I’m hitting a manic phase right now. Mmph….. hopefully, I’m writing this at the tail end. And it’s better than it used to be. See – complete sentences and everything! I want to say there’s more discipline in my body and the mind follows. But it’s more like there’s more purity in my mind and the emotions are overruled.

Everyone keeps trying to set me up with people they know. At least once a week, I get propositioned with “Come to _______, I have a friend/brother/neighbor I think you’ll like.” And inevitably, it’s some decent, nice guy who has some of the qualities on my list for suitable life partner, but more often than not, he’s much too young.
“He looks so serious….. Is he serious?…. Being a Marine, I s’pose he’s got to be somewhat serious about….. stuff,” I ramble, mostly to myself, as I hold the glossy bit of color between my forefinger and my thumb. I glance from the photo to the father and find no resemblance other than the straight slash of a small and inexpressive mouth, the downturn at the corner of the eyes.
“That’s his graduation photo. They told him to look that way when it was being taken,” he responds.
“Hm…… He’s definitely handsome…… How old is he again?”
“Nineteen.”
“………..Cradle Robber!” I gasp, “I’m not a Cradle Robber!”
“How old are you???”
“I’m old!” I want to tell him I’m 35, because that’s what I tell everyone else. Makes me feel …. I dunno, Warhol-esque. But I settle for telling him I’m almost 30, which is technically true. Dita tells me I look/act like I’m 25, which is prolly why I keep getting set up with the young’uns.
Seriously, I’d like someone more my age – in all aspects of that phrase.

“Smoking is bad for you,” he mutters, sliding into the passenger seat of my car.
I turn my head to face him as my key twists in the ignition, the car jumps to life and in the gloomy half-hearted light of the parking lot, I find the glint of accusation in his eyes.
“Living is bad for me,” I gently correct him, but the smile only makes it halfway across my lips.

Would you give it up?
That somber silence stealing sound,
So complete, so perfect, so absolute zero in its
Weather. Would you give it up?
That darkness, for lack of better words
To describe a unique affliction. That
Miasma of color as black as your father’s hair and
Genetics, it must be genetics that you can blame it on.
But would you
Give that up, that cave of unending isolation,
That sadistic promise of solitude,
Carried inside you despite the crush of bodies
And the thrum of voices
And the Whats and Whos of living.

If you gave it up,
If you give over, and listen up,
If you turned over and swallowed it up,
And let the meds fill you like the undesired
Cum of ones that burn your shell with claws like fire,
(for lack of better words). Just so you could
Not be so empty, and alone, and all those
Adjectives that are too profanely small
To describe how endless such boxless
Potential can be.

Then you could have it,
That other type of quiet they call
Normal. That other type of darkness they call
Safe. That other type of life that you call Boring,
Pathetic, Pointless.
You could lose it, that wondrous silence
That makes each word gleam like jewels in twilight,
That lovely darkness that makes each sight blinding
In its wondrous lucidity. So losing that, but gaining the other,
You could have what they want for you,
At the cost of your Self,
And you could have, with that medicated, sedated emptiness,
An easier acceptance of
The lack of better words.

“Hey, good job on the ‘Outside the Box Thinking’.”
“Wha-?” I asked, lifting my head from the nebulous swirls of thought
that recede like a reluctant tide. “What box?! There’s a box now?!!”

Apparently, some of you are kinda lacking in the brain cell department,
so here are some blatantly obvious answers that I hope no other writer
ever has to stoop to explain:

* Yes, the posts are about me and my life. For fuck’s sake, let me
spell it out for you. Replace “she” with “I” wherever it is logically
appropriate. Which leads to the next question:

* Who is “He”? If you know me IRL, you’ll know who I’m talking about.
If not, just be content to know that these bastards/ sex gods/ lost
loves exist somewhere in the world.

* Am I “ok”? If you have to ask me that, you’re not ready for the answer.

Look, I don’t give a flying fuck who reads this. But bear in mind the
binding pledge you make when you do (and most of y’all should already know this). Here’s the fine print: By reading this blog I
acknowledge that, regardless of the views and opinions written herein,
I will not interfere with the life (or lack thereof) of the writer, or
use the context of this blog against said writer in any way shape or
form.

Love the irony of that statement.

