Just hold on loosely, but don’t let go. If you cling too tightly, you’re gonna lose control.
"Anyone know who sings that?" my Shop teacher asks. It’s Friday, when he has his guess-the-artist game at the beginning of the period. I’m staring off into space because I’m thinking about when Floyd and I were listening to that same song yesterday, both singing along.
If he were here, he would probably know who sang the song. But as for me, I’m staring off into space and thinking about yesterday.
Our bridge is weak and popsicle sticks snap off as I inspect it. I glue them back on, then put it away. Floyd could deal with it on Monday. Or maybe I could fix it myself.
I go to lunch later and Michelle tells me that she is moving away from our lunch table, because she’s sick of putting up with Floyd. I pretend to be upset, but inside I am glad to be rid of the annoying amount of tension at our table these days.
We sit down to eat. I look at my cup of peaches and say, "I wish Floyd were here so he could give me peaches."
Elaine, who is one of his many ex-girlfriends, looks up at David and I and says, "Oh! He told me he wants to go out with me again." I blink. David starts to ask what she said, but she cuts him off. "I said no. I just…I don’t like him like that."
You see, I don’t care if Elaine likes Floyd. She could be obsessed with him for all I care.
It’s just the fact that he likes her.
In the car on the way home, I blurt it out to my mom, even though I told myself I wouldn’t tell anyone I was upset. Mom ignores me and tells me that she doesn’t want to hear my "whiner stories." I bite down on my lip and hold back tears. She starts a random conversation about how a fellow lunch lady she knew was working at my school, and she asked me if I saw her. She went on to describe her and everything and I seriously don’t know anything about the high school lunch ladies, except that they don’t give us enough food.
"How do you not notice anything? Are you that shallow?" Mom snaps.
"No, it’s just…let me think of a way to put this…" I trail off. "There was a moment when everyone else in the room disappeared," I say, and my voice cracks as I say it, tears threatening to make me sound like a blubbering idiot.
She goes on talking, punctuating my statement with a "Whatever", and I realize she has no idea what I mean and I don’t tell her.
I was so stupid, actually getting my hopes up. I always knew he still liked her, and just because my predictable life likes to torment me, here she is, telling us all about it.
I think about the bridge, and the way it’s falling apart on me now. I think about how that was our bridge, the one we were building to get to the other side holding hands. And now it’s falling apart. How fitting.
I don’t want to give up on him.
My pessimist side tells me I have to. My optimist side tells me to keep holding on. What should I do?
I asked myself a few days ago, "To doubt, or not to doubt?"
I think I will hold on... loosely. But I won't let go. But I won't hold on too tightly, because I will lose control.
I will drive myself crazy. I think I'm going to believe in this, but I will not rely on this.
And...
I will doubt.
Friday, March 2, 2012
To Doubt Or Not To Doubt?
"Did you know that only two percent of the population have green eyes?" Floyd asks.
"Oh. Wow," I say in response, and I look back down at my lunch, catching sight of the two cups of frozen peaches stacked on top of each other. I grin a little and then I realize he’s still looking at me.
"You have green eyes," I say, and it comes out half like a question and half matter-of-factly. I look up and look right into those eyes.
"Yeah," he says and we both don’t look away. "Well, they change color."
"They look kind of…grayish green," I reply. And I look away because if I look for too long, my brain will drain out until it’s empty. But I don’t look away in time because I turn into an idiot in five seconds flat. I mentally kick myself because something stupid fell out of my mouth instead of something clever, but he still laughs anyway.
Random things flash through my memory. (Why must I think so much?) The bridge. The day we talked aimlessly about so many different things. The peaches he just gave me a few minutes before. The exchanged glances. The proud feeling I get when I make him laugh. The way he never lets out his vicious side to attack me. The way I take his side and he takes mine. He is my Superman, and I am the damsel in distress. And here I am, patiently waiting for him to sweep my off of my feet and fly away.
The girl he was dating broke up with him on Saturday. Saturday…when I had that dream…Anyway, he told me this on Monday, and the whole thing didn’t even seem to affect him, which wasn’t surprising. What can I say? He’s Floyd. If his heart were broken, he would have a hard time showing it. I wish I were more like him sometimes.
It’s only Wednesday, but I’m just dying for him to sweep me off my feet already. We could be a silhouette in the sky. The stereotypical-nonstereotypical (if that makes sense?) happy couple, with a red cape trailing behind them as they fly higher and higher, up to where heartbreak and loneliness aren’t even an afterthought.
But for some reason, I doubt that he will.
To doubt or not to doubt?
That is the question...
"Oh. Wow," I say in response, and I look back down at my lunch, catching sight of the two cups of frozen peaches stacked on top of each other. I grin a little and then I realize he’s still looking at me.
"You have green eyes," I say, and it comes out half like a question and half matter-of-factly. I look up and look right into those eyes.
"Yeah," he says and we both don’t look away. "Well, they change color."
"They look kind of…grayish green," I reply. And I look away because if I look for too long, my brain will drain out until it’s empty. But I don’t look away in time because I turn into an idiot in five seconds flat. I mentally kick myself because something stupid fell out of my mouth instead of something clever, but he still laughs anyway.
