the bothering explained

confusion bordering on terror alights the stairs of my apartment with me. locked my keys inside my apartment for the first time. I cannot hide the unmistakable sight of what appears to be sadness, depression, deep despair, and what is really just aimless confusion.

part of why I bother with anyone is because I want to clear up the confusions, I want to get an answer to the questions I have, and it feels interesting that the people who cause me the most strife receive the biggest portion of my attentions. once I know you'll love me for life, I tend to disappear.

mostly, I am just weary of always counting down the days until my "real life" happens.

and yet, the last few days have been full of freshness. and joy. and the kind of experiences that never seem long enough.

a timeline:

8:34 a.m. I awake, groggy. lots of drinking the night before at ranalli's. there was a drinking game with the show 24. slept about six and a half hours. the first things I think of make me groan.

9:17 a.m. running to catch the train that is crawling overheard on the tracks. I make the train, but am out of breath. I try to read Madame Bovary, but my head spins and I feel a wave of nausea so strong, I consider getting off the train and standing over a garbage bin for a while. But I am late, and have no time for possibly vomiting on cta property.

9:57 a.m. I become one of those customers at Starbucks that I have always hated: I ask for a piece of marble loaf "that isn't exposed to the air."

10:05 a.m. I arrive at Diane's out of breath, laden with sbux and not really ready to work, but oh well, such is life.

11:59 a.m. I leave Diane's slightly annoyed, late for Siena. We have accomplished a lot, but there is a crick in my neck, a migraine is threatening to surface, and whenever I point out things that Diane's done wrong, she somehow finds a way to blame it on me. such is my lot in life.

12:05 p.m. Kim sighs when I arrive. she seems to finally be getting used to my being late, at least, you'd think so.

105-2:35 p.m. Walter arrives and we debrief about the previous evening's racous events. I make possibly the best sandwich on the planet and eat it into extinction with satisfying noises and praises.

3:34 p.m. A man seems to find the idea of pulling the change game on me a sure thing, but unfortunately for him, even though I am hungover, my ability to work on auto-pilot and my peripheral observational skills are still functioning at optimum capacity, so he leaves after a yelling match with no extra money and calls me a bitch.

3:40 p.m. I count the drawer and it is neither over nor under, which means that guy was a total asshole.

4:42 p.m. Rob comes in and distracts me from my work in the best way possible: stories told and shared brownie and doughnut. I sit in the front and put my feet up on a stool.

6:37 p.m. Kim calls to check in and I am still way behind on the closing tasks, as usual. She's opening tomorrow so everything has to be p-e-r-f-e-c-t.

7: 15 p.m. I am late for meeting Kim. of course. one of our customers has comped us tickets to his neo-classical concert. Even though it is cold, we go. Even though Kim is mad at me for a dozen things I've done wrong lately, we go. Even though the idea of spending two hours with someone whose business I just closed with the utmost anxiety via perfectionism that makes me want to wither and die, we go.

9:23 p.m. the concert was fantastic. Mr. Burns led the group in the bears fighting song as a suprise. the reception in the lobby is decent, we half hug and say our greetings. Kim eats a lot of desserts. I people watch. When I realize what time it is, I panic. I'm supposed to be at school, meeting my new friend dustin, and typing a journal entry for this site. instead I'm nibbling on mushroom and onion quesidillas made by fox & obel and watching my boss eat her third mini puff pastry with powdered sugar on top that floats in the air and lands on her five hundred dollar cashmere sweater, looking like lint or worse yet, dandruff.

9:48 p.m. I meet dustin in the depaul center. He is accompanied by a classmate whose presence irks me somewhat, but not enough to make me ignore him. he's not coming with us, which is good.

10:22 p.m. dustin and I stop off at dunkin' donuts at clark and division for a "pick-me-up" in the form of a donut called "glazed stick." I love words and descriptions of things. we are instant friends and we dissolve together.

11:04 p.m. we enter our destination: neo. dustin wants to get to know the place, and I seem to know about it, since it's down the street from siena.

11:05p.m. -1:36 a.m. after a couple drinks, dustin's ready for the dance floor. it takes one more and some encouragement from a weirdo named elvis for me to join him. I actually dance and don't care how I must look to people. but I cannot stop people watching. of course.

