the third or fourth meeting, and can't remember my name until much later. I once had a professor for an entire year who couldn't remember my name. I was the only girl in a class of 5 people.

It's depressing to be so dispensible. So unmissable. (I know that's not a word, but I couldn't think of a real one, so back off) And this is really the root of all evil in my life. Not being remembered, needed, loved, intriguing, welcomed, accepted, or wanted. Dead weight.

Too normal for freaks.
Too freakish for normal folks.

Train

Train
Originally uploaded by ocean1000.

The view

Big Mouth

There are two kinds of thoughts. Those that stay up in my head, and those that escape. Those escapees are dangerous. You never know what kind of havoc they're going to wreak on your world. So I try to keep them under lock and key in my real life. (this, of course, is NOT real life, so I can say whatever I want)

He says he doesn't like it when I don't tell him things, that I should talk to him, but he doesn't realize how difficult his request is. I hate turning my insides out in front of someone else. It's always so messy and embarrassing. And it almost always comes out in some convoluted way so that it doesn't look like anything I ever intended. I end up sounding like some delusional, overprotective, jealous, overwrought jackass, and who really wants to listen to that? It's like some strange version of Spin Alley that lives between my brain and my big mouth.

So I'm a little gunshy about talking about things.

Actually, I'm terrified.

There are so many things going through my brain that I'm thinking and feeling, and they don't always agree with each other. So I end up saying things that are completely opposite and I don't make any sense. Add to that my incessant fear of what might happen when I say things, and it's a recipe for disaster.

I'm terrified of seeing him.
I'm terrified of not seeing him.
Of talking to him.
Of not talking to him.

It's a no-win situation. So do I talk? Not talk?
I don't want to keep things locked up inside me. I don't want to live with the humiliation of saying stupid things either.
How much is too much? How much is not enough?

Lunatic

I don't feel good. My face hurts and my back hurts and my head hurts and it's all because I can't control my emotions. They grow inside me like tumors until they explode and injure me. I don't want to do anything at all today except lay in bed. I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want to see anyone. I just want to chill out, or at least make a serious attempt at it. I'm a lunatic. I know that. What I don't know is how to hide it so everyone doesn't find out. Because they will eventually. Everyone reading this right now knows just how looney I am. I can't help it.

Work

I have been asked to work. I don't want to go. I want to do what I had originally planned to do; watch a movie with my favorite person. But being poor often makes us do things we don't want to do. My desperate need for money usurps my desperate need for attention. Damn. Why today? Why not yesterday? I have to go to a new place where they don't know me and try to fit in and look natural, which is probably the thing that I'm worst at. How dare that woman tell me to 'find' the shirt she wants me to wear. Who does she think she is? If you're begging me to work your shitty banquet, the least you could do is give me a shirt to wear. I'll show up. Then I've done my part. And then some, because I sacrificed my precious plans to be where I want to be more than anywhere else in the world. Fuck. Maybe I should have said no. This better be worth it.

Call

He called me this evening. He's only seven miles away, but it feels like a million. He sounds down, and I don't know what to say, because I have no idea why. And I wonder if I sound down, because I am. But I know why.

Because I'm being eaten alive by jealousy and self-doubt and self-hatred and loneliness and ennui.

I've watched too many movies this weekend, and they are making me cry, because I want the happy ending too, and I'm never gonna get it. Does everybody else live with this and just deal better than I do? It seems impossible.

I couldn't talk to him. I answered in single syllables, becoming the grunting oaf I always believed I was anyway. But he didn't really seem that excited to talk to me, even though he dialed the numbers. I felt like he was calling out of obligation. Maybe he wasn't. But his voice was thin and tired and blase.

Is it me?
I whine that no one understands me, and I don't even understand myself.

Why do I put myself through this torture?
Why did I ever fall in love?

Free Stuff

I try so hard. I try to keep things under control and act normal. But I suck at it. A lot. I tried to watch a movie today, one of those romantic comedies that is constantly trying to remind you that it is supposed to be funny, when it's really just pandering.

I got sad watching it, watching how my life is the same but without the happy ending. He doesn't tell you he loves you when you climb out onto that limb to tell him that you love him. He walks away, the bouugh breaks, and you fall.