Random things flash through my memory. (Why must I think so much?) The bridge. The day we talked aimlessly about so many different things. The peaches he just gave me a few minutes before. The exchanged glances. The proud feeling I get when I make him laugh. The way he never lets out his vicious side to attack me. The way I take his side and he takes mine. He is my Superman, and I am the damsel in distress. And here I am, patiently waiting for him to sweep my off of my feet and fly away.
The girl he was dating broke up with him on Saturday. Saturday…when I had that dream…Anyway, he told me this on Monday, and the whole thing didn’t even seem to affect him, which wasn’t surprising. What can I say? He’s Floyd. If his heart were broken, he would have a hard time showing it. I wish I were more like him sometimes.
It’s only Wednesday, but I’m just dying for him to sweep me off my feet already. We could be a silhouette in the sky. The stereotypical-nonstereotypical (if that makes sense?) happy couple, with a red cape trailing behind them as they fly higher and higher, up to where heartbreak and loneliness aren’t even an afterthought.
But for some reason, I doubt that he will.
To doubt or not to doubt?
That is the question...
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Dancing In Her Sleep
Last night, I had a dream. Not the usual sort of nonsense that escapes my brain upon waking, and floats aimlessly around my brain, the ghost of a thought. No. It felt real. And it was perfect.
I was in a large dark room with flashing lights. I think there was music. It was a dance of some sort. (Alright, I know, this is already sounding awfully "middle school" already, but bear with me) It was in the high school cafeteria, not the usual gym. I liked this touch, even though it was strange. I have so many good and bad memories in that cafeteria; lunches, breakfasts. Time spent with Floyd, time spent with Jordan. Food and conversation, feelings and inspiration. Songs, poems, posts were inspired here. The gym can only produce sad poetry about tragic school dances. But the cafeteria? This is where good dreams belonged.
I remember spending a lot of the evening talking to Floyd, the same kind of haphazard conversation that flits around quickly, landing on a subject for a few moments before taking off again, touching down on the random and the complex with seamless grace.
There were still a few cafeteria tables scattered on one side of the room. I was sitting at one when it happened. A slow song had started, and that was why I had found a seat, a place to look away from the happy couples dancing that I hated to see. But (brace yourself for the cheese) ...
There is Floyd, and he is walking my way. He stops in front of me and extends one of his hands toward me. He smiles.
"May I have this dance?" he asks. For a moment, I just stare at him in surprise. "Not too close, if you that’s what you want."
That last part is kind of weird and it doesn't make sense now that I'm awake. In the dream, I didn’t ask what he meant, but now I’m really wondering. I guess he figured I thought of him as a friend, but I really do want to hold him close and I was going to let him know that.
I smile back at him and I take his hand. And then suddenly, I am outside of myself, and I am watching us dance. We don’t cling to each other for dear life like any other couple, a tangled mess of arms and kisses that it pains me to watch, half out of envy, half out of disgust. But Floyd and I waltz around the floor slowly like a prince and a princess at a royal ball. Even though I am watching all of this happen instead of living inside of myself, I feel his fingers between mine, warm. After the song ends, we buy ourselves some food, because how could either of us live without our usual abundances of food? We sit down and eat together just like at lunch, and I remember thinking that in school on Monday, I was going to ask him if he just danced with me because he felt bad for me. But as I think it, he reaches over and puts his fingers between mine again, and this time I am living in the moment when I look into his eyes, and I know that I didn't need anyone's pity tonight.
It was a dream come true.
I open my eyes and see light shining through the curtains over my window.
Oh, wait. Not a dream come true. Just a dream.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to go back again, but I can’t.
That world seemed so far away this morning, when I was trying so hard to go to sleep and find it again. But the truth is, that world follows me everywhere. I can visit it any time, but it only feels real when I sleep. But what if the real world and that world were the same thing?
Does Floyd ever dream about me? Does Floyd ever really think of me at all?
If there is a world where I get to hold Floyd without sleeping to find it, I would love to be a part of it.
I was in a large dark room with flashing lights. I think there was music. It was a dance of some sort. (Alright, I know, this is already sounding awfully "middle school" already, but bear with me) It was in the high school cafeteria, not the usual gym. I liked this touch, even though it was strange. I have so many good and bad memories in that cafeteria; lunches, breakfasts. Time spent with Floyd, time spent with Jordan. Food and conversation, feelings and inspiration. Songs, poems, posts were inspired here. The gym can only produce sad poetry about tragic school dances. But the cafeteria? This is where good dreams belonged.
I remember spending a lot of the evening talking to Floyd, the same kind of haphazard conversation that flits around quickly, landing on a subject for a few moments before taking off again, touching down on the random and the complex with seamless grace.
There were still a few cafeteria tables scattered on one side of the room. I was sitting at one when it happened. A slow song had started, and that was why I had found a seat, a place to look away from the happy couples dancing that I hated to see. But (brace yourself for the cheese) ...
There is Floyd, and he is walking my way. He stops in front of me and extends one of his hands toward me. He smiles.
"May I have this dance?" he asks. For a moment, I just stare at him in surprise. "Not too close, if you that’s what you want."
