If you click when I tell you to, you will find yourself at a blog that isn’t as light as this one. It’s still mine, but it’s a different side of things. A situation that needs its own forum. Kind of like deciding to eat fresh produce, when you’re craving dark chocolate. It’s not a bad thing, it’s just a thing. Just the way I’m writing at the moment.
Sometimes we need to force ourselves to conquer the dark and twisty stuff. Life doesn’t stop and wait when shit suddenly drops from the sky. Life doesn’t really wait at all. But that’s okay, I think. Sometimes, all we can do, is just shovel away the shit, take a shower, and write about it.
Okay. You can click now.
I apologize. I’ve been avoiding the whole blogging thing because I haven’t really wanted to explain myself. The quarter began with a lot, a whole lot of crap jumbled into this giant stressful pile that I’ve continued to stack onto itself, and since I usually pile everything onto my bed, it’s as if someone just came and shoved it all off. And I’m on the top bunk now, so this metaphor works a whole lot better considering I have that much more to fall.
As always, the most intriguing aspects of life, involve boys.
I think there is something in the air, maybe a virus of some sort, because all the guys I know have been going crazy. And by crazy, I mean they’ve been talking to me.
We have a few reoccurring faces:
Ferris Bueller, who is off-limits forever, but who I still find myself drawn to. I have his hat in my room, after he put it on my head at a party, and it’s currently sitting on my desk and staring at me and I’m trying to decide when to give it back.
Mac and Cheese, a boy from back home, was quite attentive on New Years. We almost kissed, a fleeting moment at the edge of the party, when I was deep within my sour apple martinis and he leaned his forehead against mine. But I remember asking myself, Mel, do you really want this to happen? And then the other part of my brain was like, uhno, and so I moved away and pretended I hadn’t notice how close our faces were.
Pac Man, who has received my mother’s verbal approval to marry me, but who I’m convinced I won’t kiss until we get drunk at my sister’s wedding in ten or so years.
And Indie Kid made another guest appearance; three weeks ago we kissed on a deck at a party. He told me he liked me because I didn’t care about what people thought, that he liked me because I was different, and I laughed and looked down at my boots and said that I did care, that I actually cared a lot.
I saw him again when I was sober but he was plastered. He kissed the side of my head as he hugged me and I wasn’t sure how to deal with that. I texted him the other night, when I was drunk and he was sober, but instead of seeing him when I looked all 1920s and pretty, I just ended up drinking brandy from Dixie cups and talking about life with two of his best friends.
Elle Woods came to town last weekend. We had a glorious three days, and I paraded her around to all of my friends and we crashed a party and I blocked the creepy cockage that was directed her way, and we had awful lunches and perfect dinners and one meal that made us both shit out our insides, but she is my best friend and when we are together, everything that is ridiculous becomes that much more wonderful.
So I’ve been getting asked to coffee lately. By multiple guys. And it’s weird. It stresses me the fuck out. Drinking coffee is supposed to be a leisurely act, but coffee with boys, changes things.
I recognize the irony in all this, I shouldn’t be complaining about boys wanting to hang with me sober, and also complain about only seeing them when I’m intoxicated. But when I’m rambling and ranting and being all sputtery and ridiculous, it’s hard to believe that guys would be into that. Like I said, maybe it’s a virus or something.
I’ve been refraining from writing through my life online, because I’m not quite sure what I’m feeling about all this. But I think what I’ve realized over these past few weeks, is that I’m allowed to be unsure. It’s okay to not know what you’re feeling — I literally don’t have to know anything! I can be confused (and usually am) but for the first time, I have come to realize, emotions aren’t black and white. There isn’t a yes or no, or a countdown clock of ‘how much time you have left to make shit happen’ tacked onto anyone, and that kind of freaks me out.
But I think I’m finally living my life for me. My number one 2013 resolution was to do things that make me happy, and to not worry about altering myself to fit into what other people want, and I think so far, I have.
