Should Have Had My V-8

Let us always be mindful of what we wish for; let us be wary to live. And is this fair? I wished and hoped without realizing the great severity of extremes. And my wish became reality to the degree that I wanted—a very great degree…and by great I mean slanted. It’s off balance. Not right.

So, now I wish the opposite—it isn’t about all of this though. The extremes or the stupid happy-medium and scramble to categorize and intellectualize. I just need to be happy with what I have. It’s comedic, really. 

May is Stupid

To avoid wondering: where do I go when he comes?

1-don’t make yourself too easy

2-maintain aloofness

3-be a challenge and a treat 

Daggered Smiles

I’m involved with a man who brings more tension than serenity. Like a giant bomb annoyingly and loudly ticking inside of me—and not the kind that ends in ecstasy.  

This man loves my breasts and my perfect complexion. I would say that equally shallow factors bind me to him as well. He is nothing more than a man who enters, because that’s all I want him to be. 

My soul, unlike my body, is uninhabited by his person. There is no connection—no real dynamic, just the “heat of a luxurious bed”. It is this Shakespeare which contributes to his demise…this ridiculous man and that sweet Bard mean nothing to each other.

But, I wonder--must a companion know the great Scottish play or espy duplicity in the winter’s Tale to win me over? Must he master Dickinsonian metaphors and Yeatsian lyricism? Could he tell Plath from Sexton? Well, that last one might not be fair. I couldn’t even do that…which begs the question…where do I draw the line? 

Are my expectations of a romantic partner fairly defined? Is this fair? I can’t answer it, but I know that I find him incredibly boring, and would probably continue to do so had he known the Coleridge I quoted. So, I’m left with excuses…to talk myself out of the fact that I don't like him on the fundamental level of his person. But I want to fuck him anyway. Is that OK?

What's in a Number?

My friend C* married the first guy she ever fucked. And my number just reached a number too high to admit. I wasn’t really awake, still drunk and unaware of his last name. He was a break-dancer from Maryland. I didn’t really even take a shine to him, but rejection and loneliness were dying to be invited into my house that night and so I invited another so as to scare them off.

My desperate need to feel desired has doubled my number of escapades. There is only slight gratification in the act but great pleasure. Hedonism is prevalent. I’ve returned to my throne in that old castle of control and the cushions, fortunately or not, still fit my bottom perfectly. Maybe I was never meant to leave. 

Bottle Rocket

There is a very handsome man very far away who is very intent on marrying me. This handsome man wants me to cook his meals and wash his dishes while believing enough in my moral fiber to both bear and raise his children.

There is a very handsome man willing to bear fucking only me until he dies—and waking next to me for a lifetime later. There is a man so very far away that he remains ignorant of my mood swings. This man is so far away from any real dynamic in my reality that he does not know the obsessions I have with my skin, sandwiches, or David Bowie. He has no way of being made aware of these things.

This man is too far away to know why I may get up from a seemingly innocuous dinner table in tears, or why I eat chocolate and yell only at the beginning of each month. Yet, this man wishes that our sable hairs turn to white alongside one another. He believes in an ‘us’. I envy his idealism and his belief in us. I couldn’t want any of the things  he wants—not even with someone I loved, whoever he may be. 

Boys Don't Make Passes at Girls Who Wear Glasses

I don’t know how to escape the torturing pinch of men. 
I feel things, unsure as to the validity of the feelings. 
Obsessions mingle and muddle
Boundariless with true interest 
To the point where I can’t see where one starts and the other ends

I have no true feelings for any boy in DC. I just want to win. Win one of these boys. 
But my need, my desire, my intensity deters any healthy competition, for it deters him from even playing. 

If I win, am i winning?
Is this a victory? 

But there's no competition. Because men flee from sarcasm, acidic wit, and intelligence....and misanthropy....and low self-esteem. 

Who's the one to take these as parts of the whole? 
Is this one of those post-structuralist debates where binaries explode and implode only to make a whole new thing? A scared new-me. 

Maybe some more vodka will clear this up. It certainly made it murky--
It's the classic case of adding a little of the virus to the vaccine
Except in this analogy I'm just going to get more drunk 

Potomac

Raindrops fall—are you listening? In the nation’s capitol snow is glistening. There are people in this town by whom I feel almost feel ‘found’. But I think of the boys. I can’t focus on my books or friends because obsessions develop and usurp and other words relating to hegemony. I can’t rationalize loving boys I don’t know, who treat me poorly, ignore me and make me feel to be a burden while I ignore my friends.

I make myself so easy to free them of any burden they may possibly stumble into while knowing me. Getting to know me. They’ll never have to fight for it. I’ll never make that fight necessary. I’m available whenever they need me. Waiting around to be ignored. 

And You Say He’s Just a Friend

E* plays an undefined, and therefore frustrating role in my life. I think he’s fantastic and see with myself with him, yet he won’t/can’t/refuses to fit into any of the available open slots in my life. And this may be because he doesn’t want to. His incessant insistence on self-preservation exhausts my mind and make my heart doubtful of any fruition or concreteness this relationship may possibly have. 