That last part is kind of weird and it doesn't make sense now that I'm awake. In the dream, I didn’t ask what he meant, but now I’m really wondering. I guess he figured I thought of him as a friend, but I really do want to hold him close and I was going to let him know that.
I smile back at him and I take his hand. And then suddenly, I am outside of myself, and I am watching us dance. We don’t cling to each other for dear life like any other couple, a tangled mess of arms and kisses that it pains me to watch, half out of envy, half out of disgust. But Floyd and I waltz around the floor slowly like a prince and a princess at a royal ball. Even though I am watching all of this happen instead of living inside of myself, I feel his fingers between mine, warm. After the song ends, we buy ourselves some food, because how could either of us live without our usual abundances of food? We sit down and eat together just like at lunch, and I remember thinking that in school on Monday, I was going to ask him if he just danced with me because he felt bad for me. But as I think it, he reaches over and puts his fingers between mine again, and this time I am living in the moment when I look into his eyes, and I know that I didn't need anyone's pity tonight.
It was a dream come true.
I open my eyes and see light shining through the curtains over my window.
Oh, wait. Not a dream come true. Just a dream.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to go back again, but I can’t.
That world seemed so far away this morning, when I was trying so hard to go to sleep and find it again. But the truth is, that world follows me everywhere. I can visit it any time, but it only feels real when I sleep. But what if the real world and that world were the same thing?
Does Floyd ever dream about me? Does Floyd ever really think of me at all?
If there is a world where I get to hold Floyd without sleeping to find it, I would love to be a part of it.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Only One Reason
I sit down beside Floyd at our lunch table. David isn’t at school and he’s actually sick (!), which is a first. One of the hyper, preppy girls at the table next to us has confiscated a few chairs (what a shame), so here I sit in the seat beside his. I tear into my lunch ravenously, picking up a small bag of onion rings and pulling it open.
"And I’d bet this is going to be half empty…" I mumble. "Yep. Just as I—" I start, peering into the bag, until Floyd cuts me off.
"Hey!" he says, mock scolding in his voice and an exaggerated scowl on his face. "Half full."
I smile, despite the eye roll I send his way pointedly. (Optimism? I just want onion rings.)
But let him play the optimist. (Who knew he had it in him?) It's one of the reasons I love him.
"And I’d bet this is going to be half empty…" I mumble. "Yep. Just as I—" I start, peering into the bag, until Floyd cuts me off.
"Hey!" he says, mock scolding in his voice and an exaggerated scowl on his face. "Half full."
I smile, despite the eye roll I send his way pointedly. (Optimism? I just want onion rings.)
But let him play the optimist. (Who knew he had it in him?) It's one of the reasons I love him.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
It Happens More Than I'd Like To Admit
"Wait—what the hell is that?" he says, an incredulous laugh in his voice.
"It’s a pedal tone chord. It’s like a Cadd9, but you put your…" I trail off. "You know a G, right?" He nods and places his fingers in a G formation. I pull one of his long, pale fingers off of the bottom string and move it down a string. "Now, put your pinky on the last string." He strums the G. "It kind of adds something, doesn’t it?" I ask, and I look up at the wrong time because I’m looking right into his eyes. Look away. He switches back and forth from a G to a Cadd9 and then his fingers start flying up and down the fret board. Those fingers just can’t be trained, confined to simplicity. I smile at the intricate noise and watch his hands. It's like a whole other language, that his hands whisper to my strings, one that my hands don't quite know how to translate yet. My strings seem to like it, because they respond beautifully. They learn quickly, much faster than I. When I look up, our eyes meet again. He asks me something but I don’t even hear it. I blink.
"Do you want your guitar?" he says again.
"No, you can keep playing… Just give it to me when you’re done." He hands it to me immediately and I am honestly a little disappointed.
We’re talking and it’s not as meaningless as I expect and something is happening in me that shouldn’t be happening.
I start playing "Kryptonite" by 3 Doors Down because that song makes me think about Floyd. Floyd. Yeah, him. Damn you Floyd, for getting sick, and leaving me to watch Jordan and realize just how--
What am I thinking?
Logic has failed me and my brain is turning against me.
I spend time with Jordan and it feels like the first day that I met him, which is not good. Something is new and something is different about us today, maybe the fact that I’m "over" him and he’s looking at me and talking to me and I’m trying very, very, very hard to ignore those eyes and that smile and that music and those hands and everything that I fell in love with on the very first day.
"I kind of want to get the other guitar from the band room. Will you come down with me?" he asks and I can’t say no and that bugs me. We go downstairs, and we’re laughing, having some sort of bizarre conversation, the kind I'm only in the mood for when I'm happy. And I am. Why? I laugh harder when I hear him laughing, because his laugh is so amusing. We walk side by side, laid back and comfortable like friends should be and I want to catch one of his hands with one of my swinging arms and hold it. When I realize this, I want to slam my head against the wall repetitively until I realize how incredibly stupid I am being.
I spend the rest of the morning thinking and mentally slapping myself across the face. Snap out of it. I keep shoving Jordan out of my mind until sometime around second period, I let him in. He curls up with my reluctant affection. I let myself want to love him. I let myself want to make him happy.