That woman she thinks is having an affair with the man she loves is really a lesbian, but in real life, who knows? You know she's not a lesbian and that's about it.

And you think that maybe he calls you when she's not available, and he's just hanging out with you until someone better comes along. Because he's said he would date anyone if they asked him out. Anyone, that is, except for you. Because he's just not that into you.

He lost interest in all that you are many moons ago (nearly 8, to be exact) and you are not the meaningful conversationalist that you once were. He's probably wondering what he ever saw in you to begin with. Wondering what he was ever thinking.

It hurts.
It really hurts.

And I don't know how to hide it and I don't know how to get over it and I don't know how to get on with my life and I don't know how to live with it when he thinks about her when he's with me and I know it but there's nothing I can do about it because I can't compete with her and I've lost him and I'm starting to panic because I don't know what happened to my dignity and my heart hurts so bad I think it's going to explode under the pressure because I never loved anyone like this and when I told him he ran away and never came back.

I'm ranting like a lunatic and thinking that he's with her right now even though I don't really know and it really makes it hard to breathe.

The last man I loved left me, and then died, and the pain from the experience left me cautious and afraid. I swore I would never give my heart to anyone until they gave me theirs first. I thought I had it. He used the words; maybe it doesn't count when it's on paper. I told him I was afraid and he told me not to be; he would never leave me. I told him to be careful, a girl could get used to feeling like someone cares about her all the time. He promised, he consoled, he comforted. I handed over my heart and showed him everything inside, believing he would cherish all the parts of it as much as he did the first day. But then he looked closer, and suddenly I had funny eating habits and I drink too much and I multitask and I talk too much and I'm clingy and the parts didn't look as good as the woman who came before me or the one who came after me. So he politely said no thank you, I'll pass and closed the door. I'm such a failure. Love for sale; no one's buying. Damaged goods. Can't even give it away.

Secrets and Lies

He went to Lyttle Vegas this morning. I wonder if he was alone. I don't think he was. And if I'm right, I'm really pissed. Because he should have told me. I think it's been established that omissions do, in fact, count as lies. I really want to believe that I'm just being paranoid, but my excuses for him didn't check out. I walked in on him on the phone: "I'm leaving around ten, so give me a call. I'm looking forward to it."

I wanted it to be his brother. I had even convinced myself that it was.
But then today I remembered that he can't call long distance from that phone. It had to be her.

So he's taken her to this place that is really special and doesn't even have the courtesy to tell me. He's hiding it. He doesn't hide me. He tells her every little thing that we do before we do it, as if he's checking in with her so she'll always know where he is. She asks me about things that I didn't even know she knew and it makes me feel weird because I wonder what else is he telling her that I don't know about?

He hides things from me so I never know where he is, and he never tells me about things ahead of time. Especially if they involve her. And it makes me wonder what else is he doing with her that I don't know about?

If he's willing to hide conversations or dinner with her from me, what else is he hiding that I didn't think to ask about? I fucking hate that. I have asked him repeatedly to let me know about these things before they happen, that I shouldn't have to ask about them to find out. I don't want to play detective. I want to trust him, but I can't when he keeps things from me. He thinks he is not hurting me, but it is worse to not know.

I want to be wrong. I want there to be a perfectly good explanation for all this, but I can't see it. I wish I hadn't walked in on a phone call he obviously didn't want me to hear. I wish I had taken longer in the bathroom. It feels like he's sneaking around. And what really gets my goat is that he doesn't see how this could be interpreted as the "new girlfriend". People don't hide their friends. They talk about their friends. He thinks I'm insane because I find her threatening. If he were in my shoes, he would too.

I've made the effort. The effort to accept her, to trust him, to get used to things. And I have failed. These are things I can't do alone, and neither one of them is helping. She remains standoffish, he remains secretrive, I remain suspicious. This fucking sucks.

