So, I'm a little drunk right now--fuck yes.
Today was actually a very good day. I went shopping--bought some clothes, including some new unmentionables. It was good. Except for that whole part about not fitting half the sizes that retailers (including outlets) carry, but at this point, it's whatever because I'm in a fantastic mood. Anyway, I'm also sexiled--one more reason to hate Valentine's day, despite the fact that Travis is an awesome guy and I've never seen Justine happier than when she's with him.
And she bought me a cookie for vacating the room for the weekend. That's win material right there.
On a side note--I just realized exactly how drunk I am right now. I've spent the last ten minutes with my headphones in and no music playing...dancing. I mean, it's that weird "I'm-just-gonna-move-my-shoulders-dancing-because-I'm-sitting-on-my-ass" dancing, but meh. It's dancing as far as I'm concerned.
Anyway, back to the story. After we went shopping, we came home--I re-entered sexile and did homework for a while, then we all went to go see a poetry troupe called The Mayhem Poets. I seriously suggest you click that link because they're amazing. Now were back, and since then, I've done shots with Ashley, got a shower, and typed this. And still have a metric shit-ton of homework left for Monday. That's probably not going to get done until 11 tomorrow night.
Another side note--you will never understand how badly I want to make-out with someone (actually, anyone) right now. Shit.
'Night, everyone. <3
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
"Is young a word for dumb...?"
Nicholas,
You haven't so much as spoken to me since last Sunday. Congratulations on making me feel like an ass. I've managed to convince myself that everything is my fault (as usual) and you could honestly care less. Thanks.
I wrote you this--
So what that I wrote it last spring, or that it's not an actual poem--I don't really give a shit at this point. There you go; that's for you. In fact, that is you. And me. And how fucked up you make me feel. And how much I wish I didn't feel like I need to apologize for something I don't even understand.
You haven't so much as spoken to me since last Sunday. Congratulations on making me feel like an ass. I've managed to convince myself that everything is my fault (as usual) and you could honestly care less. Thanks.
I wrote you this--
An arm draped across the shoulders—or a guillotine?
A simple design flaw of a queen-sized-bed,
Or an ignominious display of unspoken affection?
Despite popular belief, a heart exists.
Not made of tin, steel, or another less obvious metal,
But layers of epiderm, keratin, and proteins
Forged by amino acids the same as theirs'.
A flower, dark and solid as granite.
Held by roots of fear and steadied
By a stem of carefully aligned facts,
Chosen for their solidarity and unobjectability.
Leaves of dusty, antiquated ideas of decorum,
Proper behavior and comportment when in public,
reigned over by Victorian petals of emotional superiority.
A ship, lost in the vast, stormy sea.
A crewman calls, “Iceberg. Dead ahead!”
But too late to do anything but brace for the impact.
A leak sprouts in the hull, the men shout
And vainly try to plug the gaping hole with anything near.
The iceberg watches, silently drifting along its path
In the frigid water; ignorant of its devastating nature.
An animal, behind bars by force of will.
And habit. Complacently restive
Behind its transparent wall.
Safe from the hurt incurred by want;
Trained that attempt only allows rejection.
A laboratory rat, conditioned to ask for food
Who knows that the same question often brings pain.
So what that I wrote it last spring, or that it's not an actual poem--I don't really give a shit at this point. There you go; that's for you. In fact, that is you. And me. And how fucked up you make me feel. And how much I wish I didn't feel like I need to apologize for something I don't even understand.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
"In case you haven't heard, I'm sick and tired of trying..."
Dear Nick,
I've got a bone to pick with you, Sir Nicholas. I realize you aren't the type to wear your heart on your sleeve, but neither am I. You hide behind your brains, your looks, your nerdy humor, and you fuck with every girl's head who has ever been even slightly attracted to you. (Oh, by the way, thanks for that, asshole.) I don't know how to put this any more plainly--I LIKE YOU. A damn sight more than you will apparently ever realize.