And you know why I let that happen?
Because "I may be dumb, but I’m not a dweeb, just a sucker with no self-esteem."
Who said anything about a weak point? I am strong enough to want to hold Jordan’s hand without wanting to hold it forever. I'd say that's more of a strong point than a weak point.
Maybe this is just how I get myself through Wednesdays that otherwise suck. May as well make them worth glorifying, right?
And then it is Thursday and I am back to random but meaningful conversation and smiling and laughing with Floyd. I always feel a warm, proud feeling when I make Floyd laugh. Our popsicle stick bridge is actually starting to look like a bridge and we are gluing and clamping and taping and it is all very frustrating but we are talking and standing very close which makes it all better.
"Michelle was thrilled that you weren’t here yesterday," I say. "She was like, "Guess what! Floyd isn’t here! This is great!" and I was like, "Yes, I know."
"'And that makes me very sad,'" Floyd says to finish off my thoughts exactly with a grin on his face. No comment. He totally knows. Or maybe I’m just overreacting. Love, or like, or attraction, or obsession or whatever this is should not be a frustrating guessing game. I’m not chasing him down, I’m simply just walking. I don’t follow him. He doesn’t follow me. We just walk side by side and ponder if we should be holding hands. At least I do.
And Jordan still wanders around in the very back of my mind, but I am focusing all of my daydreamer dreams on the boy who hasn’t let me down yet.
I hate to think about it and say this, but if Floyd was ever to let me down…for some reason…
I know exactly where I would go next.
And that bugs me.
When I get on the bus after school, a song is playing. I hear only a few of the words before it ends. I'm not over you. Even the radio hates me. "Hey," Yuuki says to get my attention. I turn my head toward where she sits across the aisle. "This music sucks." I nod. Yes Yuuki, it does.
Oh well. I guess all good chefs have to pay attention to the things they put on the back burner every once in a while. Right?
"It’s a pedal tone chord. It’s like a Cadd9, but you put your…" I trail off. "You know a G, right?" He nods and places his fingers in a G formation. I pull one of his long, pale fingers off of the bottom string and move it down a string. "Now, put your pinky on the last string." He strums the G. "It kind of adds something, doesn’t it?" I ask, and I look up at the wrong time because I’m looking right into his eyes. Look away. He switches back and forth from a G to a Cadd9 and then his fingers start flying up and down the fret board. Those fingers just can’t be trained, confined to simplicity. I smile at the intricate noise and watch his hands. It's like a whole other language, that his hands whisper to my strings, one that my hands don't quite know how to translate yet. My strings seem to like it, because they respond beautifully. They learn quickly, much faster than I. When I look up, our eyes meet again. He asks me something but I don’t even hear it. I blink.
"Do you want your guitar?" he says again.
"No, you can keep playing… Just give it to me when you’re done." He hands it to me immediately and I am honestly a little disappointed.
We’re talking and it’s not as meaningless as I expect and something is happening in me that shouldn’t be happening.
I start playing "Kryptonite" by 3 Doors Down because that song makes me think about Floyd. Floyd. Yeah, him. Damn you Floyd, for getting sick, and leaving me to watch Jordan and realize just how--
What am I thinking?
Logic has failed me and my brain is turning against me.
I spend time with Jordan and it feels like the first day that I met him, which is not good. Something is new and something is different about us today, maybe the fact that I’m "over" him and he’s looking at me and talking to me and I’m trying very, very, very hard to ignore those eyes and that smile and that music and those hands and everything that I fell in love with on the very first day.
"I kind of want to get the other guitar from the band room. Will you come down with me?" he asks and I can’t say no and that bugs me. We go downstairs, and we’re laughing, having some sort of bizarre conversation, the kind I'm only in the mood for when I'm happy. And I am. Why? I laugh harder when I hear him laughing, because his laugh is so amusing. We walk side by side, laid back and comfortable like friends should be and I want to catch one of his hands with one of my swinging arms and hold it. When I realize this, I want to slam my head against the wall repetitively until I realize how incredibly stupid I am being.
I spend the rest of the morning thinking and mentally slapping myself across the face. Snap out of it. I keep shoving Jordan out of my mind until sometime around second period, I let him in. He curls up with my reluctant affection. I let myself want to love him. I let myself want to make him happy.
And you know why I let that happen?
Because "I may be dumb, but I’m not a dweeb, just a sucker with no self-esteem."
Who said anything about a weak point? I am strong enough to want to hold Jordan’s hand without wanting to hold it forever. I'd say that's more of a strong point than a weak point.
Maybe this is just how I get myself through Wednesdays that otherwise suck. May as well make them worth glorifying, right?
And then it is Thursday and I am back to random but meaningful conversation and smiling and laughing with Floyd. I always feel a warm, proud feeling when I make Floyd laugh. Our popsicle stick bridge is actually starting to look like a bridge and we are gluing and clamping and taping and it is all very frustrating but we are talking and standing very close which makes it all better.
"Michelle was thrilled that you weren’t here yesterday," I say. "She was like, "Guess what! Floyd isn’t here! This is great!" and I was like, "Yes, I know."