“There is …. a great capacity for evil in you,” the young student intoned in a quiet, knowing voice wrapped with modulated comfort, “but you show power enough to contain it.”
She blinked once. Twice. The news was somewhat funny in its disturbingness. Perhaps…. perhaps he mistranslated? Said words similar to but not exactly the same as what they would be in his original language?
“O-kaaaaay……. someone’s been reading too many fantasy novels,” she finally responded, taking her hand back from where he had been grasping it in a slowly burning grip. He looked up from where he’d been staring at her palm and shook his head slightly, refocusing on her face.
“It also depends on how one defines ‘evil’” he quipped flippantly.
No, nothing wrong with his English, then.

---

“You think this is fucking easy for me?!!!” she screamed, oblivious to the whip of the howling storm around her and her eyes gleamed in the overcast light of dusk. “You think I LIKE being this way? Because I could change it you know… you have no fucking idea how hard… how hard it is to just maintain!”
He stood with a relaxed facade but the tenseness in his left calf muscle and the left forearm belied an emotion that could – would soon be fear. Her eyes flinched at that, even now assessing and processing the rate of his breathing and the dilation of his pupils as he watched her pacing, a mouse cornered by an obviously disturbed feline.
“Don’t ever let me get this close to you again,” she suddenly whispered in a fast and frantic breath stalking towards him, “Don’t let me know your secrets. You have to be better than that – better than me at knowing yourself – I could destroy you – I’ve done it before god how I could destroy you and you wouldn’t even know it until I left you and you’d be nothing. Nothing! because that’s what I do – I destroy people and everything I touch I kill because that’s what I am - that’s what I do and I want to do it now; I want to destroy you for saying something like that and there’s nothing you could do to stop me because I already know you too well.”
She paused, the momentum of her words having carried her so close to him he could see the ring of dull black surrounding her dark irises. In the gloom of the alcove that sheltered them from the apathetic thud of heavy rain, her pupils bled through any remaining color in her eyes and held him transfixed in their imitation of lunacy.
Suddenly, she stumbled backwards, grace leaving her with the arrival of the revelation of their proximity but “This is just an act. I’m a wonderful actress when I need to be,” she said, returning to her normal voice and demeanor so casually it was jarring. With her face hidden by shadow and a voice sheathed in clinical coolness she listed:
“I know you look up and to the right when you’re trying to remember something, you look up to the left when you’re trying to lie.
I know you stand with your right hand in your pocket and your weight on your left foot when you’re nervous in front of people you don’t know.
I know you say ‘like’ and ‘you know’ after every second sentence when you’re excited about something.
I know that’s the only shirt you think is ‘cool’ enough to wear at night – that’s fucking annoying – you need to buy more clothes because you look like fucking Charlie Brown.
I know you make fun of your brother because he scares you with how smart he is and that if you eased up on him and actually let him be himself, he’d be so much better at being a decent human being than you could ever be and that’s why you won’t cut him any slack.
I know you value the opinion of others more than you think you do because you make empty gestures that have no real meaning because that’s what you think they expect and that’s ok, because we all do that sometimes, but at least I can be honest with myself.
I know you’re not really that good in bed, even though we’ve never had sex, because you’re not confident enough in your own skin.
I know you don’t think you make enough money, I know you favor your left hand when you’re aroused, I know the things you really want, your secret hopes and desires, but you’re too much of a coward to say them.
Yup, I could destroy you and it would be as easy as breathing……”
He backed up and leaned against the frigid wall, inhaling through a quickly burning cigarette.
The wind continued to moan around them but the alcove was silent enough for him to hear her regain an even and measured breath.
“That’s why I’m like this,” she continued, her voice suddenly sounding lost and childish. “S’why I stay at home sometimes, s’why I don’t take a harder job – it takes so much energy just to maintain this ….. tight control over myself. It makes me tired…….. so tired sometimes, just to keep pretending – acting. I can’t shut my brain off….. believe me, the crack helps, but I don’t want to rely on it too much…. I can’t find the middle ground….. So I pretend to be mostly asleep to the world because sometimes it’s painful to know that much, to have all those secrets inside me and then to stop myself from using them….. I don’t want to be manipulative.”
“Please don’t let me be manipulative,” she pleaded, to who, he didn’t know.
Silence again, with his cheap watch ticking seconds away and he could see the change in her posture, the stiffening of her shoulders a second before she turned with a paced slowness to face him, anger again shifting her face to a cold mask he was growing accustomed to seeing.
“So don’t you fucking say that my life is easy, that I should be happy, that I have everything I could ever want, you sorry bastard. Don’t you fucking tell me that I should want more for myself, or that I could get a better paying job, or – or whatever other stupid thing comes to that walnut sized mass of cells you call your pathetic excuse of a brain. You will never know anything this difficult. You will never make these choices. And you will never feel this alone.”