And who knows. Maybe all these rules are finally working.
Or again, maybe it’s a virus.
I shouldn’t be worried, right?
Welcome to my life.
Official places do not take me seriously. I’ll be wearing my cuffed pants and Converse and a sweater, and my hair will be long and wavy and my mascara is on, but clearly I do not look like a legitimate adult. Because when I walked into my dermatologist office the other day and wrote myself in on the front sheet, it took about 30 minutes for them to even acknowledge that I was there.
I think it’s the way I carry myself. I am loud, yes, when I know you and when I’m comfortable, but in the real world, I’ve been told that I’m slightly introverted. I once took a personality test that told me I was the most introverted extrovert. I liked that. It made me sound mysterious but still likeable. Like a superhero or something. Like the character everyone likes.
One of my professors once told me that I’m like a sponge. That I just shrink into myself sometimes. That same professor also said, on another occasion, that I carry myself small, but I hold power with my words. I liked that too. But he also wrote that second comment down on paper, and the word ‘power’ was a bit squished together, so it honestly could have said something else. So I guess I carry myself small and hold… something with my words.
My dermatologist has this voice that sounds as if she’s pretending to be a baby. It’s squeaky and child-like, and in my opinion, completely inappropriate for relaying doctorly advise.
The Rugrat dermatologist inspects the skin of my back, and the pads of her fingers are cold and smooth. I have an exceptional number of moles on my body, but I like to call them freckles or spots, because moles make me think of gross witches or something.
Rugrat tells me that I’m 50% more likely to have melanoma. And the words come out all thin and sqeaky, and all I can think of, is how I killed this character in a flash fiction story I wrote last spring. I wanted to give her cancer, and so I googled all of the symptoms for skin cancer, because I knew next to nothing about it, and I discovered that all it takes is one mole. And so that’s how she died, from a discolored spot on the edge of her elbow.
I’m not a crier, unless Grey’s Anatomy is on, because that shit stomps on my heart every fucking episode, but when the doctor numbs my back and removes one of my dots, I only let the metal trash can in front of me see my eyes get all clouded.
She leaves, and I sit alone in the giant white doctor room. And all I have is this giant tissue to clasp to the front of my body, and it’s cold as shit, so I have goosebumps all over, and I stare at the trash can and wonder how exactly this whole real life adult thing works.
I cut my hair a few days later. To me it’s a huge difference, but the friends I’ve seen haven’t noticed. It used to fall over and past my boobs, and whenever I took a shower, I could be some PG appropriate mermaid, but now it touches my collar bone and moves in a slight line to barely cover the nape of my neck.
I like it. It’s different. I feel happier, and older somehow, as if I’m officially in college or something. And I know that’s like, three years too late, but I haven’t been carded lately and even though I’m not a huge fan of red wine with dinner, it’s a start.
I just realized that this is the calmest post I’ve made so far, so uh, sorry about that.
But I need to work on the whole apologizing thing, and I also need to work on being less manic when I talk to people, and I need to work on remembering the things I say, and I also need to start taking myself seriously. Not in like, a pompous annoying way, but the confident kind of serious.
Rule 5. Be confident. Because you’re awesome.
2013 resolution list soon to come. And I take back the apologizing.
Welcome to my life.
For the last night at school this quarter, the plan was to go over to my close friends’ place and celebrate the fact that we could finally turn our brains off. FINALLY. Except when I first walked in the party I didn’t see anyone I knew, and I stood in the doorway for a while, completely overwhelmed. I really don’t enjoy big party environments, and I get in these moods where I just want to people watch and not talk to anyone. I’m much better at making friends when you can actually hear the witty banter I’m spewing to you. But thankfully, after about 15 uncomfortable seconds, I found G.I. Joe, my buddy who is currently on one crutch, recovering from a car accident from last year. He’s charming and friendly, and always great in situations like this.