"'And that makes me very sad,'" Floyd says to finish off my thoughts exactly with a grin on his face. No comment. He totally knows. Or maybe I’m just overreacting. Love, or like, or attraction, or obsession or whatever this is should not be a frustrating guessing game. I’m not chasing him down, I’m simply just walking. I don’t follow him. He doesn’t follow me. We just walk side by side and ponder if we should be holding hands. At least I do.
And Jordan still wanders around in the very back of my mind, but I am focusing all of my daydreamer dreams on the boy who hasn’t let me down yet.
I hate to think about it and say this, but if Floyd was ever to let me down…for some reason…
I know exactly where I would go next.
And that bugs me.
When I get on the bus after school, a song is playing. I hear only a few of the words before it ends. I'm not over you. Even the radio hates me. "Hey," Yuuki says to get my attention. I turn my head toward where she sits across the aisle. "This music sucks." I nod. Yes Yuuki, it does.
Oh well. I guess all good chefs have to pay attention to the things they put on the back burner every once in a while. Right?
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Building Bridges
When you find yourself rapidly falling for someone, nothing else matters. Seriously! I could bomb a Geometry quiz, gain five pounds, get into disputes with my friends, and have a pounding headache all in one day, but as long as I get to spend time with him, who cares?
Everything is still a big question, an empty space that I can easily fill up with dreams and possibilities. He hasn't crushed my dreams yet. I know it's probably inevitable, but I guess it's fine to just keep smiling. Maybe when he breaks my heart, I'll be able to remember being happy like this, and be able to look back on it and know that he didn't always make me miserable. But who says he has to break my heart anyway? (Fate, possibly)
I never, ever would have suspected falling for Floyd. But it’s funny how things just…happen. I have faith in this. I don't know why, but I do. I get my hopes up very high, and today, it feels like nothing can crush them.
Is Floyd the perfect solution to a problem I've been trying to solve for far too long? It's like I've been doing all of this difficult algebra, head in my hand, tears clouding my vision, eraser worn down. But it turns out that it was a multiple choice question all along! All I had to do was plug in the different choices, and see which one works. I'm not settling for "C" because that's what everyone says you should do, I'm confidently circling the answer that I know is right. But what if this backfires? What if I fail the test?
Gazes meet like two links on a chain, gripping onto each other for only a few seconds before they break again. His eyes are like windows to the inside of his brain, and every once in a while, I catch a glimpse of thoughts floating around aimlessly, just behind my own thoughts, glistening softly there. A reflection, because I see myself in him.
Slowly, I memorize him. I memorize every expression on his face. I memorize the way his voice sounds depending on his mood. I memorize the way his hands feel when they brush up against mine. I memorize the way he smells. He has a nice smell, a sort of rugged mix of cologne, sweat and wintergreen tobacco. Is it weird to say that the way someone smells can soothe you? Just breathing him in, knowing he's close enough to smell, is enough to put me at ease. I am comfortable by his side. Whenever I walk next to him, I picture us holding hands. I picture the way peoples' eyes would fall on our linked fingers, I picture the way their eyebrows would raise or their grins would widen. He’d be a great boyfriend. No, I take that back. He would be perfect for me. I would be the sweet, pushover girl that would soften his sharp tongue and tough exterior, and he would be the sarcastic, fearless, witty guy that would toughen me up and push me to say what I really mean to people who deserve it. He would make me fearless. So what if everyone would hate me the way they hate him? At least I'd still have one person on my side. And that's all I need.
I love listening to him talk to people, the way he always makes them laugh without even trying. I love how we spend forty-five minutes of every day together, just building our bridge. It’s a corny metaphor (my forte), but while we build that bridge, we also build another bridge, one that is invisible, but still very real. We’re slowly, carefully building a bridge that goes from friends to good friends and maybe (hopefully) beyond. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He just does it subconsciously, carefully attaching the little bits and pieces that I give him. I’m the one with the blueprint, the one who is strategically planning it all out, and he’s just winging it, oblivious to my plans, and we’re both just letting it all fall into place, a bridge strong enough to get us to the other side. Hopefully, by the time we get to the other side, we’ll be holding hands.
Everything is still a big question, an empty space that I can easily fill up with dreams and possibilities. He hasn't crushed my dreams yet. I know it's probably inevitable, but I guess it's fine to just keep smiling. Maybe when he breaks my heart, I'll be able to remember being happy like this, and be able to look back on it and know that he didn't always make me miserable. But who says he has to break my heart anyway? (Fate, possibly)
I never, ever would have suspected falling for Floyd. But it’s funny how things just…happen. I have faith in this. I don't know why, but I do. I get my hopes up very high, and today, it feels like nothing can crush them.
Is Floyd the perfect solution to a problem I've been trying to solve for far too long? It's like I've been doing all of this difficult algebra, head in my hand, tears clouding my vision, eraser worn down. But it turns out that it was a multiple choice question all along! All I had to do was plug in the different choices, and see which one works. I'm not settling for "C" because that's what everyone says you should do, I'm confidently circling the answer that I know is right. But what if this backfires? What if I fail the test?