Laps

Thursday begins my weekend. No more classes until Monday. It marks another week of school I got through; another miracle that I'm still standing, even if just barely. And now Friday, Saturday, and Sunday are stretching out in front of me like I-40 does when you get to Texas. Flat. Desolate. Lonely. Yes, I have no life. It seems like every week is really just another lap around the track. I'm running as hard as I can, trying to keep up, and I never get anywhere; the scenery never changes. Only the number. These laps are keeping me up, but keeping me in, too.

The only person I ever want to spend time with is going away, and I will miss him terribly. I wish I could hang with him and his peeps. It seems so stupid, so desparate. I don't even need to talk to him; I just want to be around him. Somehow he adds something to the color of my life that no one else does. He changes the atmosphere. He gives my life the mise-en-scene that is exactly what I want. It's a comforting, floating, lulling sensation that lies somewhere between sleep and consciousness. It's that high of not caring where you are or what you do, because you will be safe and secure for the whole ride. Even when it's bumpy, he makes sure to soften the blows whenever possible. Not that I haven't gotten some whoppers.

Sometimes it's hard to breathe and I want to lay down on the side of the road and give up. And I think he'll just get tired of taking care of me and leave me like a lost kitten, but he doesn't. He picks me up and smooths down my fur and scratches me under my chin so I want to just curl up in his lap and purr all night. He has a nice lap. Sometimes I think it's the only thing keeping me up.

sanibel blue

sanibel blue
Originally uploaded by fubuki.

Normally I only post things that are mine, but in this case, I couldn't resist. Fucking Beautiful.

That Sucks

Someone needs to do a study in dissatisfaction. Or rather, constant dissatisfaction. If it's a disease, that's what I have. The probability of me ever being happy is pretty much nil. Which sucks. I'm broke. That sucks. Work is slow. That sucks. School is keeping me behind. That sucks. I don't have any friends. That sucks. I have no life. That sucks. My mom had to ask my dad to send me money. That sucks. He didn't. That sucks.

I was happy once. But only once. That sucks.

I gave my heart to someone. Unfortunately, he had already given his to someone else. She didn't take very good care of it. He didn't take very good care of mine. And it's more than just a little bruised. It will never be the same again. But no one will ever understand that. People will wonder why I'm old and single and they will laugh when they hear that it's because the only person I ever wanted to be with left me for dead. Or just dead. That sucks.

Feet

Feet
Originally uploaded by ocean1000.

Three

Dissatisfaction has this dirty habit of settling in where you really don't want it.

Like in my bed. I'm sitting here right now and I'm really irritated.
Irritated at some neighbor who is doing some stupid suburban home improvements.
They are pounding incessantly on something and it is driving me crazy.
It sounds stupid, but if you were here, it would be driving you crazy too.

The only escape is to go to school. I don't want to do that either.
I just want my peace and quiet back.
Which of course doesn't even happen here.

I hate civilization.
What a misnomer. It is so uncivilized.

All day long I hear warplanes and helicopters flying too close overhead, and kids with too much testosterone squealing their tires outside. And people fighting and bitching and crying about everything; usually other people.

It's low grade chaos, actually.

Civilization lies in the place where there are no people, and you can actually feel the wind and smell what nature smells like. Two people can be civilized, but not three.

Three is a crowd.
Three is drama.
Three is more shit than you ever wanted to deal with.
Three sucks.
Divine number indeed.

Construction

Construction
Originally uploaded by ocean1000.

Welcome to the Multi-Complex

No one can say I'm not trying. My mother would be proud. She always said to be extra nice to people who snub you, so they would see what a great person you are.

Well, I'm not so sure what a great person I am, but I am trying to be extra nice. This girl doesn't like me; I don't know why. I've never done anything to her. I've been jealous, but I've never done anything. I don't think it's all that outrageous to be jealous of your ex's beautiful quirky new best friend. Even if they really are just friends. Even if they study together when he and I never did.

But I've never been bad to her. I've gone out of my way to smile and wave when I really don't feel like it. So she's talking to us today and I realize that she's much like a friend of mine back home and it makes me feel kind of weird. But it also makes something hateful go away inside me. It also makes me miss my friend, even though she draws quick judgements, just like this quirky girl who just blew in from god knows where.