1:37 a.m. after elvis leaves our table and goes back out to the dance floor, we make a hasty exit, but not before writing him a note on a napkin, "it was nice to meet you. thanks for the stories. d + c." not sure if dustin finds this odd or cool, but he assesses this and then we depart.

1:46 a.m. dustin and I are walking to the train and he is letting me lavish him with words and laughing heartily at my wisdom and humor. it is fun to talk to him.

2:07 a.m. the dominick's is closed. the train beckons. we stand on the platform and talk about whether or not life is purely destiny or free will or some combination of the two. my brain, which is buzzed and still operating as high speed peripheral observatory realizes that the only other person standing two feet away from us on the platform was just dancing at neo with us. weird.

2:23 a.m. dustin has disembarked at belmont. after he leaves, the man who was also at neo comes over and begins to strike up an awkward conversation with me in which he introduces himself and then asks what sort of music gets played at neo on wednesday. I don't know the answer.

2:37 a.m. a man sitting on the train car stands to exit at granville. my telescope turns to view this movement and he nods at me and then gestures towards the doors of the train as if to say, join me. I smile and turn my head to the window. I am a little freaked. what the fuck?!

2:40 a.m. I get off the train and wave goodbye to edward, the fellow neo dancer. he waves back.

2:40:09 a.m. dustin texts me, "hit that shit."

2:40:14 a.m. I literally, actually: lol.

2:45 a.m. I enter my apartment to find it slightly rearranged: a carbon monoxide detector was installed in my apartment today. someone came into my apartment to plug a carbon monoxide detector into an outlet on the wall.

3:13 a.m. I want to collapse into sleep, but my promise to write lures me to my laptop. I begin typing this here entry.

4:01 a.m. I am turning off the light. good night.

yes, the night escaped me

as I tunnelled through all that I know in my head, swimming past those deep thoughts and assurances, pushing them away like the water that must be moved so that you can proceed forward,

the night escaped me.

and inside the bubble that I created there was warmth, more warmth than I have felt in months, so much that it nearly suffocated me and I could hardly sleep for it laid over me in layers like gauze, my lips went dry and my throat seized up.

I should be exhausted now, covered in a layer of fine dust and grime, for I was unfathomably reckless and careless of what will come, what will happen next, indulging only in what was before me, and it was perfect. if this is living in the moment, I want to be there as much as possible.

everything seems so easy now, so simple, but I know there is no solution to this problem [a deep-seated frustration with people that leads me to wonder why bother]; especially not in his arms. but I went looking in there anyway, perhaps because they were open to me and I needed love.

also, I wonder if I am ready to believe him. If I am not, then maybe this is all a waste of time.

but what else are we here to do other than to waste time?

"newly baffled strangers"

the joy that rises in my chest from the company I've been keeping has been so thoroughly fulfilling that I feel I might explode from happiness. it seems strange to realize that all these wonderful people have been surrounding me for a while and it is only now that I have awoken to their presence and personalities and I find them to be such tremendous people that I almost quaver in their presence, as a fear trembles over me that I might somehow ruin it all if I say the wrong thing.

my new year's resolution has been the driving force behind this, and yet, it had already begun some months ago with the inclusion of annie and walter (two amazing and incredibly warm and fuzzy coffee shop customers) into my social bosom. all day I wondered how I could wait until Monday to speak with annie again. today I had a sushi lunch with walter and it was like spending time with someone who knows you so well that you don't even have to talk, yet there is always something to say, no matter how many times I hang out with him. then there is my coworker val, who has the kind of laugh that makes you yearn to say funny things just so you can hear it again and again. her delight in me gives me great pleasure, and I can only hope she feels my appreciation of her good values, sense of humor and kindness in each of my expressions to her. we went to see a movie and I spoiled her with peanut butter hershey's kisses and hot cheetos, and we reveled in our own secret jokes.

yesterday I got to hang out with beth, who I realize I haven't seen in many months, and her husband ed, and their pets, and I literally found myself sitting back in one of their newly accquired dining room chairs and simply being in the moment, resting, completely content, a feeling I have not had in some time.

my conversation with them is awkward, and sometimes intimate, as if they can see past my physical self and right into my innermost thoughts, and I know this is just a symptom of my loneliness, which I had not realized plagued me so deeply until today.

a man who comes to the coffeeshop quite often who happens to physically resemble my old roommate greg: entered and I engaged him in the most gregarious and whooping kind of statements that he, quite frankly, seemed baffled by, because there is no history of that between us, just polite and perfunctory exchanges, and it occurred to me that I miss my old roommate greg quite a lot, a lot more than I would ever admit as an answer if that question was posed. of course, when I am no longer forced to endure his presence, I find myself fondly recalling the moments that were good between us and feel forlorn enough to wonder if it really was so bad after all.