I sat next to him, where he was perched on the couch, and complained about how I hate these environments, but also about how many cute guys there were. Like, literally every guy there was adorable and well-dressed, and he offered to wingman for me, but I was in the mood to complain and not talk to any of them.
I made a rule for myself earlier this past quarter. I’m no longer kissing guys who don’t want to know me as a person, which seems like a given, but in college, kissing from the mere power of lust is standard. Also, this rule has resulted in my not kissing anyone, which is sort of sad but also gratifying somehow. I told this to someone that night, but I can’t remember where or who I said it to. Which I realize is bad, but what can you do.
My friend Ken was in the kitchen, a guy who literally has the beauty and masculine structure of a fucking doll, and I told G.I. Joe I would be back and went to get myself a drink. Ken was drinking gin and tonic, and so I decided I would match and raise him a few, and soon I found myself with half a cup of gin and a splash of tonic. There were limes on the counter, and after making a big deal out of the knives being in a public area, I cut myself a few slices and dropped them inside my cup.
It tasted fucking awful. So I found some beer and muted the flavor a bit. I return back to home-base, the edge of the couch with G.I. Joe, who was talking to a group of people I’d never seen before. Fuck, I really don’t want to make friends right now. The last day before break is not a night to make friends. And while I was internally ranting, Andy Samberg walks up, completely smashed.
Andy Samberg has a mustache now, which I’m not sure how I feel about. He sat next to me, and started going on about how much he enjoyed the night we were “together” (we weren’t) and the evening we were “lovers” (we weren’t) but that he never told me how that night, he was actually blacked out.
“You aren’t supposed to tell a girl that,” I say.
“No, you don’t understand. I was blacked out, and then I came to when we were kissing. You brought me out of the black out!”
I told him that saying something like that hurt my feelings since I had a crush on him back then (lies, I have a crush on him now) (but I have a crush on the world, so it’s irrelevant, I guess)
Note: I realized why I have so many crushes on guys in my life. It gives the few guys that I’m actually interested in, less pressure, and it helps me not admit to myself who I actually like. It doesn’t have to work out, and I don’t have to feel bad about it not working since he’s not the only guy I’m considering. Except now that I’ve realized this, I think it means I have to stop or something.
The room began to clear a bit, and Cece burst through the door, and soon after Princess Jasmine arrived and I was able to breathe a sigh of relief and I was instantly comfortable. Funny how that works.
Jack the Beanstalk remembered my honey whiskey was still in their cabinet, and so we snuck off to find it, and giggled as I took sips from the bottle.
Jack the Beanstalk is very cute. I’ve always found him attractive, but we’re such close friends that I would never want to ruin anything without getting his affirmative go flag first. I don’t feel anxious when I’m around him though. There isn’t any sexual tension, because I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even remotely consider me an option. Which is alright. But it’s odd to be able to hug someone and touch their face and tell them your secrets and have them cuddle you back like a … friend. Oh, the life of the friend zone. I hope this one doesn’t get as out of hand as the last two.
Later, we are all dancing with ourselves, and I tousle the hair of some guy who looks like Edward Cullen (the real one, not a code name) and god is his hair soft, and Cece tackles me in a side hug, except she is drunk crying since she’s going abroad for winter and spring quarter, but I snuggle my face into her hair and Princess Jasmine rushes over and brings us both into her thin armed embrace, and I somehow know that everything is going to be okay.
Even though the people of my life are coming and going, for those who are abroad, and those who graduate, and those guys who I never talk to again, and whoever else may flit through my life- I know that in the end, it’s all okay. That I’m okay. It was this nice moment I had with myself, and now I’m sharing it with you, dear reader. So I really hope going into winter quarter, that I can remember this thought, and I also hope you reach this moment as well. (Assuming the world doesn’t end tomorrow and such)
But yeah. So before the night blurred into the seams of my intoxication, I have this distinct memory of posing for a photograph. And as we all piled into a bundle, Jack the Beanstalk pulls me close, and my ear is pressed to his shirt, and I look up at him.