Gazes meet like two links on a chain, gripping onto each other for only a few seconds before they break again. His eyes are like windows to the inside of his brain, and every once in a while, I catch a glimpse of thoughts floating around aimlessly, just behind my own thoughts, glistening softly there. A reflection, because I see myself in him.
Slowly, I memorize him. I memorize every expression on his face. I memorize the way his voice sounds depending on his mood. I memorize the way his hands feel when they brush up against mine. I memorize the way he smells. He has a nice smell, a sort of rugged mix of cologne, sweat and wintergreen tobacco. Is it weird to say that the way someone smells can soothe you? Just breathing him in, knowing he's close enough to smell, is enough to put me at ease. I am comfortable by his side. Whenever I walk next to him, I picture us holding hands. I picture the way peoples' eyes would fall on our linked fingers, I picture the way their eyebrows would raise or their grins would widen. He’d be a great boyfriend. No, I take that back. He would be perfect for me. I would be the sweet, pushover girl that would soften his sharp tongue and tough exterior, and he would be the sarcastic, fearless, witty guy that would toughen me up and push me to say what I really mean to people who deserve it. He would make me fearless. So what if everyone would hate me the way they hate him? At least I'd still have one person on my side. And that's all I need.
I love listening to him talk to people, the way he always makes them laugh without even trying. I love how we spend forty-five minutes of every day together, just building our bridge. It’s a corny metaphor (my forte), but while we build that bridge, we also build another bridge, one that is invisible, but still very real. We’re slowly, carefully building a bridge that goes from friends to good friends and maybe (hopefully) beyond. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He just does it subconsciously, carefully attaching the little bits and pieces that I give him. I’m the one with the blueprint, the one who is strategically planning it all out, and he’s just winging it, oblivious to my plans, and we’re both just letting it all fall into place, a bridge strong enough to get us to the other side. Hopefully, by the time we get to the other side, we’ll be holding hands.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
One Of Those Days
"It's just one of those days."
Don't you just hate those days? Those days you refer to when you say "those days"?
Valentine’s Day is just one of those days. Certainly not a holiday.
Actually, it is one of the days with the highest suicide rates. (Gee, I wonder why)
Valentine’s Day was made for the single people to feel insanely jealous of what they’re missing out on and the couples to show off the happiness that they have found in this awful, shallow generation. But doesn't that happen every day, anyway?
But before I go on, I must clarify that there are two types of single people. The first type is the people who haven’t been in a relationship for a few weeks, maybe months, possibly a year. I guess you could call them "dormant."
Then, there are the hopeless ones. These are the people who seem to have absolutely nothing figured out when it comes to romance and happiness going hand in hand. They’re incredibly behind in a world where everyone is racing ahead, and they can’t help but feel down about it. Not very often do I come across another single person like this in a world of couples and "dormant" single people. But when I do, I can’t help but feel my heart ache for them, because I know exactly how they feel. Trust me, I’m the one bringing the balloons and goodie bags to the pity party here. I’m not just taking pity on those poor, loveless schmucks. I am one of those poor loveless schmucks. I’m crying on their shoulders and they are crying on mine. But there seems to be a bit of a problem here...
There are no shoulders to cry on. I am alone here in the land of hopeless single people. Everywhere I turn, I see hands linked, lips locked, changed relationship statuses, big smiles. And I can’t help but be insanely, incredibly, painfully, horribly, pathetically, pitifully jealous. I am a pathetic fool who complains and complains about the happiness of others. And you know why?
Because I am awkward, naïve, unattractive. I have too much personality to go around, but no one cares about what’s below the surface anymore. It’s all tiny waistlines, Barbie-doll tits, long hair, pretty faces, and in most cases, a lack of brain cells. That is the ideal girlfriend of my generation. Kind of sick, isn't it? I have none of those qualities. Why am I punished for that, again?
I can’t help that I am a fifteen-year-old girl in a world like this. I want so badly to skip this part of my life, the part when I’ll just never, ever be good enough for any guy. I want to wake up one morning and be done with this crap. I want to get to the good part of my life, if it even exists. But wait—shouldn’t this be the good part of my life? It seems to be that way for everyone else. I’ve always heard it said that your high school and college years are the best years of your life. But since I turned thirteen and started high school, I have been nothing but miserable ever since.
And the damn country I live in has a day to celebrate the reason I am miserable.
What is love, anyway? Do any of those happy couples that I envy so greatly actually share love? If not, what is it, anyway? Whatever it is, I want to get in on it. I mean, yes, there are different types of love. I love my parents a different way than I love my sister, I love my sister a different way than I love my friends, I love my friends a different way than I love my grandmothers. I love my grandmothers a different way than I love guys. (I should hope so) But from what I gather from any type of love, love is being comfortable with someone. Love is knowing that someone is there for you. Love is not looking past the bad things, just loving everything instead. Love is complex, and everyone loves differently.
I love my family in a love/hate sort of way. I love my friends in a strong, protective way. I love each guy I fall for in a different way, but usually, every time is fueled by the dreams of a dreamer, the quest for my first love.