[can you tell I am reading a classic novel?]

the return of olive oyl.

as a kid, one of the few verbal barbs that the children managed to muster up in an effort to make fun of me was calling me "Olive Oyl!" And really that was probably one of the most perfect things to call me, since I was indeed as skinny as a rail, tall, with big feet while being slightly and awkardly attractive.

in high school, gentle curves began to take over my body and I wasn't the tallest girl around and no one was smart enough to call me names (they simply resorted to snickering or laughing in my presence).

after high school, my body slowly expanded outward. in my lack of knowledge about nutrition, I prepared meals that would have nicely fed someone vying for a spot on the football team, carbs, carbs, and more carbs, followed closely with protein and sweets.

lately, people have been wondering how I've gotten so skinny again (or in some cases, they forgot how big I'd gotten). somehow, I can only explain that my best diet seems to be breaking up with a boyfriend.

how else can I explain that not even a year ago I gave away all my size 10 pants because I have given up on ever wearing them again! how else I can explain the struggle and frustration of trying to lose weight and not buying new pants that were a size 16, and I spent an entire year wearing two pairs of corduroys my mom bought me at Wal-mart, one pair was green and one was brown and I wore them until they literally fell apart. how else can I explain that it was like a constant agony that went everywhere with me? how else could I explain how those forty pounds had crept into my skin and stayed there, clinging to my bones for dear life and no matter how hard I tried, nothing worked.

part of the answer lies in simply not having a boyfriend. eric did most of the cooking. all the food we ate must have suited him perfectly or he had the world's most amazing metabolism, because as I began to expand, even if I tried not to eat as much as him, he stayed the same. but we had the worst combination: we always ate late. we often ate out. and he was an enormous carnivore, and his love for meat and cheese and alcohol was too alluring to refuse on a regular basis. we were two steps removed from the sin of gluttony and happier for it. some of my best memories of us involve food.

alone, I am not one to cook for myself. I can't really afford to eat out as often. I eat a lot at the coffeeshop, which is one of the reasons I find it hard to quit working there. and I tend to eat dinner well before nine (which was our usual dining hour), so I don't go to bed with a stomach full of food.

so it is not like I am actively "dieting." it is not like I am going out of my way not to eat. In fact, I love food and eating. what I am going to eat for my next meal is--sadly--a constant mental occupation (when I'm not thinking about boys, of course).

yet, I've been getting the concerned lectures about my appearance. I look skinny. and when I say that it is not really something I am trying to do, but it would be nice if I lost ten to twelve more pounds, the people get aghast. angry. worried.

This is how it began last time I was skinny, right before the rumors spread of me being anorexic (me, not eating? that was hilarious!) or bulimic (a little more plausible, but still not true) and finally, that I was ill from some kind of disease that was forcing me to shed weight rapidly (people just have way too much time on their hands).

And for some reason, the whole height weight proportion thing seems to be a completely useless factoid, because I simply appear too skinny at my proposed ideal weight (at 5'11" & 3/4, I should weigh between 155-160). but I don't feel too skinny at my ideal weight. maybe a little bit in my chest: my collarbones and ribcage seem more prounounced and visible under my skin and my breasts are smaller. no one ever says, wow look at that sexy sternum!

