I’m sitting outside in my old chair, the chair I used to sit in when I smoked cigarettes.
It’s dark, quiet, and chilly, and I can hear the low hum of the highway in the distance. Things are peaceful out here, away from people, away from the TV, away from political conversations. I’m spending the night at my parents house, and while I love them with all of my heart, I’m a bit tired of hearing about this election. I just want to get it over with.
Life has taken a positive, growth-oriented turn in the last few months. I’ve talked some of the changes here; I’m taking my medications, cutting out recreational substances, and throwing myself into projects that I’m passionate about. I’ve given dating and fucking a much needed break in favor of focusing on myself.
That shit gets lonely, though. I miss components of relationships: the hand holding, the feelings of intimacy, and, well, sex.
I can’t be bothered to do the “dating” part. I don’t have the energy to participate in the song and dance involved in getting to know someone. Not only is it exhausting, it’s just disingenuous. The first few dates require a fair amount of self-marketing; you basically have to trump up your best qualities and most interesting interests in hopes that you’ve said all the right things to warrant another date.
So being single will have to do for the time being. And that’s quite alright by me.
I’m going to take a bath, unwind, and rest up. Tomorrow is going to be crazy.
[This is part 6 in a series about shitty things I’ve done to people. You can read the original post here.]
To The First Guy Who Lost His Virginity To Me:
I’m sorry for pursuing you for the wrong reasons. When our mutual friend told me you had some interest in me, I stopped throwing myself at him and shifted my focus to you, not because I had a reciprocal interest in you, but because you were there. With most men at that age, I was a huntress, always on the prowl, stalking my prey, and jumping at the first sign of vulnerability. But you didn’t want to be hunted. Instead, you were there, at my mercy, waiting to be devoured.
I’m sorry for being so insensitive. When you admitted your feelings to me, I laughed and told you that you were wrong, or you were mistaken, or you were lying. I shouldn’t have fucked with your heart. I shouldn’t have been so close to your heart in the first place.
I’m sorry for being visibly frustrated after the 20 seconds of sex that we had. You didn’t need that. I remember the face my first partner made after we had sex. I truly hope you don’t remember mine.
I’m sorry for continuing to have sex with you. I wanted to get laid, you wanted to be close to me. I thought I was doing you some service by teaching you how to fuck. I knew it was wrong then, but I continued to do it.
I’m sorry for abandoning you. I abruptly and emotionlessly called it quits with you because I was unsatisfied. After that, we didn’t see each other for about a year. When we finally ran into each other at our mutual friend’s house, we awkwardly caught up. You were going through a hard time, and I knew it, but I didn’t acknowledge it.
I’m sorry for ruining our friendship. That’s on me. Not you.
[This is part 5 in a series about shitty things I’ve done to people. You can read the original post here. This post accompanies the one before it, so if you haven’t read that, you might be lost. In the interest of protecting the anonymity of all parties involved, all names have been changed.]
When I was living abroad, my Discman and my headphones were my best friends. Too broke to afford an iPod at the time, I burned mix CD after mix CD and carried at least five of them in my messenger bag at a time, not only to have variation, but to be able to have a song that reflected my mood. Happy, sad, contemplative, I believed then and still believe to this day that there is a song for every single identifiable emotion. And when May told me that I “didn’t know what love [was],” the only songs I could listen to were of heartbreak and longing.
My obligations became less and less important in the days following that conversation. I ignored calls from family members and skipped a lot of my classes, opting to grab a taxi to the city center, just to walk around and listen to music. I had recently discovered Broken Social Scene’s album “Feel Good Lost,” having purchased it on a whim at the Virgin Megastore downtown. After the first listen, I carried it wherever I went. I roamed the city trying to convince myself that I wasn’t hurting, but my music selection proved otherwise.
Continue reading “[5.] Insult to Injury”
[This is part 4 in a series about shitty things I’ve done to people. You can read the original post here. In the interest of protecting the anonymity of all parties involved, all names have been changed.]