I am constantly cast aside in an effort to provide assurance of his not being in love. He’s so scared of my potential. I told a friend that this whole thing will soon combust without either of us ever knowing how the other one felt. She called it tragic. It is. 

Companions

Cigarettes lack the answers I seek—and self-diagnosed insanity ceases to fulfill me. Poetry is without and ‘Dear Diary’ is another fail among the many.

Notwithstanding the absence of old friends who notoriously comfort and numb—begetting me a complacent place at a comforting pact, I've met new companions to give solace--two, in fact: a boy and idleness. These keep me company and obviate loneliness—showing that friends rarely come in forms that are expected. 

The Truth about Cats and Cats

The bar is busy now. Men in small clothes crouch around tables and recount the last record they heard. They pretend to be numb; interestingly, some pretend to feel everything. Sometimes these men make themselves cry.

I don’t know what the women do because we don’t talk. There is nothing to gain from them. Perhaps a friendship would burgeon, but that requires time and energy—things better spent on boys who ignore me after we’ve fucked. 

Bourbon St.

You remind me of the Unwound 7” I left at your house:
Unpredictable, heartbreaking and nowhere in sight.

I wouldn’t have listened to it anyway,
I lied about having a record player.
I just wanted you to give me something,
and I wanted you to like me.
So do you? Like me?

So waits this educated and …showered girl,
on the boy who sleeps with
blankets he found on the streets of New Orleans.

And I see him at the bar,
and remind him to call me
and his response: “I know, and I did tell you to take a chance,
but I can’t. I told you. I drink too much.”

I got dumped by the drunk, balding guy in girl pants who I wasn’t even dating.
I must find a way to quell these obsessions, as they have clearly steered me incorrectly. 

Unwound

Tonight a man I brought home from the bar came on my leg. He apologized. I said it was OK, while laughing on the inside.

It started out by him asking to kiss me. I asked why (because I mistakenly think things like this make me appear coy) and he attributed his inclinations to my smile and intelligence. I agreed. The night turned into mid-morning. He’s makes sandwiches for a living, and I think about him more than the wonderful man who actually has drive and focus. Who doesn’t want to open an art gallery in NYC.

Yet, I await the stranger’s call—the comes-on-your-leg boy. And I blame myself if it doesn’t happen. I am fatigued from this game, but I find myself putting on my shin-guards to play once more. 

The Warm and Intangible Colors of Spain

I’m tired of thinking about the future. Perhaps commitment to a man, procreation with a little one is a destined path which I am actively deviating.  It’s easy enough to cease motion and devote all of this energy to the ‘other’—Frost’s haunting road less traveled. But I hate that guy’s poetry, so I hate his stupid unchosen path. 

I can’t take part in a wedding procession. I want the 85 year-old me to navigate my next move. Perhaps she would tell me to stop thinking so much, and quote the classic ‘analysis is paralysis’ wisdom of her youth, and use the time to masturbate. She is a kooky old bird. 

The Daily

I met a boy I really liked who made me laugh. With my teeth. The humorous tone of our dynamic turned quite serious and a little romantic. Two hours later we decided to meet the following night. That was last week. And he rejected me.

After a bout of depression and a lot of analysis, I decided to hate him. Concluding that it is his loss…and all other cliché statements women make…but these statements have become worn out and futile, and I found myself at back to normal. And normal for me always means depressed.

Laura and I decided to call him again to find out what happened. He said I was too intense. That when he was sitting with me at the bar he felt in the center of chaos. It’s probably the best rejection I’ve ever gotten. I actually found someone I’m literally incompatible with. As if we’re different species. I mean, there would be no way to have worked around it. I can’t say I did anything wrong. Had I been calm and collected that night at the bar, the intensity would inevitable creep out. This is fabulous news. I’m helpless in this. This guy has no idea the favor he did for me in revealing my ability to be free of controlling tendencies and what it’s like to be incompatible with someone. 

Won't You Give Me Number 9?

Sleep has become a suggestion. My therapist says I’m manic-bipolar II. Maybe I am. I don’t really care either way…is that indicative that I am bipolar?

I’m hungry all the time and 20 lbs heavier than I was last year. I have nothing and everything to do. I’m in love with each and every and no boys.

So, after a night of work, coffee, and friends, I closed my eyes to the silence of my ringer. Because these boys I love so much never call. And despite my full life of full friends, I find the silence of the phone the most prominent part of my present tense. Now the lights are on.

This pattern won’t stop, I make men everything. They create me for the day. I give them the highest priority in determining my mood, they control this THIS ice queen. So again, I ask: where do I go?

Backwash

Something strange has taken over. I can be honest about the pervasive loneliness of my days and nights—but honestly it makes me feel defeated. As a single, successful 37 year-old woman I’m supposed to bask in my achievements, or so the magazines tell me, but instead I relive moments with men who eventually chose anything but to have me in their lives.

It’s easy to feel sorry for myself, but it’s just as easy to declare a change. Either effort is wasted, and so I will search for the contents at the bottom of this bottle. They’ll surely help me figure something out. 