Begin the Obligatory Valentine’s Day Commentary:

In case it’s not clear, and for those of you who haven’t been privvy to the other sites, this will be my First Ever Valentine’s Day alone. Single. Un-Valentined.

Well, Fuck.

I came to the realization less than a week ago. It was one part sad and two parts freeing. It was while browsing around a department store that I took a wrong turn and ended up at the fragrant boundary between fine watches and men’s colognes when a delectably tingling scent sent my primal brain into overdrive. I growled and prowled to the perfume counter, sniffing like a barbaric cave woman, hunting through the myriad of spice and musk until I found a plain blue bottle. Picking it up, I inhaled deeply and my legs turned to liquid, my spine arched, and I bit my lip to hold back a needy whimper.
Placing the bottle back on the counter with a loud thunk to get the attention of some hapless customer service representative, my mind woke up a little to remind me (goddamn it!) that I had no one to buy it for. Huh……
I wanted to be bitter – as is the norm if one is to go by the endless banality spouted in American sitcoms. I wanted to complain loudly and to anyone within hearing distance that I would be un-Valentined this year. I wanted to partake in ex-boyfriend paraphernalia pyromancy, all-single-people-only bitter dinner and sleepover, or any other rite of passage for individuals who are Valentine-bereft. Alas, and ironically, I could not find it in my heart – that feeling of indignation and entitlement. Valentine’s Day is for Lovers celebrating each other, for fuck’s sake! Just as I am not Jewish or Chinese, would I spite them their respective holidays? And for crying out loud, I’ve gotten enough Valentines in the last decade to soothe my pride – do I really need to be greedy and demand more out of the universe?
So, to all of you who happen to be on the brink of a new relationship, or those who are marking another milestone on a journey with your soul mate, have a lovely Valentine’s day. As for the rest of us, a toast to remembering a past love – if only for one poignant moment – and wishing them the best wherever they are, and a toast to hopeful possibilities that may, someday, give us what our hearts desire.

“You need to stand up straight.”
“I am standing up straight,” my sister replied.
From where I hovered on the landing of the stairs, I could hear my dad and my sister’s voices drift down in a strange argument. They traded insistencies while I gazed out the front window, still half-asleep and mostly dreaming. Tuning out the words and focusing on their voices, my jaw unconsciously tensed when their tones took on more aggravated shades.
“I’ll wait in the car,” I yelled up to my sister, and escaped the atmosphere that was becoming too heavy with frustration at too early an hour.
I sat in the driver’s seat, motor purring away and cigarette pluming in the cold air gusting in from my open window. I watched my sister walk towards the car, long hair swinging with every step. She looked healthy and whole and perfect to me.
“What was that all about?” I asked as she settled herself and buckled her seat belt.
“Pappy just gave me a complex,” she replied, half amused and half bitter. She continued: “He said I slouch and now I think I’m gonna be hunch-backed.”
I think about what it means to be a sister and reply “You know, dance is really good for improving your posture. There’s a lot of things you can’t do unless you hold your back a certain way.” I won’t validate or negate what he said because obviously he hit a nerve of what you think is truth if he can make you feel this way, so I’ll give you information until/unless you give me a signal that let’s me know more about how you feel.
“Why does he have to pick on my posture?” Doesn’t he accept me for what I am? I just got a new job for fuck’s sake, can’t I make him happy?
“Eh, it’s his way of showing affection. You know, like I give everyone nicknames.” Because he grew up in a different world, and he doesn’t really talk to anyone else our age, and he does love you and accept you, but he wants you to know that there’s always more to life than what you alone can see, and you know how much mammy and pappy value appearances.
She’s quiet, thoughtful, as I pull up to the entrance of her building.
“Are you gonna pick me up or should I call mammy?” Thanks for listening and not exacerbating the problem with your own judgement.
“Give me a call and tell me if I need to be here at 5 or 5:30.” That’s what I’m here for.