I've noticed this before, and it is still a confounding thing: no one ever asks me if I feel okay being skinny. everyone just assumes that I am hurting myself. no one ever assumes I feel terrible being fat. I can't walk up stairs without going out of breath, can't run for the bus without huffing and puffing; I feel heavy and bloated and weighted down. not to mention all the damage it does mentally when I look at myself and do not like what I see. just because most people in my life have gotten used to me being thirty to forty pounds overweight doesn't mean I ought to stay that way.

it just amuses me that people talk about weight so much and yet everything they say to me is completely backwards. I lost twenty pounds doing the cleanse. that was in MAY. that was eight months ago. At the time, it seemed scary and weird and I'll admit, I was a little perturbed by the whole thing too. since the cleanse, I lost another ten pounds. that I did not gain any weight back was thanks to my own delight over being thinner and my best diet plan (the breakup) as well as eating better and taking yoga class. and then what do people who love me have to say about it? are you okay, Christine? are you you taking this hard time out on your body?

maybe I should get into lady bodybuilding and then people will leave me alone.

the algidity

i am cold. and beyond that, it is cold everywhere I am. in my apartment by the lake, the drafts are ceaseless. the boiler has spasmed into near death, the pipes leading to the radiator are frozen inside the walls of the building, inaccessible and leaving my studio inhospitable; it is almost unbearable.

at siena, the reprimand has been sixty four degrees at the most, nothing higher, for it is a waste of heat, and most people wear their coats while inside, I must simply wear more layers, and fret not over the blasts of air that accompany our customers inside.

my knit hat has become my constant companion and somehow it has turned from perfectly suitable to absolutely unseemly. and yet, I cannot bear to remove it from my head, for even my scalp cringes at the hint of cold.

aside from these rather obvious physical factors, there is something else. why I cannot find warmth has more to do with me than winter's arrival. even if the pipes weren't frozen, there is an icy grip along my aura that has me numb and bitter. and every time I think I find the emotional culprit, another blast of frigid air comes to disturb what feels like my defrosting and I realize that being cold has become a problem.

constantly shivering, trembling with goosebumps, layered in scarves and knits and gloves and wool, my hands are still cold to the touch, my cheeks still pink, my neck burning, but I have no fever. I used to be constantly aglow, a braggart in my lack of need for winter bundlings, for items and accessories, I was always warm and burning myself up, a raging fire of angst and wrath.

my attempts at warmth seem absurd and over the top: two blankets, two sweaters, a hat and a pair of gloves to bed, socks and slippers, pajamas of warmth and comfort over those of silk and fashion, and sometimes, I sit in my apartment for a while fully clothed in all of my outdoor clothes, my bundlings, my coat, my hat, my stuff, and I shudder at the removal of each piece and every exposure of my skin to the chilled air.

when my laptop's battery sputters out, I am delighted, because in its efforts to recharge, while being plugged into an electrical socket, it is like an electric blanket, and I watch movies with it on my lap and it warms me.

red wine warms me from the inside and yet, there is not enough to stoke the fires in my belly, because it is so interminably cold.

someone to sleep in my big bed with me and if not someone, than the bulk of the down comforter covered in heavy corduroy makes a fine substitute, and it makes my eyes bleary to know that I miss the feel of him against my sleeping form. how can you miss something that you weren't even awake and concious for? this is what it is like to be in love, it runs that deep, you see, that your body longs more for something that your mind cannot explain away.

and in that grip of cold, a crystalline sense of clarity emerges, for all that has been murky and swarming is stopped and no longer able to dissolve me.

"just remember you called it all bullshit"

the opportunity to pay back a man with the same pain some other man has doled out to me is tempting. tempting in a slightly fantastical, probably won't really happen way, but still, an element of the appealling is there. seen from this vantage, his face appearing before mine at the most inopportune times, his subtle hints awkwardly inserted obtusely into the conversation, his specific references to our innocuous history and: I see how I must have looked to the man of the year.

of course, I will never know for sure, because he remains an enigma, swallowed by his own sense of standards which are are once damning and revealing. his loathing of drama surely is a cover for something else, especially since he has generated mostly all of what drama existed between us.

so I have willed him out of my mind, cast off into the pile of things I will never understand, but time passing is really the only solution to him, and really most things.

as for this other man: the snow swirled around us lazily, and we talked of things benign and ridiculous and I wondered why I had invited him along on my usually quiet walk, and his words tumbled out in a nervous pile of nonsense. it is refreshing to be liked. but that is a dangerous road to travel, one that I have stumbled down before and taken the turn of my life that has led me here, to this desolation. so I know the promise I need to heed is waiting to be spoken, but I wonder if I truly have no feelings for him, since of course, in his absence (some five weeks or more) I wondered where he was and if I had laughed him away for good.