One-Woman USO

I met some balding loser last night in Georgetown. Add him to the Tomcat whom I think is ok, but I’m not sure. I told him to ask for my number when I met him at Che’s. Very Good Will Hunting. Then there’s Marty who has an awesome voice and demeanor, but the sex is robotic. Then Erik who’s been acting weird lately, then Saliba who’s old. So, I guess Tom is the guy for today. I’m sure I’ll be reporting on a new one tomorrow. 

Unheimlich

I have attempted to develop a normal sleeping pattern for the last 18 years, and I fail every night. 18 years worth of nights. I used to lose sleep because of nightmares, and now I waste waking moments on the same notions. Yet, now the nightmares are personal. I actually know these monsters. They are Freudian, and according to Freud, I am shit.

Sleep has occupied so many of my waking moments that I may as well be dating it. I claim to have no time for a boyfriend, but I am married to this sick obsession with my slumber. Since these thoughts, therefore, will probably be the only things to stay with me forever and into my twilight years, I should be fairer to them. They don’t betray me, after all, as a boyfriend would. They are reliable, as a boyfriend may not be. So, now I turn to this nasty companion. I’m sure we’re in for another terrible and eventless evening. 

It Smells Like Suicide in Here

Time to stop thinking of the boy who loves—stop assuming that he does. 

It is time for the daydream to die. One sits perplexed, wondering what to do with all those notions of ‘forever’ from childhood. 

Who knew the fresh air of ‘forever’ would turn so noxious? Who knew that little girls grew into bitter old women? 

The Dummies Guide

I dated incorrectly. Sometimes I live incorrectly, too. At one point, the handbook dictating the effective, moral and just life was in my possession, and now I’m illiterate. Maybe I’m holding it upside-down…or mistaking it for another book completely. 

No matter; I set down this useless book and search for something more beneficial: a survival guide. In this I want to learn or remind myself of what I’ve forgotten: how to live my damn life. The scariest part is the loneliness that goes with that…and the cigarettes. Both may aid in the creation of bad poetry, I hope, because I know they aren’t helping with anything else. 

Players only Love you When...

I took a boy home last night. He didn’t stay. So, in turn I am wondering and waiting, expecting and aching. And all the other stuff we call ‘life’? Forgotten. All thrown by the wayside for this very unlikable boy. Do I decide for these men to always take precedence? I remember fixations on boys—obsessions. And then I remember not caring a month later. Perspective is, once again, lost. 

We Got Annie

My mother’s birthday looms in the future, as do her faint cries of dissatisfaction and disappointment. This is how being away from her is ideal: freedom from things like my mother’s birthday.

So, for now, and especially in this instance, my present tense (literally and figuratively) is not just a bathroom break during the road trip of my life—or better yet, the starter bar, where plans are organized and people’s roles and presences are determined. It’s real time. The night. Tonight. The event for which I’ve lived all this time to experience. This, DC right now is not rehearsal.

But, despite knowing this, the temporality of my surroundings flash like neon signs. I’m knocked in the face with this realization. That it’s fleeting. That there’s more. That I’m waiting for something to happen. If this is it, fine.  But if it is a rehearsal, then I hope I’m prepared. 

Phoenician

I.               I think my body is getting sick. I know my mind is already infested with something, at least lately. Love is looking fairly bleak and my tendencies towards the dramatic heavily contribute to this conclusion. I envy the Phoenix’s rise—where did it find the courage? To burn in your own fire and in those ashes sounds comforting. Self-pity has comfortably and marvelously settled upon, instead of the ashes of my rebirth. It triggers no reaction. I fail to rise.

II.              That was the coward’s half. This half I will give to the heroes. Their rise. Surviving and strengthening from their own wounds. They grow from the ability to stretch it out, cleanse it off and discuss this warrior’s rise in all its stages. This is the introduction to their story, and I now depart to set fire to this first half, so as to rise at the end with the other warriors. 

Periods or Commas

I suppose too that this is an important facet: S*, the boy I’m dating became a statistic tonight; another one who bit the dust to declare his love for me—for the first time—drunk from a battle of whiskey. In an email…he wrote “I’ve had trouble avoiding punctuating each sentence with I love you, I love you, I love you..” and I freaked out. He didn’t fall in love with me, but my persona. The concept of me. And I’ll continue to present her until her novelty wears off. Until the pleasure gained from the charm and  the wit enervate and my reality creeps in. Then I’ll watch him run. 

Bridal Veils

I despumated him—from my life and my thoughts. We arrived at the overrated conifers of Yosemite and while feigning enthusiasm for its towering mountaintops and shooting waterfalls, I ceased feigning affections. It had reached its end much earlier, but I was not yet ready to say goodbye. A road trip was a bad time to reach that point, but so is life. I was tired of playing a game I hated for a prize I didn’t care for—but time worked in my favor, as time is wont to do. I was neglected and devalued to the point that I bid him farewell and asked for a rescue from my sister while I sat on a suitcase on a street corner like a hobo. He called three times to apologize and I responded with ‘OK. But this really doesn’t matter anymore’.

So that’s that and it’s ok. I feel great. It’s sad when I think about his beautiful arms or the one time he served me breakfast in bed. But a nice body and a nice gesture don’t erase all the aggressive persistence in telling me his doubts and that he didn’t want me around. He denied my person, as I was willing to offer and it made me doubt my self-worth…because of how easy his rejection was. 

