Indecisive

Which way is which?

Which way do I go?

Which way don't I go?

He's a big man now that he drinks at Starbucks

The barista's laugh is loud, grating. The two small boys at the next table stare, watching me flip through a thick chemistry text.

I'm not sure who I am any more. Gone is the sweet girl who swore to save herself for marriage, clinging to the dreams and myths of the 50s. In her place is an over-cynical quasi-optimist who doesn't really care about what she will feel tomorrow, only wanting justification and adoration in the here and now.

Weasley was perfect for the sweet girl I once was. He reminded me of a time when I wanted a thousand small children running between the legs of my many Great Danes.

He turned out to be truly idiotic. Forbidding me from large words in his presence, calling me every pet name but my own. Refused to step foot in my haven, because he hates coffee. Wanted sex-telly-sex-telly like a stereotypical guy.

So I went for it. I went for the brash Southern burr with the blonde hair and the defined abs. Turns out, those kinds of guys aren't any good for me either. He just wanted a quick and easy lay, not even holding my hand while leading me to the hill he wanted to couple on.

I kept thinking, If I coax him, he'll get sweeter, softer. He didn't. So we didn't. Did we? I'm not sure.

Perhaps my plans for the future are too big, too broad, too overwhelming.

The only reason I'm pursuing a degree is because the Peace Corps requires volunteers to have a bachelor's in something. In order to travel the world helping people, I have to learn how to help myself. But the purpose of traveling was supposed to be to find myself. Can I help myself before I know who me really is? The irony is astounding.

I'll write a book about it someday.

Dating A Weasley

He's red-haired, brown-eyed, covered in freckles. He plays ice hockey and is shocked when I show true interest in the game. He majored in business - maths and numbers are his thing. He will tell pointless stories until he's blue in the face, and follow it up with a kiss on the nose. He's a smart ass, an asshole, and he tries to dish it out. I dish it better.

He made me want to flip my claddagh ring, crown pointing out. We held hands and cuddled. I remembered all those things I thought I had forgot. He makes me feel like my short hair is sexy, rather than just chic. He told me how gorgeous I was, and how long he had waited to kiss me.

He isn't the asshole I was falling for. And I wonder at my ability to transfer affections. Or rather, to ignore my other feelings without a thought. Because when I think of The Asshole, my stomach flutters a bit.

But I'm dating a Weasley. And that thought puts a smile on my face, a slow, warm smile with soft eyes and a momentary pause as I think about his laugh.

O Fortuna

Living in the South as I do now has challenged the role I think faith should play in our daily lives.

I listened to a story told at the racetrack, trying to demonstrate the power of Satan in everyday lives: A mother and father were cooking breakfast when they received a call from the hospital saying their daughter was in a horrible car accident. They rushed out of the house, arriving at the hospital to find her bruised but well. When they arrived home, their house had burnt down. The burning of the house was an act of Satan. The people at the track nodded and clapped and amened. They understood that the family hadn't protected themselves from Satan.

I don't understand. All I could think was that someone had forgotten to turn of the stove, or left a dishtowel too close to the flames. The family hadn't been careful, true, but it wasn't because of Satan.

I believe in fate. If something big is going to happen, all the preparation in the world won't stop it. No amount of prayer or holy water or Eucharist is going to change a damned thing. Maybe other people call this God. I don't.

Lip Gloss

Writing isn't necessarily epic. I always forget this.

It can be the flash of a camera, rather than the steady lights of a stage. It doesn't need to be six novels long, trying to record how a frown became a smile. It can simply be the quirk of the corner of a pair of lips. A focus on the blossom of a secret grin. Ignore the surroundings, the hands, the feet, the other people. Just the one set of lips, shining with petal pink lip gloss, off-white teeth peeking from behind. The slight dimple forming on one cheek. Perhaps, perhaps, the crinkle of an eye, sparkling and warm.

I don't need to write that the lips are smiling because of X and Y and Z, in that order or maybe not. I don't need to write that the hands are clasped to a locketbookflowerforkwaterbottle of indefinite shape. It needn't take 672 pages to tell the whys-whos-wheres-whats-whens.

It takes as much skill to tell all that in 15 pages.

Nice guys finish last. Assholes get the girl. The girl gets left behind.

Because he wants to cuddlecuddlecuddle and wind his hands through her hair. He is a teddy bear, the kind you take home to protect, but are willing to gift upon the right person. The girl is a bitch with a sharp tongue she doesn't know how to handle, dealing cutting remarks without meaning for them to be so deep. He wants to gently tease but can't find the right moments.

Because the girl is still a bitch, and needs an asshole who can call her such, be called a douche in return, and still smile softly and kiss her forehead when she giggles. The sex would be angry sometimes, it needs to be, but still fulfilling. Other times it will be fuzzy and warm and loving, exactly what it should be when two people love each other. And when she stands next to him, his arm fits perfectly above her shoulder, like she was made to fit close to his side.

Because the asshole already has a girl he wants to fight for, even though she lies and cheats and makes him so angry in an awful way. She is too young to realize the damage from her games and the bitch talks him down when his face is red and his eyes are flat and his hands itch to get his baseball bat. When he wanders into work from the gym, reeking in a wonderful way, the bitch stands as close as she can without sideways looks. He invades her personal space, not realizing she backs away so she doesn't get closer.

Because nice guys need nice girls and bad girls need bad boys and sometimes good-bad works out. More often than not, the nice guys get heartbroken over girls with bubblegum lips and chainsaw tongues, and bad boys want to hold on to the sweet innocence carefully concealing a calculating slut.