Perhaps

I stand in front of a smudged full length mirror, silently scrutinizing every part of my body that is accentuated in the Marilyn Monroe gown that I wear.

"I really like that one. It looks so good, girl! And black…it like…it slims you down. Do you know what I mean?"

January babbles on somewhere behind me while I make a mental note to drop a few pounds before prom.

After trying on a few dresses in her bedroom, trying not to mind the zippers not closing all the way on some of them, I curl up on her cushiony bed in sweatpants, scroll through my Facebook on my iPod, and listen to her talk about her latest boyfriend. I feel comfortable. Every negative thought that had crossed my mind about her recently was temporarily forgotten.

"I feel like I'm kinda like, stringing him along, and I guess after I move, I'll just break it off with him. And he keeps asking' me, "Jan, my friend is tellin' me you been cheatin'. I want you to be honest with me, babe. If you wanna break up with me than tell me. If we're gonna break up, I want you to break up with me because I don't wanna hurt you, da-da-da-da-da.' (January's version of "blah blah blah") And I don't know why he keeps accusin' me of somethin' I didn't do."

I take a silver Nikon camera down from where it hangs on the wall, and absentmindedly play with it. A Nikon N55. A 35 mm. A nice one, too.

"If he keeps saying that, it's like he's pushing you to break up with him. And since he keeps claiming that you're 'cheating,' that probably means that he's just trying to switch the blame around because he's probably the one doing something wrong."

I let the words hang between us, half-expecting a disagreement.

"I know, right? That's what I said! But I think I'm just not gonna tell him that I don't have feelings for him until I move. Because he's already said that if I hurt him, he'll go back to his old ways. Like, the drugs and stuff."

"How do you know he ever stopped?" I meet her gaze, and her blue eyes light up at my suggestion, and I know it's never even occurred to her.

"That's so true! I never thought of that!" she raves, and I know that she knows that I'm probably right. But she won't break it off any sooner because of it.

We sit in silence for a few moments, and I listen to our moms talking out on the back porch. I sip on my cherry-pomegranate V8 juice and scratch the top of her dog's head. It feels like summer.

And summer feels like contentment.

Feeling content with January comes as a surprise, and I know it shouldn't.

After going home, I find this incredible sadness nestled inside of me that had stayed out of sight until I had had time to let my brain start going into overdrive again. Let myself wonder how it can be both so easy and so difficult to feel happy. And it's a weird sadness, this feeling of longing. But not longing for another person. Longing for myself.

I've become something hollow, a shell. Perhaps a glass. A vulnerable glass on the countertop, knowing it has no other choice but to feel the chill of other people purring themselves inside. Letting everything inside of them fill up everything inside of me, until they tilt their head back and drink it all back inside. Including pieces of me.

Or perhaps I am the liquid, taking the shape of whatever container I am put inside of. The cynic. The bitch. The good friend. The funny girl. The miserable girl. The life of the party. The wallflower. And underneath those facades that I am poured into at the hands of other people, I am as transparent and tasteless as water. But in all actuality, I haven't always been that way.

I guess some people would tell me I do it to myself. And perhaps I do. But maybe after having so many people take tiny bits of your optimism, of your sanity, of your common sense--simply because they believe that they need it more than you do--maybe that is when you become this way.

When you become empty.

Sometimes, I feel like I should have this Hollywood moment where I meet someone who makes me feel less empty. Like a friend. Or a mentor. Or a lover. Anyone who makes me feel like they and I are two different people, not one person and their involuntary yet obedient little attachment. Their shadow, a ghost of someone who may or may not have existed once, a transparent shape that they find it so easy to pour their own reflection into.

Why must they think that the meaning of a friend is to take the feet of another person and shove them into their own shoes, not even considering that they had interrupted that person's own journey in the process?

Is that what has happened to me?

It seems that the only friend I've come across who was willing to attempt understanding me and fixing up all the broken parts of my mindset is Symphony. And as much as I love her, it seems that instead of making me feel less empty, she just makes me feel like I am empty for a reason. If that makes sense.

Honestly, my friends are good people. They are lost teenagers, and when they look at me, they may not see that empty ghost. Maybe they see the wisdom stored in my brain, the secrets behind surviving adolescence that I somehow can simultaneously know and not apply to my life, and they know that I can help them. And who can blame them? If someone could help me too, I'd want the answers.