my brain is addled by such hysterics, and I wonder if what really rattles me is that the man of the year has pegged me and I am just too angry to agree. but I know I saved all my soap operish meanderings and gave them others, and only presented him with the best of myself.

in case you were wondering: when is it going to feel right?

since it's still tuesday to me...

spent; trying to stop relying on my peripheral vision, my furtive glances in which I quickly gather information and then respond accordingly well ahead of time.

it is just such a habit. tonight, on my way home, in the deserted streets: I saw a man in a wheelchair heading in my direction and a block away. my feet directed me to the curb and I walked it until he passed. worried that this might offend him, that I might find him objectionable somehow, but really it is just a simple matter of wanting to stay out of everyone's way and being as conscientious as possible. and being nice, deep down it is always about being nice.

so I let him pass without glancing at him, because I had already embarassed myself about the advanced over cautious move to the curb and I didn't want him to be staring up at me waiting for my eyes to fall in his lap, travel about his dark clothes, and wander over his face.

and really, I question whether it is because I want to avoid being in the way or because I want to avoid everything and everyone at all cost. I am content to avoid all possible awkward situations, perhaps because as a person nearing thirty, I feel I've had my fair share of them and I'd like to pick and choose from now on, thank you very much.

[and mostly, I am ashamed because in front of her, before I could even try to conceal that she has ever meant anything to me, I called my sister doll, a thing I have never called her.]

some things to remember

it's time to eat crow. take out the feet that are stuck in my mouth. whatever else they say about apologizing for being an asshole.

Drew came with the sun and cleared the clouds. even in the first winter's snow. his ability to see past my facades is incredible, and just what I needed, a dose of uber-reality, a line of words that have nothing to do with anything but the truth.

what is the truth? it lies in the answer (which is more of a pun than you realize) to this question: Are you living a life you love?

and then when it is a no, all there is to do is to do something.

so here I sit, admitting to the people that there are things to admit to, causing, perpetuating, being responsible for, etc, etc, all the things that sound like they don't really matter, but in the end, what does really matter...

his line floated above all else, and it wasn't like I even wanted to be reminded that it really is this simple. I priggishly thanked him for his unsolicited advice. And then I took it.

anyway, the fog is lifting, the sky is visible, and all there is to do is regain the footing I once held. I always think it is more sure than it really is and it seems like it hardly takes anything to make me topple.

even if it always feels like I am failing, falling, a tremble of all things unfair in the world, there is something in me that is always pressing upwards to some surface to burst into breath and swallow gulpfuls of air. my eyes open and I wonder how I got to where I had been and I try to shake some sense into myself, I say, Self, it doesn't have to be so hard.

and somewhere, my Self smiles, and it is eerie, because I know there is destruction in that smile, there is my enemy, it is inside me, it is my undying need to be right, to be preserved as a righteous soul, a tortured victim, and defiant, hell that smile is all about defiance as it's best,

and I try not to cringe

while sorting out the messes that part of me has made.

I have renewed my quest to write everyday. And part of me longs for this stilted voice that is at once complicated and a mix of fucked up diction and syntax and all kinds of wrongness grammar-wise, so I am going to see how long I can stand writing this way. maybe you can't stand it either. I wish someone would tell me what they really think of my writing. sometimes I know it is not bad, but sometimes I wish someone would just say, you fucking suck, Christine, you ought to do something better with your time.

anyway, let me at least give you an image to fondle:

ennui: open mic night: a cafe crowded with tables and chairs and people sitting alone (unless, of course, you do not count laptops as a significant other--she sleeps in my bed and is the first thing I turn to when I come home), the smell of bread grilling is in the air, the walls are a putrid color of green that probably looked better on the paint card and now just looks like a deep mashed pea green, and I sit with my back to the first person at the open mic night (which is only three weeks old) who has been any good.