And his heart is beating so fast.
And I tell him this, and he smiles down at me with a chuckle.
And then he hugs me close and we grin for the picture.
I’ve never heard a guy’s heartbeat before. But I didn’t say that. Because that would be weird.
Because I’m just such a good friend.
And everything is okay, right?
Welcome to my life.
Being Jewish is grand. There are bagels and chocolate coins and powerful noses, and sweet, airy bread, and fucking amazing potato pancakes, and lots of loud talking people who say goodbye and never leave.
I went to my second cousins’ Bar Mitzvah today. Their family is huge — five boys and one girl— like, holy shit. Two of the boys, probably the two who are the most comically polar opposite (one who is a popular football player, and the other extremely introverted) had their Bar Mitzvah together.
My younger sister, Elle Woods, and I were within the oldest generation of children there, and that’s saying a lot.
We instantly scoped out the other three older looking guys who were seated a few rows in front of us, with dark hair and bright smiles. One of them was wearing a dapper suit, but he looked younger, like he was still in high school, which annoyed me because I liked his suit. The three guys, one at a time, casually turned around to look at us. We felt cool, but also oddly exposed and on display.
I told Elle she is essentially the Jewish forbidden fruit, which she didn’t understand until she realized she was the only blonde girl within a 50-foot radius.
These kind of services are generally dominated by the rabbi. He does his intimate commentary on the text and we all scramble to follow along in our prayer books and Elle and I attempt to read the Hebrew without looking at the English phonetic translations. But THEN the kid of the hour gets to read from the Torah. And this, my non-Jewish friends, is the highlight of the event.
The introverted brother, had the epitome of a “boy going through puberty” voice, singing his portion all cracked and pitchy, while Mr. Football Star sang like a fucking angel cherub. It was a tragic contrast.
It made me realize that on the day of my Bat Mitzvah, all I could think about was how if you were to cut off the rabbi’s eyebrows, there would still be a layer of eyebrows beneath it somehow. Like a magic regenerating eyebrow. And every time he looked at me, I was like HOLYshit. Your eyebrows. Holy shit. Your. Eyebrows. That was me, for three hours, during my most important Jewish day ever. Middle school is so weird.
And I swear, the girls are getting sluttier every day. Like, it genuinely concerns me.
During the evening party, Elle and I stood near the bar nursing our illegal beers, and these middle school girls traipsed by us, displaying some of the trampiest dresses I have ever seen. Skin tight, banded, cutouts, push-up bras, cleavage, almost exposed butt cheeks- like WAHT IS HAPPENING TO OUR YOUTH.
My dresses at that age always went to my knees. Call me prude, but I think that’s how it should be for CHILDREN. Because as the dj played some random dubstep song that these kids screamed by heart, I observed a girl who had taken off her dress to reveal her tiny bootie shorts and realized that she was going to lead a very sad life these next few years. I saw her future of unfulfilled relationships and drunk dancing on tables and sleeping around with countless guys, trying to fill the space inside her that she can’t quite understand.
And this made me sad.
But I think I had to go through those introverted, hellish days of middle school to become the person I am now. And maybe this girl will need to go through her whole.. slutty bootie short thing, to become the person she’s going to be…?
I mean, I dunno.
But the even weirder realization is that I was in this world seven years ago. All of that shit was SEVEN YEARS ago. Except instead of dubstep, we were dancing to Outcast. Holy craps I’m feeling old.
I was kind of bummed that the cute guys left early, but then Elle pointed out that we were probably related to them somehow, and as well all know, incest is obviously inappropriate for such an event.
Welcome to my life.
These last few weeks have been kicking me in the face.
I mean, I know it’s dead week and all that, but it would really be nice if life could slow down just a smidgen so I could catch my breath or something.