So where do I find my own answers?

Perhaps I already know them.

Can't Be Held Responsible

My ears are filled with the sound of his rejection, and it is sweeter than the sound of his silence.

It is strange how we associate people, events with music. This song, "The Freshmen" by The Verve Pipe, takes me back to being curled up near the pillow of my bed on the night of my confession and his rejection (will these two words always be synonymous, parallel to one another?), laptop propped against my knees, listening to the song on repeat and crying the sort of disturbing tears that never seem to stop, the ones that leave you in utter disbelief, because they won't stop falling, like a broken faucet. So you ask yourself, am I broken?

And I ask myself now, is broken better than empty?

I have to keep reminding myself to blame him for it. I can't blame myself. Who in their right mind would put themself through this?

I'll never understand how it is possible to become so attached to another human being. Lately, love has become something of a fantasy to me, something that hopeless romantics made up to define something terrible and time-consuming, trying to make it sound more appealing to the other hopeless romantics who read or listen to their words. Desperately trying to thin the line between the definition of happiness and the definition of love. But I am starting to see the line. It is outside of the world that someone has trapped me in. I want happiness. Instead, I have love. Lucky me.

Why should I have to love anyone? Why don't I have control over my emotions? If it was my choice, I would detach myself from this feeling forever. Who needs it? If my life has been so void of romance thus far, maybe that's the way it should be. Why must I still love when my obvious fate is not knowing what mutual love feels like? Isn't mutual love the point of loving? Wasn't love invented to be something that is shared?

And it's a feeling I wish that he knew as well. Not just because I want him to care about me, but because I want to see him try to squirm out of the deathly grip of this torturous feeling, the same way I do every day of my life.

Because I hate him. I hate his guts. I hate the way he thinks he's funny. I hate the way he thinks that everyone wants to know what he thinks. I hate the way he talks to everyone else in a room before considering gracing me with his presence. I hate the way I can't enjoy listening to some songs just because they remind me of him. I hate the sound of his voice, because I never hear my name there anymore. I hate the way I can hear him walking when he wears his cowboy boots, so my mind still follows him when I have trained my lingering gaze not to. I hate the way he throws his hands around like an angry Italian whenever he's talking. I hate the way he feels the need to be brutally honest with everyone in the world, but made up some pathetic excuse for not going out with me, when we both knew that he just didn't want to go out with a girl so unconventional for his stereotype that it would be embarrassing, good personality or not. I hate the way he acts so standoffish when I try to talk to him. I hate the way he makes me hate everything. I hate the way he makes me hate myself.

Why do I love him?

(500) Days Of Summer

When I popped this DVD in my laptop, I expected a Nick & Norah-esque quirky romance movie. David had lent it to me (shortly after I returned his Mean Girls DVD that I had been holding captive for months), and Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist is his favorite movie of all time. Don't get me wrong, I liked that movie, but I don't see how it could be your favorite. It's completely unrealistic! How often do two teenagers meet by chance and fall for each other while chasing an underground indie band all over New York City? Yeah, never.

Anyway, (500) Days Of Summer was nothing like I expected. It was the story of a young man named Tom who wrote greeting cards, an unconventionally beautiful girl named Summer that worked at the office with him, and the 500 days between the day Tom meets Summer for the first time (convinced it's love at first sight), and the day he lets her go. Tom loves love, but Summer doesn't believe in it. So, their relationship is caught somewhere between friends-with-benefits and boyfriend-and-girlfriend, with each one standing firmly on either side, not backing down from the endless tug-of-war. And one day, Summer becomes distant, dumps Tom in the middle of a pancake house, and simply disappears. This leaves Tom stuck in a void of depression, doubting the existence of love, something he'd pined away for for his entire life. As soon as it seems that there is still hope for Tom, he runs into Summer once more, and they reconnect, dancing (literally) on the line between friendship and flirtation. Shortly after this reconnection, Tom discovers that Summer is engaged to be married, and their points of view on love have been reversed. And after another long phase of depression on Tom's part, which included quitting his job in a fit of rage and deciding to pursue his dream of becoming an architect, another encounter with Summer gives him the closure he needs. The film ends with a possible new beginning, a girl interviewing for the same architect position as Tom is, that he asks out on a whim. Maybe there is such thing as fate after all. And guess what her name is? Autumn.

