Start Me Up

I talked about going back to Flagler in my last post. Well, I'm here. I'm doing much better than I did the last time - all B's and C's this past semester. Not as well as I had wanted, but better than I had been doing.

I'm back in the same place that I was last year. That I am all the time. It's pathetic really. She wasn't even in a relationship when I met her. I started crushing, hard.

And once again, the someone I wanted wanted a different someone. I'm just tired of being the only one who's alone. All the time. Even the guy who said he wanted me didn't really. I was a momentary convenience to make another girl jealous. I just want to feel desired, worthy.

Even my writing has lost its flair, its pizazz. Maybe that's me now. I am flairless-empty-unlovable-unwanted-undesired-tabula rasa.

Hide From The World

I'm thinking about going back to Flagler.

On one hand, it is a terrible idea. I didn't do well there the first time around, and I hated what I was doing.

On the other hand, it's a chance to prove to myself that I can succeed at whatever I put my mind too. I love history, have loved history for years and years, letting one teacher scare me away from my favorite subject. Flagler has a history major. It also has a Liberal Arts major, in case I can't decide at all.

I get this feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever I think about St Augustine. It's like being so in love with something, it makes you nauseous just to think about, that's how excited you are. I want to be there, to live there, to stop convincing myself why it was a good idea to leave.

I know the people won't be the same. I'm a whole semester behind all of my friends just from this year alone, not to mention all the credits that won't transfer back over because of my grades. But I can't let a college beat me. I want to be able to tell people about the school I love so much.

I miss having friends. I miss being able to walk around at night. I miss the White Lion, the Bridge of Lions, the winter lights. I miss the theater department, and how cold all the dorms are.

I want to go back, but I don't know if anyone will approve.

Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road

Well, all that worrying was for naught. It seems the decision was made for me, by way of job termination.

Of course, it helps to write it all down. Once I'd written about the tingles and warm fuzzies and dropping of heart bottoms, it was so much easier to shove away. I know that I say I want to live my life by the precept Love as thou wilt but it is so much easier to ignore it. After all, he is loving as he would, and I shouldn't stand in the way of that.

Love isn't like the fairytales. It doesn't happen overnight. I know that. I fought long and hard for my last relationship. Where did it end? In a ditch somewhere, unknown by others, much like Hitler. This is horrible. I'm making Hitler references.

My life is not the Holocaust. My life could be a lot worse. I could be dead. But sometimes? I think that would all be easier. Because then I wouldn't have to deal with the uncertainty. I'd just be dead.

Moral of the story, I don't want to fight fruitlessly for something that is never going to happen. And I'm glad that this will be less time I am forced to be around him. Because let's face it: I love the pseudo-snuggling on the couch and the wrestling over food. But I hate the reminders of girlfriends and chicks he thinks are hot.

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.

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.

Attempts

Listening to Amanda Palmer always inspires me. I want to work with her on something someday, even if it is just to run her merch table at a show. 

How do you write about a person who wants nothing to do with you? I'm not sure what I think I want to say, just that I want to talk about her. I suppose I'll pour it all out, only to hide it away where the light of day can't find it. 

That's not true. I'll send it to my other half, to critique and comment and sympathize. 

Empty apartment we

would have been shared.

A lovely sunny place

with nooks and cranies packed

full of books and notebooks and knitting needles.