But alas, here we are. 9 weeks into fall quarter, and 6 weeks into my blogging lyfe. Where has the time gone, my friends?
Enough nostalgia. I’m only 20 for god’s sake. I can be nostalgic when I have the first anniversary of my 21st birthday. Or when I stop getting carded at bars. Then we can talk.
Anyway, so this weekend was an interesting one alright.
I spent a really nice day with my friend Tinkerbell, where we sat on this wonderful section of the Music building roof and talked about our families and analyzed our lives and watched the rain as it rippled past us, like the sky was shaking out a giant blanket. Then I went to watch her paint, where I realized the abilities of paint brushes confuse me and the art program has a secret department with rooms I’ve never seen before (where I’m pretty sure they’re plotting for creative domination) (jokes).
That night, it was raining again and since I was in the mood for food, I was like, “I’m going to treat myself!” so I went to buy a entire pizza all fo me. I ran into Natalie Portman, a friend from one of my classes, and she was working the register and asked how I was doing and then when I thought about it, and actually considered myself, I almost started crying- real life tears in the middle of flippin Woodstocks. I mean, a few things are happening back home right now that kind of really suck, so the tears made sense, although I didn’t intend for them to occur. Ms. Portman sat with me, and we ate our pizzas and talked for a while, and she made me laugh and it was really nice. Sometimes, the conversations we need the most are with the people we least expect to have them with.
I went over to P. Spice’s house, because I didn’t want to sit at my home all in my lonesome, and Justin Timberlake, a pre-med art major, told me he liked my spoken word. He also said that after stalking my Facebook and reading my writing (the shtuff here ^v) he wanted to be friends. This made me laugh and blush because I totally think he’s cute even though I’m also pretty sure he’s gay. Sigh. Also, I recognize that he could be reading this now. (Hullo there JT!)
Recently I’ve been feeling sort of internal, constantly stuck in my head, over thinking literally everything in my life. My mother has suggested that I try to, “be present” while Thoreau always says to “live deliberately” and as Christina Applegate commented in Up All Night, “only the quiet mind can be in the now”. I like all of those, but I have trouble abiding by any of them.
P. Spice gave me a talk again due to my wildly unconfident nature, and we had a heart to heart in his slight drunkenness and my sobriety. He says I need to stop having expectations, and just enter every situation for my own happiness and enjoyment. I know he’s right, but it’s fucking difficult.
Cece and I went to a party the next night, where there were far too many drunk girls and not nearly enough alcohol. We managed to concoct our own jungle juice and then snag the table for a game of bp. The guys were cute, and the music was excellent and we danced as if we were in our room alone, like two crazy people having a blast, which gave me this refreshing kind of adrenaline and made me realize that I care way too much about what people think of me. This leads us to #4:
4. Don’t give any fucks (when it comes to judgements) (but you should care about other things because caring is nice and stuff)
So yeah. I need to live my life just doing what I love and loving those around me, and finding joy in the little things in the world, like.. that nice crunching sound leaves make this time of year :]
Since I seem to be a fan of quoting today, I shall take some wisdom from Mr. Chuck Palahniuk, ”That’s the best revenge of all: Happiness. Nothing drives people crazier than seeing someone have a good fucking life.”
I mean, not that I’m trying to get revenge on anyone, but I just like, really enjoy that quote.
HA, okay. That’s all for nows.
Oh, also it’s my mom’s birthday today, so HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM! Actually, I doubt that you read this, but if you do, at least you have a shout-out. <3
Welcome to my life.
I’m currently sitting at a table in our Student Resource Center, putting to good use rule number 2, by getting out in the world and being in a place where I can observe interactions and remain conscious for an extended segment of time, since I’m too scared to fall asleep in public.