He has a harmonica, a guitar and a fucking passion beyond what his simple name conveys--how sad to simply be a Joe--and I feel bad for him, that he has the talent, and the fucking gumption, but he wears glasses and upon first glance, he's a bit of a nerd, and it was a little shocking when that first loud chord crashed out of his hands, and that first time his foot stomped in beat with the music (at times it created a sense of percussion, that stomping), and he was probably the only guy who has ever sweated from the simple aerobics of playing his stuff; the other open mic-ers simply sway and swoon in their mopiness...and I want to love Joe forever simply because he is the best of the worst and because he has surprised me. And because no matter what, Joe will never stop doing this and turn to the mope style even though it is far more popular and that makes me glad.

no one else can actually stand his stuff because it's a little bit loud and a little bit unexpected, and when someone surprises you, it's easier to gawk than express some kind of joy in another person's ability to do something better than you expected them to. Or maybe they simply don't approve of the harmonica, the loud guitar chords, the jubilance; after all, it is a coffeeshop and those mopers who sing of loves lost and glances missed, they know what they are talking about and they say it so sadly and simply. and they have so many more friends than Joe, who has come alone, and these friends are cheering and happy on the sidelines while they wait their turn to sing and and mope before the microphone. And part of me really wishes to go home, but the heat has been broken in my apartment since Friday and it isn't coming back on today.

yes, that is the kind of life I have now.

also; today I spent an hour with a three year old, which can probably be my new cure for the mopes. his little face was delighted to see mine. and we invented a new game, cross country stroller skiing, in which I push his stroller through all the snow and running, twist and turn the stroller while screaming with a false sense of panic and he has the kind of unrelentless laughter that is free from the affectations he's already developed as a three year old. And in classic little kid mania, he developed an unsatiable urge to cross country stroller ski over and over again, which is the only true compliment in life. I mean really. repetition of anything from a young, undiscerning, easily distracted person is how you know you're going in the right direction.

when I can't bear being myself

[walter doesn’t trust me. no surprise. I can see below the surface, despite the muck, and it is cold and dark. paranoia is an apt term for me, and yet, largely, it has slowly seeped out of my system, to be replaced by some sort of self assurance. people are weird. and most people suck. I finally figured out that--for the most part--their oddness has little to do with me. and I can read most people like a book. especially now. especially when there’s no me involved, when we’ve just met, when our connections have nothing to do with me. I used to wonder why everyone looked at me so much until someone simply answered that maybe it was because I was looking at them so much.]

they eye me but do not greet me. they sit next to me but say nothing. I try laughing at all of their jokes, but it doesn't even work. their dislike of me emanates from them. I wonder if it is him they do not like, because it seems like they tolerate him, and perhaps I am just not around enough, not regular enough to be trusted. And like the curious eyes that meet mine, I stare at them without a word of greeting, waiting for them to acknowledge me, wondering if they even remember me, for it is a given that I know them, I know them intimately and we have never even had a conversation, I know their last names, I know their livelihoods, I know the stories about them. So I sit and stare at their cold eyes, wondering why they do not say hello, wondering if it is because I do not say hello.

I see the fibers tangled in the relationships far beyond what walter sees. I see every movement, hear every word, I am constantly filtering the information, even when I don’t want to be constantly observing, even when I wish I could turn it off, make it stop, I still see her finger trace the tattoo on his arm, and a hush falls over the bar while time stands still for that finger and the tattoo, just out of sight of his girlfriend, who sits stoically on his other side, for she has won him but it is tenuous and she knows it, and she feels that finger and knows its presence intimately and wonders how she ever let it become such an issue, but it’s too late to pretend that it doesn’t matter and now they live together (the finger and the tattoo), and she lives alone, wondering if she’s really won.

I want to believe walter that it is just my paranoia, I want to believe him, drew, that I cause my world, but I know the truth, I see the stories, they fit like blocks in my mind, so perfectly that I cannot listen to anything but what I know is true. schaffer hates me. I ridiculed his sleeping habits once and he has never forgiven me for it. I apologized and he waved it off. I have been branded as un-fun. haughty. un-cool. schaffer has heard about other things from billy, perhaps, things that make me seem weird. and now I am there, in their space, with their friend. it is too much. schaffer looks at me and says, oh, walter! and then, to cover his tracks, he says, the patriots are gonna lose (or something equally lame). this does not match his look. I’ve seen that look before. I’ll see it again.