He leaves, I stay. I invite her to sit with me. I forgot to prepare myself for the barrage of words that would spring forth from her skinny body, but I'm trying to manage. She moves from subject to subject with dizzying force and speed. There's no turning back with her. But she's funny and weird and talking so fast I can barely keep up.

We stand up for a coffee house version of musical chairs, but without the mad rush to sit down before anyone else. She is telling me something, as if it all has to get out of her mouth in 10 seconds or less. She is standing inside my bubble, my personal space, and I let her, because I don't want her to think I'm rude if I step back. I'm trying. Maybe she is too.

We re-situate and re-seat. She brings me candy from her convenience store raid. It feels like a schoolgirl peace pipe, with the promise of bubble gum at the center. Perhaps we're both trying. And not for each other. For this other, this man. The one between us who doesn't want us to fight. It seems so convoluted. She has some problem with me, and I can't tell why. I'd rather not speculate. She's a mysterious character, mostly because of the rare sightings and mixed feelings.

I'm complex; she's complex. He's complex too.

Pile of Life

Life piles up. I wish it wouldn't. Relaxing can be hazardous to keeping up. I look around me and I can't help but feel like a loser with all the crap piled up everywhere that I haven't taken care of. It's shameful. It's sad. I'd much rather do the relaxing thing. That's what I'm cut out for. The schedule of my day should be full of reading and writing and watching film and learning stuff and appreciating all the great things around me. Like the ocean. But I'm trying to keep up. I have to make a list. Actually, more than one. I have to plan my day from beginning to end to make up for enjoying myself for a day or two. It's sad. So sad I already said it.

Corn

Corn
Originally uploaded by ocean1000.

Places I've Been

create your own personalized map of the USA

Sunset

Sunset
Originally uploaded by ocean1000.

Memory is always a little fuzzy, but it's still beautiful.

Lyttle Vegas

Life is stressful. There are always problems. Work doesn't pay me enough. My peers and teachers think I'm crazy. Funny, but crazy. My friends don't understand me. My family doesn't bother to try. My house is a wreck. There is always drama. Every day I hope I can make it through without a meltdown. Sometimes I make it. Sometimes I don't.

So I went away for a weekend. Actually just overnight, but it felt like it was a world away. A ride in the car to a new place; to Lyttle Vegas. I get out of the car and smell the trees, and feel the wind in my face. And my favorite person is there, quiet and smiling. And there are kids, but not really kids. High schoolers. High schoolers with their rebellious ideas that are still devoid of the bitterness that will invade their bodies later. They still laugh and mean it, and it is infectious. They start food fights in the cafeteria, and no one comes to tackle them and carry them off to detention.

They get to live like I forgot how to. They have energy and they giggle and gossip and go to great lengths to annoy one another. Little do they know that it will be second nature before too long. They don't worry about consequences and they are excited about moving into the adult world. They have no idea what a ghetto setup it really is; with no heat, no food on the table, no cozy bed, and no neighborhood watch.

So I sit with them and they laugh, they put their head on my shoulder, they ask me if I'll come back. And before too long, I am laughing, we are hugging, and I really do want to come back. I feel like I fit in with them better than people my own age. Is there something wrong with me, or the people my age? When I'm with them, we don't laugh or giggle or gossip. We snicker and backbite and bitch. Puppies playing became dog eat dog. But I like the kids better. And so does my favorite person. We look at each other every now and then and I know he feels the same as I do. These high school kids are awesome. They are more fun and more interesting than anyone I know on campus. But we eventually have to go, even though the kids are begging us to stay.

There is a house; a weekend cottage where you can't see anyone else. It's beautiful, with its wood floors and wood stove and art everywhere. And a huge porch and an original Stickley. The architect in me got wet just looking at it; and I was so awed I couldn't even sit in it. Just stare like a star struck groupie. We drank a birthday bottle of bubbly and enjoyed the warmth of the fire. Morning brought me outside to the porch, where I could lay in the sun like every other cat did that day. It was quiet, with breakfast and a mocha latte and sleepiness that contentedness brings with it. Another car ride back home and a nap and it's over.

Back to my old life.
It's like I never left.
But it's ok.

Maybe I shouldn't have gone, maybe there are things I shouldn't have said or shouldn't have done.
This is what I say: What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.
No fallout allowed.