So I’m sitting at this table, sputtering at the last drops of my soda, wearing a flannel and editing my screenplay, when a guy in an Edward-esk coat walks past my table and strides over to my chair and shoves my shoulder and scares the crap out of me and goes “well HEY there Mel!” and low and behold, we have Indie Kid- a boy I have kissed four times, but never spoken to sober. Oh, good. Might I add, I am also wearing a plastic kiddie clip in my hair, and look like I stepped out of a pool since it’s raining today and I didn’t feel like doing my hair. I probably should have considered these factors before I decided to work in public.
Indie Kid asks if he could sit down with me, and we proceed to talk intently about a bundle of random things, and I majorly fail my attempt to not spill my entire life to him- since by the time he walked away, he knew the plot of my screenplay, what I did this summer, as well as my plans for this evening. But honestly, who fucking cares. I feel like I spend all this time censoring the “right” thing to say to guys and assessing what the perfect lowkey appropriate flirting techniques are and WHATEVER else I’m supposed to do, but it felt nice to just… not care.
Spewing my life to people is kind of what I do when I’m nervous, so before I said anything this time, I told him that he had to tell me something about himself, something he doesn’t tell most people. I have never done this before, put a boy on the spot like this, but instead of scoffing, he considered for a moment, leaned forward in his chair, and then answered.
He eventually had to leave for a meeting, with a nice half-smile and departing wave, and as he walked off, I realized that Indie Kid and I may never speak like that again. Which is okay. Because I also realized how little I know about the people I interact with. Indie Kid came to life for me in a mere 25 minutes of conversation and he probably wasn’t as struck by our interaction as I was, but it was nice to know, that a guy I’ve kissed more times than I’ve kissed anyone actually has a story to tell. He was a person. And a nice person at that.
Huh. Imagine that.
I think I shall put a doorstop in this one and continue on down the hallway.
Welcome to my life.
I will now attempt to sparknote the last few days. Except I’m awful at summarizing, so this will probably just be super detailed and endless as usual.
2012 Halloweekend, ready go:
Went to P. Spice’s house even though I was sick from an awful hacking cold. I dressed as a strawberry and drank tap water out of a red cup, leaning against a wall while my friends took tequila shots.
Nice smile was there, but I think I’ll call him Schmitt from now on. This might be slightly problematic considering he’s aware of this nickname- but if he happens to read this, I would honestly just call him out for clearly stalking me via internet. Schmitt and I spoke for a bit, except I was sober and talking to boys scares me, and so I think I blacked out from the mere adrenaline shock of the whole thing. Then a freshman threw up in a bathroom and the smell wafted near me, and I darted away and tried my hardest not to projectile vomit.
Later, Schmitt and I spoke over the edge of a fence, like some adorable 80s movie, except he was monitoring a boy who was so drunk he couldn’t be indoors, and John Hughes didn’t direct my life. After I walked away, I realized that I don’t think he takes me seriously as a girl.
It was 3pm and my friend, Jack the Beanstalk, was having a birthday party. None of my girl friends were ready, and the party had started at 2pm, and so I put on my strawberry beanie and looked myself in the mirror and went, “You’re rollin’ solo!” because that’s a frightening thing for someone like me to do-
and so 10 minutes later, I was this random gangly chick, sparkling in my red dress and walking by myself, people laughing as I passed them.
Six blocks later, I arrived grinning at Jack the Beanstalk’s house, rushed with the high you get from doing something alone.
Andy Samberg was there, a boy who I kissed last Halloween, and I asked him if he’d brought me a present for our anniversary, and he cracked up like I knew he would. I flirted with him I think, and then he told me he had a kindofgirlfriend, which didn’t make me sad like I would expect it to.