Man Plans, God...is There Sometimes

He called last night. We broke up 3 months ago—a fact I realized at a very traumatic and interesting two weeks ago. When mastering numbing myself I wonder as to the psychological mind-fuck of which the individual is incapable.

The situation is messy and exhausting. I still don’t know why we broke up—realizing only after he told me that he’s commissioned into the army that we were never going to be together again. The secret fairy tale wish of Columbia and the East Coast cease to conjure any truth—not that they ever did. But there was a hope and I being incredibly good at this, made this hope into a reality.

The point is: what? Just what the fuck do I do with the man I could still be in love with moving to Monterey for specialized training in the military. Do I start dating a man I broke up with? I’ve already done that with mark and john and this is not a habit I’d wish to discuss in therapy. The topics are so numerous that developing another issue would only burden.

I look in the mirror—directly into the peepers and repeated; I don’t love Jeremy”. It felt wrong. It felt like a lie. But my last sentence also felt like one. So…

Coroner at the Corner

Surprisingly, my mother offered solace tonight; she reminded me of the seriousness by which I approach life…myself…everything. I am successfully and consistently unsuccessful at just ‘being’. My head is jumbled and school is secondary to the ever so prevalent idea of ‘boy’. I’ve been seriously considering ending things with the unsure and detached B*. He told me that I was ‘incapable of hurting’ him, and since one person is bound to be hurt in the end it’s going to be me. Soothsayer is what he is?

My mother in her indefatigable efforts of nurturing me reminded me that I tend to be rotten, difficult and serious which launched negative reactions. He told me that he ‘already threw in the towel’ of us. So what the fuck am I doing? 

Rain on your Wedding Day

Last night I made out with four boys. Tonight I am alone and incredibly sad. Of the four it is the one who seems to show the least interest to which I have taken a shine. Define irony. 

The Ides of March

I live in a different state than a man whom I was dating in a mediocre relationship in the first place. Do I want to continue this bullshit masquerade of a relationship? The head-fuck part is that we’re not in a relationship when we’re in different cities; yet when our geographies are aligned, we practice monogamy, communication, and good-heartedness. This is so fucking hard to keep straight. Maybe I need to stop dissecting this and just end it. All of this arranging and planning how to be with someone shouldn’t be so hard. 

Dollface/Barbreath

I realized that to write was to do the extraordinary, and it makes me sad. Really, I am so bored., I can’t think of the last time I did or heard about anything interesting; reading the Communist Manifesto has saved me a bit. But one can’t expect the Marx/Engels spark in everything.

I was worshiped in an SF bar Saturday night. I was flattered to be called ‘gorgeous’ by the handsome friend of a friend. He made the statement ‘my god, you’re beautiful,’ by what seemed like an incredibly-surprised-to-see-a-pretty-girl-guy from Seattle, and ‘dollface’ by a man to whom I humorously referred as ‘Green’.

My ego is expanding. I have fallen in love with myself and with those facets which make me so fucking charming. 

Solutions

Some twists and turns. Goods and evils. We have started a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ dynamic…which is headed straight for Doomsday. My girlfriendly insecurities linger; I know that if he sleeps with another, he’ll be safe. But will I, in the end? The drive of maintaining the purity of our relationship is obsolete. There is no purity. We’re both smudged. In this tacit fuck-other-people-in-silence dynamic, I am incapable of movement.  

Guttenberg

My controlling nature has erupted. All over everyone around me. I can’t accept that things can be good even if they aren’t living up to my expected design.

I position my relationship against a pattern of perfection, and even though I don’t live up to that pattern, I continually continue to continuously fail. I forced open the doors of communication with B* and faced imperfection head on. When will I find the man who isn’t afraid to let his guard down…who won’t resent me for expressing myself. When I said that I had the right to do so, he responded that he had the right to be withholding. He’s right.

He claims that I am a confusing part of his life. That we won’t last another two months. That this only works because I’m in far away and that he wouldn’t want a full time girlfriend. He asked me to try treating him the way he wanted to be treated and that he questions us all the time.

My mother told me to stop putting him in uncomfortable and unfair situations. That the more I push the farther he’ll run. She called me out on my control issues. What the hell am I doing all this for anyway? Is the gray, stringy gross nebulous cocoon of our relationship  going to metamorphose  into a butterfly? Idealism. That’s all this is. 

Affected? Moi?

“Mirror, mirror, what do I see?” 

“A familiar image in love with thee”

What could come of egoism? An invitation to hell, really. I have self-love oozing from every pore on my perfectly smooth, hairless skin, and confidence coats the soft, shining locks of magnificence streaming from my head....

And then there’s truth: ego and bravado are not self-esteem. I have a hunch that what I savor in the mirror is actually glossed over in lies. This ugly duckling put swan-shaped glasses on and turned quickly to the looking glass, where she was greeted with ecstasy. And the rave reviews she gets for ivory feathers and slender necks, all became a dazzling dream. She will fly close to earth however, yes, as close to ground as possible, in order to hear all the comments about her remarkable wing span. There is always a body part untapped. Waiting to be described with a wonderful and fresh adjective. And she will continue to base her self-worth on these adjectives. Because it took a long time to leave the Ugly Pond, and going back, while always an option, is terrifying. She likes the lake of Beautiful People. But she doesn’t know the rules. Swimming is different here. She mistakenly assumes that she can glide atop these beautiful waters in front of anyone…but can’t really copy that effortless glide of all the other swans, as they’ve been here for years already.