[the diminishing paranoia whispers that I ought to learn how to read lips. for then I would really have the proof. and just in case, when I speak of them I cover my mouth with my glass of beer. just in case.]

the other things I see are well below the surface: erin posseses billy. billy loves megan. megan loves billy. tracy loves billy. billy is bound to erin. erin doesn’t know who I am but I’m one girl too many at the bar. I’m a girl she doesn’t know. so she saunters over to figure me out. walter and I tell her that megan keeps calling me laura. at the first lull, erin tells megan. megan is embarassed. erin has found a crack in the veneer of the beautiful girl that billy is in love with. erin doesn’t know it, but I will hate her forever for doing that. I will always love megan more because she is beautiful and kind and erin is fat, and ugly and mean.

every other time I go there, I have a good time because this mix of unhappy souls is absent. when they are present, I wish to never return until I am coaxed back by walter, who swears that they are simply not what I believe they are. he doesn’t trust my instincts for stories and I don’t believe him.

"sometimes you win, sometimes you lose"

It's just that simple. Okay, so right now I'm in the losing part. I feel like a loser. All the signs point to: yes, indeed, you are.

The Man of Year? Not interested. I totally read him wrong. A fucking mistake I can chalk up under the experience category. Alongside all those other "mistakes" that I've endured. Thankfully, I didn't endure his confusing-ness very long. Just three months. Not bad. The last time it took me three and a half years to figure out the guy wasn't interested. I figure this means I'm bound to be single for the next three years and three months, due to cutting short this potential mess of a relationship.

...which is the perfect amount of time to complete my graduate degree! But thanks to my own ineptitude, (read: loser), I can't go to the one school I've been determined for a while to attend, because I was too busy doing other things to find out when the deadline was. I doubt I could have somehow managed to squeeze in practicing for the GRE on top of applying for the Iowa Writers Workshop and finishing my last semester as sucessfully as I did (all A's, again. see, sometimes you win...).

I'm sure some pysch student could simply say it was a matter of where my priorities were and if I really wanted to go, blah blah blah. Maybe it's no coincidence. Maybe it's not. I don't know. I won't know for sure 'til the years go by and I realize that my capricious error resulted in something else far better.

in the meantime, something has happened between Marilyn and I that has ripped me apart from her. It was a very benign event, I suppose, but it was tangled up with other things, and perhaps, truly, it was just the straw that broke the camel's back. I'd rather not go into the whole complicated affair, but suffice it to say, I feel like a total loser. I know that what I'm doing is okay and completely reasonable, but another part of me knows how much she depends on me and wants me around. the truth is, I'm more upset about the potential loss of her friendship than anything else going on in my life right now. things between us were going so well, and for the first time in a long time, I felt understood and cherished as a person. it is a very hard thing and eventually it will be resolved, but for the time being, it is a constant throb that accompanies me everywhere.

I went grocery shopping for the first time since I've moved into my apartment (yes, three whole months have gone by) and when I went to put some things in the fridge, I was reminded via my offended olfactory equipment that I still had leftovers from Thanksgiving in there! Due to the aforementioned terrible state of busy-ness, I had neither the time nor gumption to remove these things before. So I went through the fridge and threw all of it away, even the Mother's brand white bread that hadn't turned moldy at all, due to, what I can only presume, was a freakishly high level of preservatives [shudder].

As I threw the stinking mess away, I realized it was probably high time to clean the fridge, which I hadn't done in the first place. And by first place, I mean when I moved in. I'd always assumed I would do it someday, soon, which, of course, is a phrase I tend to reserve for things I know I'd never do, even if there was _nothing_ to do.

enter feelings of loserdom. It is a weird thing to be a single person. I have no inclination towards cooking, therefore no pots or pans or food. I eat here and there. When I lived with Eric, I was glad that he actually enjoyed cooking and thusly took on the job of making home cooked meals three or four nights a week, when we weren't tempted by the deliciousness of burritos, thai or bar food. I realize that the last time I had a home cooked meal was Christmas, and the time before that, Thanksgiving. And I can't remember the time before that.

Also, as a single person this time around, I see no need in keeping my apartment neat and orderly, since no one other than myself is ever going to set foot in here again. I've become a comfortable, veritable slob. It is covered up under the guise of being busy, but the truth is, I love coming home to my apartment and having it be a slovenly mess, and crawling into the spot of my bed that isn't covered with clothes or papers or books. It's almost like being welcomed home by an old friend at the doorway, you feel you cannot get to the person to hug them fast enough. I cannot wait to land on my little spot in my big bed and go to sleep. On my way to the bed, I dump things in piles, a pile of clothes not dirty enough to wash, a pile of junk mail, a pile of mail I should file, a pile of things I must not forget to bring with me in the morning, there are literally little designated piles all over my apartment that only make sense to me and make the place look disgusting. But it is my mess.