Then we were out on the deck, and there was a guy who doesn’t get a name, because he had a swastika drawn onto his chest, traced over and over again in colorful children’s markers. He was skinny and drunk and stupid, and when he spoke he wasn’t making any sense. Andy Samberg walked past with a beer and the swastika guy knocked into him, slamming his cup down- spattering foamy alcohol all over my boots. I wiped off the beer with the palm of my hand, and took a breath and told the guy he needed to put his sweatshirt on because he was being offensive, but really I was disgusted and angry and didn’t know what to do or where to look. Andy Sandburg coaxed him to put his shirt back on, and I walked down to the deck that overlooked the ocean and focused on the way the sun makes perfect profiles for everyone it touches.
I was walking with Princess Jasmine who was dressed as an immensely comical cupcake, and my other close friend who was currently the most wonderful snowman I’ve ever seen. Her name is Cece.
Might I preface by saying, that people are weird on Halloweekend. Like, really weird.
Take for example, this guy who walked past us, swinging an object down near where his penis should be.
Swinging objects are odd, let alone ones down below, and he was moving towards us, through our group, and as I jumped out of the way he hit whatever he was holding against my elbow- and it hurt, so I go, “what the heck!” and the gentleman he is, this guy tells me to “go fuck myself!” and then I squished my face and spun around and say-
“YOU HAVE DARKNESS IN YOUR HEART”
And as soon as the words clear my lips I realize how that’s really not the coolest thing to yell in the middle of a crowded street, and so I start walking backwards and decided to break the tension by looking around all confused and pretending I never said anything.
I also realized that his swinging object felt like coins which for some reason freaked me out even more, because like, why would he have coins in the shape of a penis? Once we were far enough away, I twisted my arm around, attempting to see if there was a mark or something on my skin. I was fine.
Cece patted my shoulder sympathetically.
“You’ve had better lines,” she said.
She’s right, but my elbow felt violated which was weird because it’s an elbow.
Once we saw enough slutty butts and hot messes, Princess Jasmine and I bought a pizza from Pasta House, even though the manager’s deal was invalid, and the guy working the counter hit on us shamelessly and offered to buy me a hypothetical beer and gave us the extra change from the tip jar to make our purchase. Then we had a guy dressed as Iron Man take awkward photos of us standing by a tree.
…That was an adventure, right?
Welcome to my life.
I went on a blind date last night.
This is not something I’d normally be inclined to do, but my roommate- who will henceforth be known as Princess Jasmine, and I are attempting to interact with the male species on the daily. We give each other Gold Stars For Talking To Boys- which is a chart we have in our room where you get to draw a little yellow star under your name whenever you have a notable guy conversation. Qualifications: must be sober, in person, and make you feel warm and fuzzy afterwards.
When the blind date arrived at my house for the date party we were attending, I of course, being me- told him of my previous dude history.
"I honestly don’t have good luck being set up," I said. "I usually get put with the weirdos who talk in fake accents for three hours." Which is true. Blind date laughed and rubbed the dark scruff of his face and said that he hoped he wouldn’t fall into this category. His name will now be Batman.
Batman and I drank whiskey together, which I must say was a tangy change of pace from the usual classy plastic handles. We sat together on a bench, on a deck by the ocean, where I looked down at my hands and laughed a lot, and noticed how if I was really concentrating, and not listening to his mouth, I could count almost every single one of his eyelashes. Not that his mouth wasn’t saying nice things, but his eyes were really fucking great.
To my surprise, he kissed me on the walk home. “I think my roommate is sleeping,” I say.
But Princess Jasmine was nowhere to be found.
So we kiss in my room. He attempts to get a bit handsy, but I inform him how it was my time of the month, and he backs off. Then we are kissing again and it’s nice and all that, and then he’s like- “Uh I don’t feel good,” and I’m like, “What?” and he goes, “I’m going to throw up” and I go “WHAT?!” and I turn on the light and he’s standing there in his boxers, and I’m like oh fucker, this boy is about to expel his innards all over my room- and so I pause and logically assess the area.
There is a trashcan filled to the brim with random discards from Princess Jasmine and I— which I could dump onto the floor, but what if there was something weird in there or something? What if a giant clump of hair or a snotted tissue fell out? Trash can is a no. And then we also have the half emptied UPS box from the Halloween care-package my mother sent me.