Self-love is beautiful and stems from acceptance and candor. Ego is ugly and feeds on the opinion of others.  Now that I'm pretty, how do i do this?

All the World

I asked B* if he ever refers to me as his girlfriend, and in typical B* fashion he mumbled something vague so as not to surrender or betray emotion and keep him firmly set to earth. And I realized…I can’t control his response. I can’t expect the reaction I’ve laid out in my head. In short, and again, I don’t write the scripts. 

Long Distance is the Wrong Distance

My relationship is more work than suspected. In my set of expectations was realistic longing, sure. It ended there. It’s actually developed into a mental brain fuck which is fed by all the physical distance. Fulfilling him in order to compensate for this distance is exhausting…and how can I fulfill if I’m not fulfilled? Intellectually, emotionally, carnally…but I made this space between us. At least the physical one. And he’s retaliating by making an even bigger and bleaker emotional one. So I continue this charade…

Another Roosevelt Bomb

Moments like now make me wonder if leisure time means idleness. I have so many projects that I visit sporadically. It’s not enough. It’s not consistent. I spend more time thinking about calligraphy and writing my thoughts than the time spent actually doing it. 

Underachievers—how I always avoided it. The funny thing is that I’ve achieved more than most people my age. Sort of well I should, or at least I have. I’m feeling really hard on myself. 

"It takes as much energy to wish as it does to plan"

-Eleanor Roosevelt

Irregardless

This is what I’ve realized whilst rereading former posts:

1.     I don’t write the scripts

2.     I like men (not love) with too much intensity

3.     I’m incapable of successfully dating unless I’m comfortable and satisfied with my everyday goings-on

4.     I make myself easy and available

Ad Policy

We discussed our situation tonight and decided that breaking up would be the cowardly thing to do. We developed a kiss and don’t tell policy that will fill the self-satisfying hedonist in both of us. I was once told that once a relationship moves into ‘open waters’ it’s doomed. It’s what’s best for now though. As I told him, “life is about risks. I can’t go on meeting guys at bars and burning out after five months. I’m ready for the next step”. I was scared that he was scared. He wasn’t. Now my job is letting things happen around me. Good advice. The worst vice is advice, though. 

Tearjerk[er]

I made a decision based on experience and self-reliance. Personal happiness and free-will fueled me to break up with the man I love, the one who still has the gift I gave him, and I still have his: virginity.

My heart keeps doing something...my brain something else. I'm just afraid of my eyes and what they'll do.

X

Samsonite

Where did it all go? The passion, the friends, the satisfaction. It seems like everything has a stigma. It isn’t coincidence that I haven’t written since late May—I met a new boy: B*

To quote a mediocre poet “I threw him in a fire”. Because it the pain was starting; I was beginning to like him in an incredibly unreciprocated dynamic. I began to see the parts of the ex in him that I hated: fear, hesitation, deficient of communication, withholding emotion—he isn’t ready.

I’ve realized that people in their 30s will always enter a new relationship with a full set of luggage. Every time I date a new guy I’m dating a slew of women with whom he’s fucked. Women who taught him, fought with him, loved and hated him. Then (depending on the break-up) they become memories of a flawless goddess or a winged serpent devil of a woman. Bradley has the former.  I spent all of my time competing with the memory of his four year long relationship, and one cannot compete with a memory. Memories are perfect. My imperfections reek. So in an effort to obviate another  heartbreak, I withdrew. Let’s see if she’s got any staying power, folks. 

Dickensonian

Dickinson used a carriage metaphor to symbolize the motion and verity of death, “the Carriage held but just Ourselves –  And Immortality.” 

With respect to our pasty and suicidal poet, I will re-appropriate the carriage to symbolize fate.  

This metaphor is contingent on the reader being willing to give this author a bit of wiggle room to state the following:  when it arrives, greet it and do a ride-along. This metaphor is crap. 

As i get older, however, I wonder--could my body continue its ascension towards the sun, while my will combats the naturally developing maturity? 

Will I continue to grow up, but reject the responsibilities of adulthood? Can this frog please, oh please, remain a tadpole? 

It feels so blasé and bourgeois to worry about the future, especially when the focus is financial. 

Why do I minimize it, though? This is real. 

Because…this was never mine. I never owned a bit of this before, and it’s all I encompass: grown-up worry. Another one bites the dust. 

"Sheeted" is a Word

Our conversations are like chess games. I methodically plan my next statement, then his and twenty versions of the latter. All at the same time. Ten steps ahead, that’s what I am. And miserable. 

I leave nothing to anyone else, control everything, and then realize that the moment is passing me by. And the glimpses of it I see are actually just perfectionist paragons of ‘us’ in all of our youthful and carefree love. These glimpses are lies. I’ve filled my moment up with deception and ridiculous expectations.