Once I set off a cleaning frenzy, it tends to erupt violently and be hard to stop--at least in my case--so after I cleaned the fridge with a deodorizing, anti-bacterial cleanser, I moved on to the bathroom. Though I've still got the tiled shower walls to do--which I avoid touching while I shower as much as possible--because when I moved in I immediately placed the dingy walls in the "someday soon" category. The only thing that stopped me from completely turning into Cinderella was my friend Annie's pleading texts for company at a bar.

Joining her was fun. I got to meet one of her old college buddies, who mans the bar most nights: a tall, intellectual sort who wore a slightly intriguing (though not sure yet if I feel intrigued in a good way or bad way) pendant necklace with a tommie gun charm. I was proud to notice that even though he was tall and smart, I didn't instantly fall in love with him. I was invited to join them for dinner on Monday, which sounds like it'll be a good time.

I'd made plans earlier in the day to go see a sketch comedy troop and I couldn't find anyone who wanted to go with me, so I left my friend Annie and her pals at the bar and headed to the show all by myself.

and I sat next to a stranger.

and I was a-l-o-n-e.

And that is part that really makes me feel like a loser. It's not just because I'm not used to it...I hate doing things alone. I have so much more fun doing things with other people. I don't mind spending time alone, because a lot of my hobbies and interests are solitary activities, but going out in public and sitting at a show and laughing at funny things just seems like something you should do with someone.

so of course, I've been thinking a lot about Mr. Burnham. I miss him. I know part of it is just because I've had all these slightly traumatic/dramatic events happening these last two weeks, that there was the turning of a calendar, on which he is a blank space and he has not contacted me in six weeks. Aside from all that...I miss him. I don't miss the bad things. I just miss the good things. I miss him making us meals, and getting all excited about going to the grocery store and being my date for just about every silly thing I wanted to do (though this insta-date phenomenon began to fade toward what was the end). I miss the way he was when he was present and sober, and this makes me most sad, because I know he'll never fully be engaging.

And the truth is, for the first time since we broke up, I feel the weight of being single and lost. When we broke up, I barely had time to process the whole thing before unnecessary accessory boy stepped in to pick at me, and then this whole fantasy about The Man of Year gave me some hope that I wouldn't be single for long.

Now that I have no prospects and this restrictive set of criteria that literally makes most men look like clowns to me; I feel odd in my singleness. Before I met Eric, I was single for about a year and it was like I could have anyone I wanted. I was a head turner and I loved it. That was nearly five years ago. It is kind of shocking to feel like I have very little head turning abilities left. I walk around the city feeling slightly invisible. I no longer subscribe to popular fashion (the seventies bohemian look just happened to be somewhat close to my style those five years ago). I dress comfortably (therefore I probably appear to look like a lesbian to most men). I would rather read a book on the train than make cutesy "missed connection" eye contact. In bars, I look forward to talking to the person I came with than meeting someone random and potentially stupid. I am slightly revulsed by men and what has been revealed to me as their "true thoughts." Potential men loom on the horizon like huge swaths of disappoinment that I just want to avoid at all costs. I mostly feel that men are useless and just here to cause me grief, which men manage to pick up on quickly, and by no suprise, it doesn't really make any guy want to talk to me longer than two minutes. And part of me really doesn't care. I don't want to spend any more wasted time with someone who doesn't like me as a person first and a potential girlfriend/mate second.

The part of me that does care worries that my big bed will always be half empty. And worries that this whole grad school business will further steep me in independence and bitterness against men as a whole. And she, that part, that plaintive wailer, worries about the possibility that being alone--even though I keep trying to tell her it's only for a little while--will become permanent and all those girlhood thoughts of getting married and having kids and dogs and cats and a house and a loving husband won't happen.

but the part of me that won't let just anyone in is a lot stronger than that. and I know that this is all part of the experience train, and to get where I'm going I have to ride and it can either be a great trip or really fucking suck. and I'm so tired of all the trips that have really fucking sucked. So I'll let this take me where I'm going and I'm going to try not to complain at every chance I have.

expletives abound.

The deadline to apply to the Iowa Writer's Workshop was January 3rd.