“So I went to the bar, and I asked this girl – she said she was just in town for business which is good cuz I’ll never have to see her again – but I asked this girl that if she could honestly rate me on a scale of 1 to 10, what would I be, and she said zero!”
I sat down on the second step of the stairs in my ex’s apartment and picked up a squashy cat to brush while I listened to him rant.
“A zero!” he repeated.
“Did you ask her what her IQ was? Or – better yet – did you tell her she was a 3?” I smirkingly replied to the musical genius.
“No, but I should have. I mean, I was kind of expecting…. oh, I don’t know… a 6? What would you
rate me as?”
“An 8. But then again, you can’t really rely on that. I have a very skewed outlook,” I said bluntly.
“I’m starting to think that women are -”
“Crazy? Stupid? Insipid, vapid, and superficial creatures?”
“I was going to say complex.”
“Hm.”
“What do you look for in a guy, then?” he asked, with only the barest whisper of painful regret that tinges all past lovers’ voices when they ask that question.
“Well, firstly, intelligence,” I quickly supplied, picking a handful of fur from the brush and raising a brow reproachfully at his negligence in taking care of the cat. He motioned for me to continue. “Kindness and understanding. A good sense of humor. Responsibility and a sense of solidness in his character.”
“You can’t tell all that in a chance meeting at a bar.”
“And yet we ended up together.”
“Point…. But be superficial for a second. You know….. average.”
I tilt my head to the side and close off most of my brain to remember the physical aspects of my past relationships. “I like the way his hair feels between my fingers when I hold his head in my hands when we kiss. An open and friendly smile that makes me feel like all is good and well. The way his body exudes health and security, like he could protect me from anything. And hands, strong, long fingered hands that can touch me like I’m made of glass or force me to my knees.”
“So you want a man that has a decent haircut, good teeth, muscles, and um, strong hands?” he smirks at my last description.
“I guess.” I shrug noncommittally. “But above all, and what opens the possibilities in my heart, is that he understands me.”
He stands still from his pacing, one foot bearing all his weight as he processes the information.
“You mean to tell me that you have x-ray vision,” he finally states.
“Huh?”
“What you’re saying is…. you can see what’s inside The Package and appreciate the Gift inside.”
“…. Maybe I’m just saying that…. I don’t try to dismiss or appreciate blindly what I’m given until I’ve Seen the whole thing.”
“And you See a lot?”
I think about how brightly my chosen friends and companions shine in the darkness of the mundane mentality of the masses. How their acts of world- and self-improvement make them stunning to behold. Their gestures, their facial expressions, so open with hope or calculating with intelligence, such joie de vivre in juxtaposition with the suspicious hostility and rudeness of everyone around them draws me like a beacon. Things I could never have discovered based on sight alone.
“I See enough.”

So, I don’t think I get it. It’s confusing, knowing that appearances count for so much. It’s like trying to choose between two presents, one wrapped in plain brown paper and the other one festooned with ribbons and screaming for attention. Who can tell me which will be the more precious gift? But….. maybe it doesn’t work that way. I mean, we dress ourselves (for the most part) and take care of our own Packaging, so to speak. We put our personalities into our choices about how to cut our hair or wear what color lipgloss. Should it be so surprising, then, for people to judge us based on such self-constructed advertisements of what we can offer? Is that why what seems to be superficial rejection hurts us to the quick? How can I be so adamant in my insistence that how I look on the outside is nothing compared to how kind I can be, when I take such horrific glee in wearing a beautiful pair of pumps?
But then again, not everyone likes shoes the way I do.
So then I guess we value The Package to varying degrees. We can let it tell us all we need to know, or we can let it be an invitation to find out more for ourselves. It could be like picking up a book based on the cover and putting it back on the shelf after a cursory glance, or flipping to the first page and finding a new beloved author, loading your arms with the rest of the series, and stumbling to the counter under a mountain of unexplored territory. It’s not so hard to know what kind of person I am; it’s just sometimes frustrating sharing this world with the other type, and seeing the pain such hasty judgements can cause.