So, taking my understanding of self-preservation too far, and maybe even in an attempt to work towards that relationship paradigm, I explained my feelings of being a non-priority to him. Friends and work have always been the gods to which he prays. He was hit with pangs of depression upon hearing this and now lies in his bed, sheeted with self-wallow. He weeps for not being perfect. I dream about the perfection that could be if only I could make it. So I try to make it by telling him and then he weeps for not being perfect. Chess games don’t go on forever though…so how does this end? I was always terrible at chess. Perhaps a bit more defense than offense? Perhaps just let things happen. Perhaps I’ll switch to backgammon. My people did something right. 

Making Beds

He always said I was a "passing" anyway. That he knew I wouldn't be around forever; "you can't even take the same way home two days in a row," he'd say, "so how could I be sure you'll stay with me for a sustained amount of time?" I guess he was right. Whether it was the distance--LA to San Jose--the imperfections, my insanity, fear of commitment and what will be--he was right.

He said he never took me for granted. I believe him. I don't think he ever got bored. I did. I began wishing we'd break-up and get back together when we were 30--well, he'd be 28. Maybe we'd be compatible still. He wasn't buying it. He said I was being an idealist. I called him a pessimistic Realist. He just said Realist.

He said it was bound to happen sooner or later. The break-up because of the distance. And then San Diego. And then Argentina. And then east coast. And then, and then, and then.

So many hopes, that's why I wished to have met him later. He's settle down material. I have all this life to live, all these boys to kiss and fuck, all these jobs in all these different towns to live in.

I made my bed, I'll lie in it. I'll lie in my made bed. Alone, yet in company of great thought.

X

Regress and Press

We are in a relationship again. What happened? I’ve been wondering about needs. How everyone has them and how their ubiquity trickles into different facets of life. Needs from friends, boyfriend, self…although the role of the boyfriend is always played by a man on the stage of my life, there is always, and there always will be, an understudy. The one currently playing the role is S*. And when we arrive at my needs, he makes me feel guilty for having them. I need to feel important to him. I need to feel like an excellent version of myself. But these needs are not met and now I need to stop thinking about him. 

Feelings Are Not Facts

In a letter to L*:

"I am, as they say, single. It's a liberating and morose feeling, really. I realized that 23 + long distance relationship = not cool. So I did something about it. Now I'm seated with a Hesse book in hand wondering what to do with all these notions of forever."

X

August Moons

This is the year I turn August from what is typically the most uneventful month of the year to one in which I thrive. I have begun to establish closure with the ex. While he has yet to be seen completely in the past (I recycle memories and instant replays), I’ve gone minutes building up to hours without thinking of him.

My days are mundane and regular; I no longer try to escape from the suffering of everyday life. I embrace the days, sometimes idly flittering them away, and sometimes fucking them hard in the ass. Either way, Eleanor and therapy have helped tremendously and I am in an amazing state of mental and psychological health. Could this all be because I’m sober and actually allowing myself to feel process emotions and thoughts? Just could be. 

Regress and Try Again

It’s strange reading past excerpts. The days of confusion and dissatisfaction began to haunt me as my perusal went on—so I stopped reading. I needed to stop. I fear abandoning the clarity and satisfaction gained in the past six months. Truth is, whether I read my past words or not, I am regressing.

I haven’t written, studied or painted for a month. This was what the beginning of he and I was. We’ve been spending a lot of time together lately. Again. I can’t call it a relationship…because we’ve already failed at that. So I’ll call it a dynamic. ‘We have a great post-break up dynamic’. But, when facing up to this brain-fuck I realize that no matter how I put it, it equals regression. 

Happy Heart Day

This used to be my favorite holiday, but its novelty has expired. The time of making valentines is over. The days have passed, only to be replaced with drunken declarations explaining the inevitable solitude of what will be my twilight years.

I’m tired of the nights; the bar scene is stale and boring. And all the cutest boys, for their own respective reasons, are unappealing. Indeed, I vie for the attention from boys who aren’t as smart or fun as I am, who don’t get me or make me laugh, while in addition to never making me happy make me miserable. These laws of property surround me and I fall victim. But I am ever so eager for gravity to take its course and for one of them to fall for me. 

One Foot in Yesterday and One in Today

I hesitate writing this for I fear its dissipation upon recognition...His ghost has been exorcised. I have serenity. All the events of the past year have led to a sense of peace in the present moment. The prospect of fulfilling my life with things that don’t involve him elate me. I regret not having cut men out of the equation of my ultimate fulfillment sooner, but that’s the thing about the past, it’s always mocking you. 

Saved

There's nothing that I wish I was doing right now. Not even this act of scribble helps me find a place to mentally belong. I am homeless.

So much for the poor little rich girl. 

What happens when scholarly pursuits don't suffice? What the fuck am I supposed to do with all this education? 

I just add more; and in between learning German and perfecting Persian calligraphy, an annoying little bug starts biting my ass to let me know it's not enough. It's never enough..."there's never enough time."
-Jesse Spano

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The Heineken Factory Is across the Street

I hear my Swatch ticking. The one my dad bought me in the Amsterdam airport during our nine hour layover heading to Iran. 