Wellp. Box it is then!
I tear out the candy and such from inside and Batman loses it into the box. I pat his back and bust out laughing. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t mean to laugh.” But honestly, I do. It’s hilarious.
We go to discard his remains (him carrying the box, of course) and as we are walking to the dumpster, I hesitate on the sidewalk.
"Wait," I say, "Could you just check inside and make sure I didn’t forget anything?"
The first vomit soaked item he discovers, is an Urban Outfitters catalog. (Punch line implied.)
And the second item…
..Batman pulls out a small box.
Oh my god.
"Uh.." he says.
"What is this?" he asks.
my birth control,” I say. And then I burst out laughing.
Because honestly friends, when you’re on your period and the guy you’re making out with throws up all over your four month stash of birth control— all that’s left to do, is just laugh.
And I mean, to be fair, when he was sitting on the sidewalk looking all sad and wiping it off with paper towels, I told him I was going to write about this. Because honestly Batman, this shit was just too perfect to keep to myself.
P.S. Batman came by today to pick up his tie and wristwatch, which he somehow left behind. He said that he didn’t remember being in my room, and I didn’t correct him. He then proceeded to give me a $20 Starbucks gift card.
So even though I didn’t get a gold star, I think I’ll go treat myself to something nice and caffeinated.
Welcome to my life.
Alright, so here’s where the real stuff comes in.
Last evening I may have gone on an adventure. Possibly. I think. It began at a frat house, as many of my stories do somehow, where I discovered two bottles of cheap champagne, and proceeded to indulge- considering champagne is my new favorite kickstart to the nights I go out.
Also recently, I’ve enjoyed quoting the monk who contributed to the creation of this dazzling sensation, “Come quickly!” I say, “I am drinking the stars!” …but no one ever catches the reference.
I then proceeded to my friend’s house, let’s call him Pumpkin Spice, where I played a drinking game and attempted to talk to a boy with a nice smile. I’m quite awful at talking to boys, mostly because I’m the girl version of Michael Cera combined with the doe eyed concerned look of Zooey Deschanel, but last night I was bubbly and confident and feeling good about things. New year, new adventures. (right?)
And yet suddenly feeling wildly unconfident, I was walking next to nice smile and decided to ask him on a date, which seems like it would require confidence, but really didn’t- since I wasn’t looking at him and was mostly focusing on not falling or something; except since my life is my life, he was busy: going on a date with another girl. Lols. This caused me to laugh awkwardly and look down and verbalize to him how embarrassing it was, and then walk away.
Pumpkin Spice and I went to various houses, where I announced that “nothing good happens after 2am!” and he chipped jewels off of a weirdly bedazzled trophy. Then he somehow ended up eating nachos while I nibbled on $1 chips and we both listened to a boy explain to us how he snuck over the border from some foreign land. I was quite intoxicated and attempting to process what he was saying, so I don’t think my face was reacting- which made him continue to repeat things and slow down and squint his eyes a lot.
Then we are back at Spice’s house, and I am laying on a mattress next to a bonfire and commenting on the mist drifting through the air and how the sky at three in the morning is a soothing gray/white color. The boy with the nice smile was lying next to me, and I decide he has a nice profile too. I don’t like that I think he has so many nice qualities, but his profile reminded me of the horizon of a mountainside, and I imagined little people traipsing across it, dropping off into his mouth as he spoke.
I really need to get back to reading the wondrous Fitzgerald, so I will finish with these lasting words.
I feel like post-adventure I’m supposed to..feel differently. It feels good, don’t get me wrong, but I think I need to have a few more of these or I need to feel something inside me alter, or I need to just stop talking and start doing more often. Yeah wait. I think I like that one.
3. Stop talking and start doing shit.
Alright, now we’re getting somewhere.
Welcome to my life.