“Describe it to me.”
“It’s like…. I’m wearing a heavy locket, and it’s made of something hard, warm, resting right here,” she said, tapping on her sternum with rigid fingers.
“What else?”
“My face….. it feels hot inside my skin but it’s cold when I touch it with my fingers. And my fingers…. they feel like they’re covered in tissue paper – you know, the kind you wrap shirts in before you put them in the box….”
“I’m going to give you a mirror and I want you to really look at your face, ok?”
“Ok.”
“Now, looking at this piece of paper, can you point to the figure that looks like what your face looks like?”
She points to a caricature and the therapist slides a slot below it to reveal a word.
“That’s sadness you’re feeling. It’s called ‘being sad’”
“………Oh……”
“It’s all right to feel that way sometimes.”
“But……. it feels Bad.”
“I know.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid of something, and I’m scared you’ll think it’s stupid.”
“Everything is stupid at some point.”
The girl let her gaze fall to the doctor’s shoes and chewed her lip then exhaled “What if I don’t know how to love?”
The doctor waited for the girl to continue.
“I mean, what if….. I don’t think I know how it’s supposed to feel. I mean, I hear people say it to each other all the time, but it doesn’t make sense to me because what they do to each other….. is that really what you do to people you Love?”
“What do you think you’re supposed to do or feel?”
“I think…. I think you’re supposed to want to be with each other all the time, but it’s ok when you’re not. And I think that…. that you respect what they do and say and the choices they make even if you don’t agree. I think that you want them to be the best they can be and they’d want the same for you. I think that being with the other person – it should bring you joy, and comfort.”
“That sounds a lot like – “
“Being friends. But it should feel like ….. like if you lost that person, you’re whole world would be destroyed.”
“A bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”
“Can anything less be called Love?”

“I’m going to miss this,” he said.
“What?”
“This,” and the muscles in his wiry arms worked under her fingers as he gestured to take in the room. She leaned up from where she was laying to look at his expression, her dark hair a fragrant curtain around both their faces. He turned his head slightly to avoid her gaze but she could see his lips twitching downward in a serious frown. Smoothing the blond strands from his forehead, she marveled at the play of light and dark that composed the union of their bodies; her black-brown locks cascading over the smooth paleness of his cheeks and the fine spun-gold featheriness of his hair between her sun-kissed fingers.
Impulsively, she kissed the edge of his mouth to gently soothe the frown.
“You’re going to miss sex?” she asked with an impish grin.
“You know what I mean.”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
He tensed, and she thought it was an indecision between pushing her off and pulling her closer that made him quiver underneath her. He brought a hand to her bare chest, the skin still raw and tingling from earlier exertions, and she moved unconsciously towards his touch, but he brought his palm to rest between her breasts.
“Did you ever really give me this?” he asked, more rhetorical than questioning from the wistful way he whispered it.
A dozen glib responses fluttered through her brain but never quite made it to her lips that lifted in a sad smile. She stared into that precious and maddening face, overcome by grief at things that could have been but would never be.
“I could tell you that it was yours before we even met,” she finally said. “And I could tell you it’s yours forever. I could tell you that of all the loves I’ve loved, I Love you the most. ….. I could say that when I leave, that wherever I go, I’ll never be complete again. But I won’t.” She grasped the hand he held to her chest, squeezing the fingers tightly against her own. “I’ll never tell you those things.”
He brought his other hand to her face and brushed his thumb against her lips then over her cheek, trying to memorize the feel of her sweat-damp skin and the contours of a visage he would have gladly woken up to every morning for the rest of his life. Cupping the back of her head, he brought her down for a sweet and tender press of goodbye to the tremulous smile that shattered the silence in the echoing emptiness where his heart had been.
When the stillness of the moment passed, he whispered to her “Then I’ll never tell you that you’ve destroyed me. That others will come and go, but I will Love you forever. And I’ll never tell you that I wish we’d never met because I don’t know how I’ll survive this, and I’ll never forgive you for bringing me to life and killing me a thousand times over.”

Or: What I do with my Friday Nights.