Time surrounds the room—every room I enter. I feel so conscious of time—in the sense that I’m always waiting for something. It’s the classic waiting for Godot act: awaiting that which makes us happy. Constantly waiting. Unlike the protagonist in Beckett’s masterpiece however, I do know what my Godot’s are—too many to count. 

The point is that “here and now” offers more than ‘there and then’. Because they are real. I want to stop waiting and simply see that I have found Godot and I am wasting my time with this longing. Wait, maybe that was Beckett’s point? Fucking genius. Fucking Estragon. 

Unleaded

I see my reflection through a most disturbing object: a pair of men’s eyes. 

These noxious and deceiving things have superseded mirrors, and in addition to my less than expected reflection bring with them disturbing realizations. It is only through male perception that I conceptualize myself; they suggest my beauty, my intelligence, my ability to love, my self-worth. Without them, perhaps I don’t exist. And without this notion, if only I could rid myself of it, I may be able to live a semblance of a fulfilled life. 

Time, Again?

The man I love, that I lost my virginity to, is gone. Almost dead in my active thought process. I do think of him, but the feelings that erupt inside of me are hardly explanatory. I can't say that I'm in a horrible amount of pain or totally remorseful. It's almost like my wounds are scabbing. After 8 days.

What baffles me is how stable I am. Why fight it? Because it's eeriness is killing me. 

The idea of us getting back together becomes more fantasy than realistic fiction...if that's even a genre. It offered an insecure and dependent hope at the initial moment, but is now an incredible event indeed. Fantastical really.

I don't know where I'll be in ten years. Maybe in his arms, maybe in a woman's or maybe just my own. Wherever it is, I would just like to accept it. Appreciate the future as something so trivial and vain upon which to muse, because in turn I lose moments in the present.

Now, today and at this moment I'm OK. To think of him doesn't offer comfort as much as it does fear. The ugliness might just start the next time we talk. Deciding to 'maintain' the friendship that never existed could cause the negative repurcussions I've been avoiding. Maybe all this bad shit will unleash then...the badness between he and I, I and I, and maybe just I. Oh, how self-absorbed is the writer to assume somebody cares. I refer to the self more often than not.

Fearing the future won't get me anywhere except to a very tired point. So I enjoy the moment and don't question it, realizing this multi-faceted thing called 'Eleanor.'

X

Sculpture

He thought that he, that all men, trickled away, changing constantly, until they finally dissolved, while their artist-created images remained unchangeable the same.

-Hesse, Narcissus and Goldmund

Plexiglass

The ‘platonic friendship’ (possible or not) is slowly developing. He came over—even brought a pizza. We laughed, played video games, and then I went to bed. I won’t say that there wasn’t sexual tension…it could have shattered glass. Maybe even Plexiglas. I can’t say that I didn’t attempt to suggest myself, but then I realized the futility in the long run of such a task. This is the wrong time for us. We’ve already tried twice. One must learn. Experience can’t just be the anthem of the loser. How about putting it to some use?

Belly full of Jelly

I know now that idealism distorted my relationship with the ex. When he cheated everything shattered and this realism flooded in. I wish it could have been a trickle, but there was no way. Every day I recover and strengthen from this malnourished relationship. Since the nucleus of our relationship was attraction, I think now about self-absorption and how to achieve fulfillment with no connection to men. 

It's a Boat Metaphor

He is the “wind in my sail,” my sister once said of a friend who is very close to her. Who isn’t here anymore. So do I.

At one point, when the freshness of discovering facts and tastes about the other person was magical, he made me feel so free. I found a way to soar in our little boat which we, mistakenly, assumed was sturdily built. Suddenly, it leaks. Holes welcome water and my new skirt: water damage, water damage, water damage. What do I do with the notions of Cyprus? Or Spain? These notions…I amused myself with them. And he amused me with his. To learn foreign tongues among our foreign tongues, until irregular verbs were the most regular parts of our vocabulary. We made promises of forever. We swore it to each other.

And now: leaks, holes, wet dress, wrinkly crinkly fingers, stupid tongues. Like prunes. We were supposed to turn to prunes together, but in a different way. There is the hope, I realize, when we reach shore and get out of the water. Nevertheless, the sea is big and so are our hearts and our hammers. Hope and reconstruction lie everywhere. But to keep building and mending old holes, to dry off only to be immersed again, to drown while learning the breast stroke, to learn to swim at all will not achieve the ‘forever’ dream. It just perpetuates the fantasy and the pain. One must realize their ability to survive in the deep waters without that ‘reliable and sturdy’ boat locked into the notion of forever. 

Clicking

Today I was very conscious of my lack of boyfriend. Perhaps it’s because I’ve taken up masturbation again…or maybe it’s the natural wanderings of rumination during quiet summer afternoons. They are having an ill-effect on me. 

Humps

I talked to a llama a month ago at the zoo. I remember how I expected this to heal me. The sporadic and carefree grown-up heartbroken girl takes herself to the zoo in the middle of a SF winter afternoon, and figures it all out. Because the sad little girl version of herself shared a moment with this animal. I am so tired of these fantasies. 

S.O.S.

Who is this girl seated here--waiting for an answer? If only to explain her.