I'm guessing that was kind of a crappy summary, but I decided to talk about this movie because of the impact it made on me.

I looked at Tom and I saw myself. And when I looked at Summer, I saw Floyd. It was like that moment when you're listening to a song, and every word relates to your latest predicament. (Ahem, The Story Of Us by Taylor Swift) Floyd and me's relationship is (was) nothing like the relationship that Tom and Summer share. But I saw us there. I saw me, pining away for true love, hoping that it exists, and convinced that I've found the one person I was meant to be with. I saw Floyd, who doesn't know what he wants. And at the end, Tom let Summer go and stumbled upon another person who might be his soulmate. I stopped and I asked myself, "Self, are you wasting your time?"

And the next day, I'm sitting in my Creative Writing class, knees pulled up to my chest and feet crossed on my chair, and I'm talking to him across a noisy row of desks. And it's easy. There's no anxiety hatching cocoons in my stomach, filling it with newborn butterflies. Because he's just a person. I talk to people. I'm a talkative person. Why not talk to Floyd? What's been stopping me?

Am I supposed to feel giddy? Nervous? Happy? Because I don't. I just feel like I'm me, and he's him, and we're having a conversation. And he's the same person he always was. Green fire eyes, words dripping with sarcasm, believing the world cares about his opinions (I may be the only one), gray and white t-shirt with uneven stripes that would drive an OCD person insane (probably intentional), Catholic pendants hanging from his neck, reddish brown stubble decorating his chin. He's him. But am I still me?

Am I a different person than I was a year ago? Am I still the same girl who would do anything to please Floyd? Am I still the same girl who perched him in the spotlight, where I could see him in just the right lighting, and he appeared to be the perfect muse, the perfect boyfriend, perfect for me, a person whose flaws were even perfect? After a while, I got sick of setting the stage. I wanted to share that spotlight with him. But if I was down on the stage, who would be controlling the spotlight? Holding him tight in my grasp, would I then find myself in the dark, wondering "What do I do now?" I don't know anything about what comes after the chase. It's all I've ever known.

I'd write him scripts, beautifully written happy endings, and watch him toss them aside, demanding another. In a fit of rage, I'd produced one more, and no more have followed. I had shoved it in his face, then simply turned on my heel and walked away, not bothering to wait for a reaction, spotlight in hand. I had decided that chasing love was a useless, destructive hobby that I had essentially become addicted to, and I was growing quite tired. He's the one who runs track. (He's damn fast, too) Why make me do all the chasing? Did he like to see me suffer?

I figured that if he wanted me, he'd come and get me. It was the type of guy that he was. I'd seen him in action. Flirtatious, bold. He knew what he wanted, and he went and got it. One second, this cocky redheaded dude is hitting on you and you don't know what to think, and suddenly, you're falling for him. He was irresistible, if you gave him a chance.

After observing this behavior, I stopped beating around the bush and decided to find out: Did he like me? Or did he like the spotlight?

So, I turned off the spotlight.

And consequently, we fell apart.

Why do I spend so much time trying to figure out how to fix this, when I'm the one who broke it in the first place?

Do I turn the spotlight back on? Or do I tear the idealized memories from the walls of my brain, erase the expectations my inner dreamer set up subconsciously, and become the architect for my own life instead?

After a bit of counting on my fingers and deep thought (on my calculator's part), the very rough estimation I've come up with is (450) Days Of Floyd.

Floyd is my Summer. He is my narcotic. Addictive and destructive, but I'm far too captivated by him to care. I love everything about him. I hate everything about him. I'm convinced there is no one else in the world who could be as perfect for me. I'm foolish. I'm ridiculous. And I'm right until proven wrong.

But before doing something as simple as watching some film, lent to me by a friend, I never believed that it was possible: being proven wrong. Especially about this. But, hey.

I did say Autumn was my favorite season, didn't I?

Resolutions

Broken promises waiting to happen. Here goes.