So apparently, I’ve become quite a “regular” at Mollys. I don’t know when that happened. Prolly around the same time I realized that I’d been out every weekend night for the past 7 weeks or so. And after all that, I think I’d spent a total of $8 on drinks. And that was for my ex-boss who hung out with us that one time. Just a few nights ago, though, I must have spent around $40 buying drinks for friends who’d *ahem* recently lost their jobs.
Friday night, I was already pretty toasted when my little sister walks onto the Mollys patio where me and a few friends are hanging out. I see her walking to our table, point at her, and screech “You are not here right now!” Yeah, I was that drunk. I mean, she’s my little sister! I don’t know when I’ll stop thinking of her as “too young to drink.” But yeah, she was there, and I bought her and her friend a beer. S’weird how she can drink me under the table too. Must be because she’s still fresh out of college and her tolerance is still high. Or she gets it from my dad.
The Nipple Toucher – Giorgio – was there again that night. I like dancing with him because he has so much fun just being on the dance floor. Too many guys take it way too seriously for some reason. Just relax for fuck’s sake! But not Giorgio. He’s swaying and smarming and doing all sorts of weird shit. And it’s all good because he doesn’t give a fuck! And that’s what’s so great about dancing with him – he has so much fun touching his own nipples that you can’t help but laugh and he laughs right along with you. Like me, he talks while he dances. I can’t understand more than half of what he says, and most times the music is too loud to really hear clearly, but the stuff I can understand has me laughing so hard I think I might pass out. Like: “There’s not enough makeup in the world to make that face look good” and “He’s either very rich or very good in bed to be with someone like her.”
Then he shakes his head and laughs at my dancing.
He’s Turkish but he owns an Italian restaurant in …… some city. I can’t tell where because his accent is so thick. I really want to know so I can get some free food….
Saturday night was the first time I’d ever been to Mollys on a non-Friday night. My brother showed up this time, while I was sitting at the bar eating dinner (a scoop of nocciola gelato) and he sat down on the stool next to me. Buy me a drink and put me on your tab, I say to him, which must have sounded rather strange to Irish who I was on the phone with at the time. She thought I was requesting it of a stranger until I told her that my brother had just shown up. If you’re gonna be a regular here, he says, then you should know the other regulars. So, Long Island Iced Tea in hand, I let him lead me around the bar and he introduces me to two bouncers – Neill and JD; a married couple who play pool there before the DJ gets in, Vicky and Mark; and the coat-check girl, “P” girl. We sat around for a bit until Mr. Big got there and my brother took off to play a round of pool. I told Mr. Big about my horrible week as we watched other people trickle in and it was almost strange; the Saturday night crowd was distinctly different. Prolly a decade older I would say. Slim pickin’s for Mr. Big, unfortunately. Which I don’t understand. I mean, I dance with any guy that will ask. I think it’s a habit I picked up from Ballroom dancing, where there’s usually a 2:1 ratio between men and women, and it’s practically policy to dance with anyone who asks you. Another rule I unthinkingly follow is that you don’t dance with the same guy for more than one consecutive song unless a) you’re a couple or b) you have an interest in him. Consequently, it’s the utmost in impoliteness to monopolize a woman for more than one song unless a) you’re a couple or b) you’re seriously interested in pursuing a meaningful relationship, can you have her number, and would it be all right to call her the following day.
So the whole thing with going to a bar, hanging out around the dance floor, and then saying no when someone asks you to dance just kind of blows my mind with how unbelievably rude it is! I always want to grab the woman by the shoulders, shake some sense into her, and yell “Then what the fuck are you doing here?” Because it’s obvious you’re not having a good time, it’s too loud to “talk” with your friends, and you’re bobbing your head to the beat like you want to dance. I seriously, seriously don’t know what the problem with women is these days. But then something happened which kind of made me look at it from a different perspective. While I was standing at the edge of the dance floor, a guy touched my elbow to get my attention. (Just in case you’re wondering, that’s the polite way of getting a woman’s attention if you’re in a crowded area like a bar.) He leans over and asks me if Mr. Big is my boyfriend. I reply that no, Mr.Big is not my boyfriend, just a friend I’ve known since we were kids. He looks at me and asks if I’m sure. Well duh I’m sure. I would know if I had a boyfriend. Then he asks if Mr. Big will mind if I dance with another guy and I’m thinking, ok, is this the reason why guys keep looking at me like they want to ask me to dance but they don’t – because they think Mr. Big is my really tall, really muscular boyfriend who would prolly most likely bash their skulls in if they even talked to me?
Mr. Big finally gets a chance to dance with a girl I pointed out as being rather cute and I’m happy that he looks happy and only later do I find out why. But she kept asking him if I was his girlfriend. What is it with these people? Don’t couples usually … oh, I don’t know, kiss and cuddle and stuff? I mean, isn’t it usually obvious when a couple is a “couple” and if you have to ask, doesn’t it mean that they’re not? Am I painfully old fashioned? Do I need to watch more tv to learn about how people interact? I watched an entire hour of the cooking network tonight – some Iron Chef show because my sister had it on. Does that count?
Ok, that’s enough of me unwinding my brain. Just had to get these thoughts on paper screen since things are kind of noisy up there.
I’m angry about a lot of things. But I think the thought that isn’t the loudest but certainly the most annoying is that although being alone is not a bad thing, it is a very lonely thing indeed…..
Maybe my standards are too high. I mean, does he really need to know the difference between irony and oxymoron?
*Sigh*
Sometimes I think I’d settle for someone who could spell “tomorrow” right.

But maybe…… maybe all he has to do is Love me.

---

“Sex with a stupid person makes me feel dirty.”
“In a bad way or a good way?”
“………….. Depends on the day.”