Swimming within my head are thousands of toils and heartaches 
Coming ashore on a daily basis to torment and greet; 
They do the former with great insensitivity and
the latter with a mocking tone. 
I only wish to drown them, but they are such good swimmers.

I can see my need for perspective; 
that I'll always be coping with some problem or another. 
It feels though that now, it's all at once.

If only to have a mother,
a lover, 
a sister, 
a job, 
an education, 
a friend, 
a novel, 
a religion, 
and a self. To have myself would supersede the desire for any of the latter. 
But, that is the most difficult to attain.

Someone could approach me now with the will to repair my broken life
And I would deem it a miracle,
Because, you see, 
it's too much work for me.

My apathy arrived unexpectedly and without viable references. 
For this reason, I don't know whether or not to take it seriously. 
Ask not for weakness to accept you, but for you to accept it. 
After X amount of fighting, 
my fatigue reaches relentlessness, 
my apathy is astronomical
and only matched by my insatiable misanthropy.
They're all swimming within the current of bullshit in my river of self-induced suffering

and so I surrender to weakness. 
Let's see where I end up from here.

X

"Wonderments" Isn't a Word

Therapy has welcomed unannounced visitors:

-the realization that the complete version of myself is obsolete unless there is a man to complete it

-the necessity to stop approaching the death of my relationship as the death of the man with whom I was in the relationship

-it’s not him I miss, but being in a relationship with someone to whom I was so attracted

-The comfort in knowing that all of this is ok

The first one fucked with me most, as it means that I have become the woman I hate. So now, enter the forced self-accolades and lauding of my wonderments in order to gain perspective. Fuck that. It’s easier for a man to just tell me how pretty I am. 

It Doesn't Add Up

To feel with a heart: a desire; to think with the mind: a goal. Performing each action reflexively with the other creates confusion. The mind works much better pragmatically—so why do I muddle it in emotion? Not to mention the breathtaking role of the heart as ‘feeler’ which positions the individual as a disrespectful host. 

I am hosting these guests of heart and mind and by not allowing them to play their respective and designated roles, I am insulting my guests. I have created havoc within the home, dirtying the dishes on which are served the foods for thought.

Indeed, I have lost the ability to correctly assess and process—even recognize thoughts vs. feelings. I have surrendered to my guests of heart and mind, hoping they can just figure out how the rest of the party should go. Maybe they can find sense in the havoc. I scramble. Not seeing myself from the mirror, or maybe just concluding I am that reflection I see in the pupils of others’ eyes, I have arrived at a quasi-reality. What should be truth is muddled and stagnancy pervades every version of reality. The factors to achieving a unity in this mind-heart conundrum…well, it is, at the very least, an algebraic nightmare. 

Emotional Surgery

Djuna was intrepid in awareness, in painful exposures of the self, and dared more than most in the matter of emotional surgery, but she had a fear of violence.

-Anais Nin 

C'est facile, non? Not Really.

Much time has passed since my last entry. Probably because I spend most of it with a wonderful man who fulfills me. 

There are no complaints—except one, from him: my drinking. This has resurfaced into a potential detriment to a relationship. 

He told me to fix it or he would leave. It wasn’t as so much a threat as it was a testament to what he is able to tolerate.

I appreciate his honesty and wonder why I am so reluctant to undergo this change that I so badly want myself. 

Things That Happen in the Past Only Happen in Your Mind

Ziggy Stardust is playing at the Red Vic the day after tomorrow. I probably won’t go. The Divine Comedy of Mr. Alighieri waits patiently for my eyeballs on the nightstand. I know I won’t read it. Cognizance of my idleness will definitely be key to the melancholy of my later years. I can only say to start now. NOW. For a project. A reason. An amusement. I go search. Now. A reason to wake up tomorrow. 

Radical Face

So, the long awaited rise of the phoenix, results in waiting for phone calls from men while practicing a false version of self-preservation. Where did she go? That broken-hearted girl equipped with the confidence to play the heart-breaker. To suck them in and discard them when she’s through. It’s humorous: to recover from a man who didn’t care enough by turning to the arms of a man who doesn’t care enough.

Waits by the phone. Checks it frantically. Sadly realizes that her enjoyment of life is directly linked to male attention. Not friends, education, travels or wit. Men. With this she realizes how she compromises self-respect…but will stop this destructive pattern tomorrow, because he might call today. Her concept of self-worth is made, molded and stripped by men. In a world of sadness, she turns to masturbation…if only to continue the fantasy. 

The Present is Your Present, Idiot

 “An intense, a vivid present was the best exorcist of the past”

-Anais Nin

So is my present tense, pregnant with intensity and vividness. I exorcised his demon and now live in a healthy world devoid of fantasies. The present is vivid, indeed. I was betrayed by a man who didn’t believe in me or our union. And now I encounter men who stumble or glide into my life…and actually recognize a future tense with me. However much I resist playing the role of the fatalist, I look to these men as symbols of progression, transition and enlightenment. Like the phoenix I so often laud and valorize, I rise. 

Baby New Year

New Year’s resolutions:

1-maintain unavailability to men
2-Not hook up with anyone younger than me
3-Not hook-up with anyone I met in a bar