1.) Get my body into better shape (number one on every female's New Year's resolution list)

2.) Write every day

3.) Take more pictures, to improve my photography and capture more memories

4.) Take risks

5.) Step out of my comfort zones

6.) Get a job and don't blow every paycheck on clothes

7.) Learn how to cook more foods (This will matter one day!)

8.) Spend more time with my friends

9.) Be more outgoing

10.) Be more honest with people

11.) Learn how to do something new

12.) Try to improve my self-confidence (Worth a try, right?)

13.) Get more sleep. (Says the girl writing a blog post at 1:47 AM)

Thirteen resolutions for 2013.

Happy New Year!

Misery

Just like the curse, just like the stray
You feed it once, and now it stays

-Metallica, "Until It Sleeps"

….

I lay in my bed, wrapped up in the dark cocoon of sheets and blankets. I let the warmth of my own breath thaw my body out, curl up like a sleepy cat. I listen to my music, changing the volume depending on the song. Angry ones louder, screaming with me in agreement. Gentle ones quiet, comforting me, sometimes coaxing tears from my eyes. And deliriously, I dissect every song. Listen to specific parts. Violins. Bass parts. Strumming patterns. The rise and fall of the singers' voices. And I wallow.

How do other people feel sadness?

Do they cry? Do they eat? Do they write? Do they scream? Do they disguise it as anger and blame the world for everything? Do they get quiet? Do they simply hide it and pretend nothing is wrong?

How often do other people feel sad?

Every day? Or just every once in a while? When bad things happen? When they hear bad news? When they see other people being happier than they are? When it rains? When their plans are ruined? When they watch a sad movie or hear a sad song? When they remember something that they wish was more than a memory?

All that I know is that there is something not quite right about my sadness.

For me, sadness is an ocean that I sail on, swim in, drink from, drown in.

It's not really an emotion. It's constant, like a heartbeat. It flows through my veins. It is the backdrop of my thoughts. It is the electricity that fuels my brainwaves. I breathe in oxygen, breathe out sorrow.

Sometimes it sleeps, curls up in the back of my mind and drifts away. It dulls in comparison to the here and now, when my thoughts are needed elsewhere. It unwraps its cold fingers from my throat, and patiently waits, all the while watching how long I can forget about it.

But then it attacks. Jumps from the shadows and strangles me from behind, pulling me to the floor. Then, it holds me like a child, comforting me as it feeds off of me, sucking the life from me like a vampire. And I succumb. Misery loves company. And I open the door and welcome it across the threshold. Why would I leave it there on my doorstep? Why would I leave it to its loneliness when I know how it feels to be lonely?

And who else could I run to?

The phone rings. January. She wants to complain. I'm not in the mood to be the open ears and the shoulder to cry on. But it seems to be my fate, doesn't it? Mom answers. I shake my head. Yuuki takes the call. Her patience astounds me. Not shortly after answering, I hear Yuuki's voice trailing down the steps as she ascends them. "What happened?"

And I'm suddenly so grateful that it isn't me this time, being the director for the production of someone else's life. Designing sets, writing scripts, fixing problems, setting the stage. It's something I can be very talented at, when I'm in the mood for playing Miss Fix-It. But I'm not. I usually don't mind helping them. How would I be able to sleep at night knowing that someone could feel the things that I feel? No one deserves to feel that way. Except maybe for me, it seems.

How was your day? How was your weekend? How is your relationship? Want to know what I think? Do you want me to tell you what to say? What to do? Want me to cheer you up?

All questions I never ask, but get answers for anyway. No one ever asked me if I cared. I don't anymore. The tables never turn.

But let's face the question: what would I do if they actually did? Someone else shedding some light on my problems for a change? I'd wither. I'd scramble to clean up the mess my mind has become, and claim that nothing was wrong. And they'd believe me.

And the Facebook messages, popping up like unwanted visitors. Alexandria's boyfriend, gushing over how happy he is that she's spending a few days at his house. Whoop-dee-do. January, with her bad grammar and predicaments that her brain can't handle, so she dumps them off on me. I give her advice that she doesn't even take. Symphony, the only friend I wholeheartedly trust, and I'm reluctant to open up to her about anything because I know that her ignoring my problems will be just another problem I have no one to bitch to about.