I despise the way you ignore me for days on end, then all of a sudden, text me, ask me to proofread some ridiculous application for a summer retreat I could literally not care less about, and assume that I should do it because I'm an English major and a better writer than you. Really? Don't even fucking acknowledge that I have stuck my neck out farther to get you to NOTICE me, let alone give a shit about me, and expect me to be ready and willing to fix your grammar at your whim.
I've tried so hard to delude myself into believing that you've never responded simply because you're scared--afraid of the same things as me; of putting yourself out in the open and catching a bullet in the back, of looking like an imbecile in front of every person who's ever called you the smartest person they know, of opening up to someone who will take every word of it for granted. Well, that's exactly what I've done, good Sir. Thank you for reaffirming my belief that it's not worth opening up just to internalize pain like this. Thank you for letting me show you a part of me that my closest friends barely know to exist, and then letting me stew in a broth of anxiety, insecurity, misguided hope, and idealism only to prove that the little part of me everyone tells me I shouldn't listen to was right all along.
And you know, I don't care. I can't. I know I'm guarded, and that I don't tell people everything that I probably should--I bottle things up, I let people slip away from me without them ever realizing that they mean the world to me. And the one concerted effort I make to change that--writing you that letter you so adeptly manage to ignore--and you make me feel like some insignificant creature unworthy of your interest or affection. Excuse me, Your Highness, for daring to breathe the same air as you, for thinking you might actually have a heart-string to pluck. Thank you for deigning to acknowledge my existence and for not squashing me like the insect you so obviously think I am.
I know you will probably never read this, and if you do, you will never parse that this is yours--another letter written with love, from me to you. I know I will never say any of this to your face--I'm not naive enough to even imagine that I have the strength to do so. But, it's true; every word of it. If nothing else, believe that.
Deuces Bitch.
I've got a bone to pick with you, Sir Nicholas. I realize you aren't the type to wear your heart on your sleeve, but neither am I. You hide behind your brains, your looks, your nerdy humor, and you fuck with every girl's head who has ever been even slightly attracted to you. (Oh, by the way, thanks for that, asshole.) I don't know how to put this any more plainly--I LIKE YOU. A damn sight more than you will apparently ever realize.
I despise the way you ignore me for days on end, then all of a sudden, text me, ask me to proofread some ridiculous application for a summer retreat I could literally not care less about, and assume that I should do it because I'm an English major and a better writer than you. Really? Don't even fucking acknowledge that I have stuck my neck out farther to get you to NOTICE me, let alone give a shit about me, and expect me to be ready and willing to fix your grammar at your whim.
I've tried so hard to delude myself into believing that you've never responded simply because you're scared--afraid of the same things as me; of putting yourself out in the open and catching a bullet in the back, of looking like an imbecile in front of every person who's ever called you the smartest person they know, of opening up to someone who will take every word of it for granted. Well, that's exactly what I've done, good Sir. Thank you for reaffirming my belief that it's not worth opening up just to internalize pain like this. Thank you for letting me show you a part of me that my closest friends barely know to exist, and then letting me stew in a broth of anxiety, insecurity, misguided hope, and idealism only to prove that the little part of me everyone tells me I shouldn't listen to was right all along.
And you know, I don't care. I can't. I know I'm guarded, and that I don't tell people everything that I probably should--I bottle things up, I let people slip away from me without them ever realizing that they mean the world to me. And the one concerted effort I make to change that--writing you that letter you so adeptly manage to ignore--and you make me feel like some insignificant creature unworthy of your interest or affection. Excuse me, Your Highness, for daring to breathe the same air as you, for thinking you might actually have a heart-string to pluck. Thank you for deigning to acknowledge my existence and for not squashing me like the insect you so obviously think I am.
I know you will probably never read this, and if you do, you will never parse that this is yours--another letter written with love, from me to you. I know I will never say any of this to your face--I'm not naive enough to even imagine that I have the strength to do so. But, it's true; every word of it. If nothing else, believe that.
Deuces Bitch.
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