Grey. I loved him in a he’s-so-amazing-and-talented-and-beautiful sort of way. I practically idolized him. I felt that nothing in the entire world even came close to the flawless aura of his existence. Light, I loved in a he’s-really-cute-and-he-seems-nice sort of way. But what started out as a tiny, meaningless crush exploded into a mess of Oh-my-God-I-need-you for no particular, logical, earthly reason. I loved Jordan in a way that was kind of new to me, because I actually knew him and talked to him. I fell in love with his outer appearance, and fell in love with his personality, but only the good parts. But then, I started seeing the bad things about him. Like how he is incredibly dull and I never had an intellectual conversation with him. Like how he dedicated so much time to hating everything. Like music, which was a ridiculous, waste of time sort of thing to do, plus the bands were all bands that I liked. And like how he said either "fuck" or "shit" in practically every sentence that came out of his mouth. Like how he gets drunk and smokes weed. And none of the good parts of his personality made up for any of the bad. He honestly is a bit of a loser. A cute loser, but a loser nonetheless. I loved him and thought that the love was real, when it was all just physical attraction.
And then there was Floyd.
I don’t even know if I love him, honestly. I became attracted to his personality months before I made the decision to let myself have feelings for him. I loved how we had so much in common, how he always said things to make me laugh. Somewhere deep in my mind, like 20,000 leagues under the sea, far away from the ears and minds of anyone else, I confirmed it. I was indeed falling for him. After I was completely hooked on that loud, fearless, quirky personality, he became undoubtedly handsome. He did not magically become the most gorgeous guy in the world, but he may as well have. He’s attractive in his own way. He slowly became the only person I see in a crowded room. He became the latest victim of my wishful thinking and hopeless heart.
I’m not moonstruck. I'm not crazy. I'm not obsessed. (Yet) No, this feeling is something I feel almost sure of. But that alone scares the shit out of me. I want him to reciprocate my feelings. I want that a lot. I stopped denying my attraction and simply let myself dream. I’m starting to wonder if that was a mistake. Love leads to ruin.
Oops. I kind of ran away with my words a little there. (I do that) What was I talking about?
Oh, yeah. Valentine’s Day.
Eh. Never mind. Screw Valentine’s Day. I think I’m too content right now to let the happiness of others ruin my day. I’m not ignoring the fact that it’s Valentine’s Day. (How could I?) I’m just treating it like another day, another day to love, another day to laugh, another day to be frustrated, and another day that I will never get to live again. Might as well not spend it sulking.
Every time someone tells me to let love find me, the first word to pass my lips is usually "That," shortly followed by "is total bullshit." But maybe those words actually do mean something. I refuse to be the one chasing this time. I will patiently wait for him to notice that what he’s looking for is right in front of him. I will patiently wait for Superman to save the day.
Once upon a time, I asked David what he thought I was doing wrong, why I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ll never forget what he said.
"Show off your boobs more."
What boobs?
I was thoroughly disgusted by his answer, but laughed anyway, even though he wasn’t joking.
If being a slut is what it takes to be happy, I would rather be miserable.
I think I’d rather take the advice that Floyd gave Michelle, on that day when she had been interrogating him in the same way. It was the most civil thing he had said to her that day, and it really stuck with me.
"Watch as many sappy chick flicks as possible. Then, do the exact opposite of what they do."
I’m not going to watch any movies, because I hate sappy romance movies. I’m just not going to come on strongly. I’m not going to try persistently to win his heart. I’m not going to hope for something cliché, because Floyd just isn’t a cliché type of guy.
Hopefully, he’ll realize who is perfect for him in time.
Until then, be happy on Valentine’s Day. If I can do it, you can too.
Don't you just hate those days? Those days you refer to when you say "those days"?
Valentine’s Day is just one of those days. Certainly not a holiday.
Actually, it is one of the days with the highest suicide rates. (Gee, I wonder why)
Valentine’s Day was made for the single people to feel insanely jealous of what they’re missing out on and the couples to show off the happiness that they have found in this awful, shallow generation. But doesn't that happen every day, anyway?
But before I go on, I must clarify that there are two types of single people. The first type is the people who haven’t been in a relationship for a few weeks, maybe months, possibly a year. I guess you could call them "dormant."
Then, there are the hopeless ones. These are the people who seem to have absolutely nothing figured out when it comes to romance and happiness going hand in hand. They’re incredibly behind in a world where everyone is racing ahead, and they can’t help but feel down about it. Not very often do I come across another single person like this in a world of couples and "dormant" single people. But when I do, I can’t help but feel my heart ache for them, because I know exactly how they feel. Trust me, I’m the one bringing the balloons and goodie bags to the pity party here. I’m not just taking pity on those poor, loveless schmucks. I am one of those poor loveless schmucks. I’m crying on their shoulders and they are crying on mine. But there seems to be a bit of a problem here...
There are no shoulders to cry on. I am alone here in the land of hopeless single people. Everywhere I turn, I see hands linked, lips locked, changed relationship statuses, big smiles. And I can’t help but be insanely, incredibly, painfully, horribly, pathetically, pitifully jealous. I am a pathetic fool who complains and complains about the happiness of others. And you know why?