Maybe I'll stop using Facebook. Maybe I'll never answer the phone. (I already refuse to) Maybe I'll keep to myself in school and watch my friends drift away like dandelion seeds in the wind. And smile because every seed detached itself from the stem without that much effort. A puff of air. A simple sigh of exasperation. And there it is, my wish coming true.

I am more than just ears. Why doesn't anyone see that?

After keeping your honesty and your problems inside for so long, the place where you store them becomes congested. So they have no choice but to spill out and eat away at your brain, your feelings, your life, your soul.

And there is my sadness, holding me when no one else does.

More On Words...

They're powerful.

But are they powerful enough
to hold two people together?

Do people need
physical closeness
to feel connected?
Or will a
dial-up connection do?

Yuuki is in love.
Or at least
I think she is.
She thinks she is.
Mom and Dad
disagree
but what do they know?

His name is Ronnie.
And he lives
over one thousand miles away.

They met on the internet
of all places,
a place teeming with
middle-aged predators
psychotic people
with online personas
because who they are
in real life
isn't enough for them.

But he came along
as authentic
as a real person,
so he had to be one.

And after all the
questions asked
and the
"Really? Me too!"
responses
and all the things they
discussed
debated
pondered
shared
confessed
she realized she had
found somebody
worth finding.

She liked
how he unfolded
before her
like a story
that she couldn't see
the end of yet.
I guess it was
almost suspenseful.
He fascinated her
she fascinated him
They kind of
fell in love
with each other's
brains.

There were too many
similarities
for it to be random
Too many details
for it to be a lie
Too many
smiles
for it to be mere luck

Too many
reasons for him not to
feel the same way
(according to her),
but she told him
how she felt anyway.

And it was
quite a risk to take
because the only thing
that held them together
was
words.

But somehow,
in some way
that I'll never understand
because I'm much
too cynical,
their
relationship
survived
the confession.

And it's weird,
because whenever
I see a couple,
in a photo on Facebook
holding hands in the hall
dressed up for a formal
I turn the ugliest
shade of green.

But when I think about
Ronnie and Yuuki
and the nice things
he says to her
and the way he says
he'll come up to see her
in April
and the long-ass
messages they send
each other,
that waste time
I could be spending
blogging
messaging
scrolling
thinking
responding
observing the
more interesting lives
of Facebook friends
I don't even know,
and the mix CD
she made for him
for Christmas
full of love songs
yet somehow
not awkward
that she sent in the mail
yesterday

It all makes me
happy.
Their words
make me
happy.

The Damnedest Things

We all say things we don't mean.

Vicious words, crawling out of your mouth with the intention to hurt someone. And all you can do is watch them escape in astonishment. How did you let them slip by your common sense, who usually guards your mouth so closely that you end up never saying what's on your mind?

Sometimes, common sense takes a coffee break. No one wants sleepy, sluggish common sense. People in their right minds want their common sense to be wired, wide-eyed, vigilant.

So while common sense runs down to Starbucks for overpriced coffee and possibly a cookie if it isn't in the mood to diet, it leaves you unattended.

That can be dangerous.

I've never understood the phrase, "Sticks and stones can break your bones, but words will never hurt you." Who even made up something so futile, and why do people choose to believe that?

Words can be painful. I consider my sharp tongue one of my deadliest weapons, a dormant creature that rested behind my teeth, sometimes trying to rear its ugly head but being suppressed by that common sense. And every once in a while, when my feelings are in danger of becoming wounded, I sharpen that tongue and take it for a spin, always a little stunned by the results.

A slap to the skull, shock, confusion, oblivion, a look of astonished hurt, a sharp-edged insult fired back to hit me right where it hurts.

I call my sister self-centered. I say I hate my grandmother. I drop snide comments to my parents on a regular basis, until I unintentionally hit a nerve, then I recoil. I pointedly disagree with things David says just so he realizes that my goal in life is not to please him. I start spur-of-the-moment arguments with Symphony out of boredom and irritation with her tendency to be a thousand miles away when all I want to do is talk. I say that I wish Floyd would get hit by a train. I say that God doesn't care about me.

I say the damnedest things sometimes.

Common sense had best grab me a mocha cappuccino or something while it's at it, because this has been one long coffee break.