Once upon a time, there was a girl. But to talk about the girl, I have to give you some much needed backstory.
It was 2004. I was fresh out of high school and I made the brave decision to attend college overseas in my father’s country of origin. Apart from visiting my family there once every other year, I had little knowledge or understanding of it the place. For better or worse, that mattered little in my decision making process. As my senior year of high school drew to a close, I had to choose between two options: go to my father’s alma mater in the city and rely on the unreliable metro rail system every day, or go abroad and experience as much as possible without restriction or retribution. I opted for the latter.
Continue reading “[4.] Love Or Something Like It”
5. “Ne Me Quitte Pas” by Nina Simone (Jacques Brel cover)
Since quitting drinking, Ambien is the only thing that can lull you to sleep. Quick, effective, and less of a hangover in the morning. You decide that both your brain and body feel better and you go with it. While you’ve been making a conscious effort to walk along a straight and narrow path, you can justify replacing drugs and alcohol with pharmaceuticals.
The Ambien does, you notice, effect your dreams, and each dream is intense, vivid, and bizarre. Last night’s dream was no exception.
In the dream, you lit a post-coital smoke while next to The Ex in the bed you shared together. Naked, awash in afterglow, you lied on your back, taking long drags of a Parliament Light 100, the signature brand of the ex before The Ex, He Who Shall Not Be Named. It was a vivid dream. You could see the smoke swirling above you, forming familiar shapes. For a moment, they were like cloud forms. You took another drag and exhaled deeply towards the sky again. The Ex was lying next to you on his stomach, head turned to the side, watching you smoke. His face was neutral, not disgusted, as if he was looking past the cigarette and at you, deep into you. You’re not cuddling, but your bodies are pressed against one another’s. The cold, sweaty clamminess of his skin feels too real.
Continue reading “Under Covers, A Playlist.”
It’s Thursday. Let’s change the tone of the week around.
I’ve been with my boyfriend since April, I think. I say “I think” because there was no discussion or ceremony around us becoming a couple. It just kind of happened, I guess. Our first date was mid-to-late April. Within a week, we were seeing each other at least once a week, increasing in frequency every week or so. By late May or early June, everyone assumed we were in a relationship based on how much time we were spending with each other. We didn’t bother correcting them. It was a natural progression of things. By the first week of July we were living together.
Our living conditions were quite comical in the beginning. We went from an air mattress to a mattress and box spring on the floor, to a mattress in a small child’s bedroom (as a result of “The Great Bathroom Flood of 2014”), to a queen-sized bed. An actual bed WITH a frame, courtesy of his mother. I guess it was the first time in our lives we had actual bedroom furniture. It was pretty neat. I made the bed every day and took pride in it.
After moving things around and hanging paintings and color-coordinating things and buying area rugs and throw pillows and all that nonsense, our place is finally something we can call a home. I do the cooking 95% of the time, he does the dishes 95% of the time, we take turns tackling messes, and we take turns buying groceries. We have a system that works pretty well. We argue about stuff. We unintentionally hurt each others’ feelings. We neglect each others’ needs sometimes. These things happen. We talk about it. We move on. It’s a good system, I think.
I was a tad impulsive and I bought our Christmas tree today; it’s a 4-foot tall, pre-lit artificial tree. It was a first for me. “Our tree” for our first Christmas together. I take holidays pretty seriously, I guess (because everything between Halloween and New Years day makes up my absolute favorite time of year). I’ve overcome with anxiety and excitement all at once. That anxiety is coming from a place of not knowing what to get him for Christmas, especially on limited funds. We’ve talked about it. He gave me the “I’ll be happy with whatever” stump speech that most men give. Still anxious.
Tomorrow we head west to spend the weekend with my boyfriend’s mother and her boyfriend. We’ll have an early Thanksgiving there. I’m kind of excited.
Ah, life is just happening. I get bogged down by the negative, sure. But there is so much good stuff happening every day. I guess I should open my eyes to it a little more.