Because I am awkward, naïve, unattractive. I have too much personality to go around, but no one cares about what’s below the surface anymore. It’s all tiny waistlines, Barbie-doll tits, long hair, pretty faces, and in most cases, a lack of brain cells. That is the ideal girlfriend of my generation. Kind of sick, isn't it? I have none of those qualities. Why am I punished for that, again?
I can’t help that I am a fifteen-year-old girl in a world like this. I want so badly to skip this part of my life, the part when I’ll just never, ever be good enough for any guy. I want to wake up one morning and be done with this crap. I want to get to the good part of my life, if it even exists. But wait—shouldn’t this be the good part of my life? It seems to be that way for everyone else. I’ve always heard it said that your high school and college years are the best years of your life. But since I turned thirteen and started high school, I have been nothing but miserable ever since.
And the damn country I live in has a day to celebrate the reason I am miserable.
What is love, anyway? Do any of those happy couples that I envy so greatly actually share love? If not, what is it, anyway? Whatever it is, I want to get in on it. I mean, yes, there are different types of love. I love my parents a different way than I love my sister, I love my sister a different way than I love my friends, I love my friends a different way than I love my grandmothers. I love my grandmothers a different way than I love guys. (I should hope so) But from what I gather from any type of love, love is being comfortable with someone. Love is knowing that someone is there for you. Love is not looking past the bad things, just loving everything instead. Love is complex, and everyone loves differently.
I love my family in a love/hate sort of way. I love my friends in a strong, protective way. I love each guy I fall for in a different way, but usually, every time is fueled by the dreams of a dreamer, the quest for my first love.
Grey. I loved him in a he’s-so-amazing-and-talented-and-beautiful sort of way. I practically idolized him. I felt that nothing in the entire world even came close to the flawless aura of his existence. Light, I loved in a he’s-really-cute-and-he-seems-nice sort of way. But what started out as a tiny, meaningless crush exploded into a mess of Oh-my-God-I-need-you for no particular, logical, earthly reason. I loved Jordan in a way that was kind of new to me, because I actually knew him and talked to him. I fell in love with his outer appearance, and fell in love with his personality, but only the good parts. But then, I started seeing the bad things about him. Like how he is incredibly dull and I never had an intellectual conversation with him. Like how he dedicated so much time to hating everything. Like music, which was a ridiculous, waste of time sort of thing to do, plus the bands were all bands that I liked. And like how he said either "fuck" or "shit" in practically every sentence that came out of his mouth. Like how he gets drunk and smokes weed. And none of the good parts of his personality made up for any of the bad. He honestly is a bit of a loser. A cute loser, but a loser nonetheless. I loved him and thought that the love was real, when it was all just physical attraction.
And then there was Floyd.
I don’t even know if I love him, honestly. I became attracted to his personality months before I made the decision to let myself have feelings for him. I loved how we had so much in common, how he always said things to make me laugh. Somewhere deep in my mind, like 20,000 leagues under the sea, far away from the ears and minds of anyone else, I confirmed it. I was indeed falling for him. After I was completely hooked on that loud, fearless, quirky personality, he became undoubtedly handsome. He did not magically become the most gorgeous guy in the world, but he may as well have. He’s attractive in his own way. He slowly became the only person I see in a crowded room. He became the latest victim of my wishful thinking and hopeless heart.
I’m not moonstruck. I'm not crazy. I'm not obsessed. (Yet) No, this feeling is something I feel almost sure of. But that alone scares the shit out of me. I want him to reciprocate my feelings. I want that a lot. I stopped denying my attraction and simply let myself dream. I’m starting to wonder if that was a mistake. Love leads to ruin.
Oops. I kind of ran away with my words a little there. (I do that) What was I talking about?
Oh, yeah. Valentine’s Day.
Eh. Never mind. Screw Valentine’s Day. I think I’m too content right now to let the happiness of others ruin my day. I’m not ignoring the fact that it’s Valentine’s Day. (How could I?) I’m just treating it like another day, another day to love, another day to laugh, another day to be frustrated, and another day that I will never get to live again. Might as well not spend it sulking.
Every time someone tells me to let love find me, the first word to pass my lips is usually "That," shortly followed by "is total bullshit." But maybe those words actually do mean something. I refuse to be the one chasing this time. I will patiently wait for him to notice that what he’s looking for is right in front of him. I will patiently wait for Superman to save the day.
Once upon a time, I asked David what he thought I was doing wrong, why I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ll never forget what he said.
"Show off your boobs more."
What boobs?
I was thoroughly disgusted by his answer, but laughed anyway, even though he wasn’t joking.
If being a slut is what it takes to be happy, I would rather be miserable.
I think I’d rather take the advice that Floyd gave Michelle, on that day when she had been interrogating him in the same way. It was the most civil thing he had said to her that day, and it really stuck with me.
"Watch as many sappy chick flicks as possible. Then, do the exact opposite of what they do."
I’m not going to watch any movies, because I hate sappy romance movies. I’m just not going to come on strongly. I’m not going to try persistently to win his heart. I’m not going to hope for something cliché, because Floyd just isn’t a cliché type of guy.
Hopefully, he’ll realize who is perfect for him in time.
Until then, be happy on Valentine’s Day. If I can do it, you can too.
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