Carousel

Carousel
Originally uploaded by ocean1000.

I'm Leaving

Fuck Bush. I hope he burns in hell for all the people who've died at his hands. (CIA, I know you're watching. I dare you to come and get me).

I'm leaving the country for the next 4 years if he "wins". (Anyone in Europe got a place I could crash for a few years?)

And I'm pissed at Ralph Nader. He is the most egotistical jackass on the planet. He is Dubya's masked minion of doom. He has not been a major player in any election he has ever been a part of, and yet he insists on continuing his ridiculous charade. Someone needs to excommunicate him from the policial process. There should be a law for how many times you can fuck up a presidential election. Ralph, let it go. You are never going to get to the oval office. You are insane. And to make matters worse, the only "person" you are helping is the spawn of Satan. Fuck you Ralph Nader. Get off the pot. You are never going to get to be a contesant in this pissing contest.

I Tried.

At least they can't say I didn't try. This girl doesn't like me. I don't know why. She claims she got a bad "vibe" from me, and no one stuck up for me. No one said, maybe you were mistaken, or maybe you don't know her well enough to make such a judgement. Nope. I was the sacrificial lamb in this one, and now I'm the one paying for it. I'm the one who has to make the point to say Oh hello, nice to see you, and Gee what a nice day. She's not going to do it. Today I stood two feet in front of her face, smiling all the while, waiting for her to glance my direction so I could say hello, and she didn't even bother. But of course, I'm the one causing trouble. When I see her later and say hello, I'm greeted with a curt Hi followed by her back. I'm trying. I'm making an effort to fix something that I didn't screw up, and no one, especially her, is trying to make it easier.

But someone will always stick up for her.

She's the one that's new in town; she's the one with troubles, she's the one with loads of schoolwork. Apparently, none of these things apply to me. So I'm unceremoniously slapped with the Bitch label because of a 30 second "impression" she got of me. And now I'm trying to dig myself out with no shovel.

Do I even have friends anymore? Who is there for me when she is the one giving the bad vibe? When she brushes me off her cold shoulder? Is this a catty college version of tit for tat?

I want to sit her down and tell her that she got a wrong impression of me. I want to tell her who I really am. The only thing is, I've tried. She doesn't listen. She only talks. I sat with her for over an hour, listening to various issues in her life, and not once, NOT ONCE, did she ask me about myself. I thought it would be an opportunity for us to get to know each other better, but it was really only an opportunity to be her sounding board. So how is she suddenly an expert on my facial expressions and "vibe"? The only things this woman knows about me are things other people have told her. Can those things really be accurate, or fair? What does she know? What does she not know?

She doesn't know I tried.

Dent

Dent
Originally uploaded by ocean1000.

Ever get that feeling like somone has punched you right in the face?

Repairs

Ugh. My car is in the shop. I hate that. There is nothing like a broken down car to remind you of how hopeless you are. Especially in Southern California. Sure, you can use public transportation, if you don't have get get anywhere. That trip that normally takes ten minutes will take about 4 hours, because you have to ride two buses and a train to get to where you want to go. It's days like this I wish I lived in NYC. Not that I don't at other times, but now especially.

Now I'm forced to ask for help. Which I hate.

Someone has to get me from here to there because my life won't stop for an overheated engine. I have to hope someone won't be too inconvenienced by my helplessness, and they'll take pity on me in my house arrest. There will be no school, no work, no errands until I have help. Damn.

I hate feeling helpless.

Why are cars so expensive? They are charging me $100 and that won't even be fixing anything yet. It's like charging someone for thinking about making a phone call. Or charging for a look at the menu. wtf? It's times like this I wish I'd taken auto shop at the local jc or something. I'm such a girl. The damsel in distress. Rapunzel in the tower.

This is not who I am. I am independent. Just ask my parents...Oh wait, they don't talk to me anymore. Never mind. Ask my ex. (or a few of them) That's probably why they all dumped me anyway. Because every man really wants the damsel in distress, not the girl with her own trusty steed. Which I am now without. My brave white steed is in the shop, eagerly awaiting diagnosis so she can get back on the road.