It’s the stories you have to tell so you don’t forget them.

And this is how it always goes with me. You’re too drunk (are you ever not drunk?), and the shot you bought me didn’t make me love you, but it did make me want to dance. Not with you. Anyone but you. That’s how it is now – like a mantra. Anyone but you.

But you don’t get it. You’re all with the kissing and the eye-gazing, and I want to walk away, or slap you, or at the very least point and laugh. But I’m nice, and I sit, and I suffer, and I tell you again (and again and again) that it’s done; that you won’t get what you want from this… whatever it is. Mockery of romance. Shitshow. Reason to stop drinking.

Truth is, my brain is somewhere else. Across the room, thinking about the one person I shouldn’t be thinking about, thinking “please come save me from this disaster.”


You look good. Your smile melts me and I wonder if you put any effort into looking like you put no effort into how you look. You maybe flirt with my friend but its okay because she’s attached and you’re drunk and I can’t lay any claim on you. But the thought still makes me cringe. And I wonder, if I pulled you into a dark corner… but there are no dark corners, and I am drunk.

And, yes, I want you to read into my every move. I want you to catch the glances, and every little time I find a reason to touch you. Every time I look at you to check if you are looking at me. Every time I accidentally end up right by your side.


Truth is, it’s just funny. It’s funny and sad like that scene from that movie where the drunk guy tries to win back the girl and gets rejected. Unlike the movie, the guy won’t get the girl, and we won’t laugh about it later. But I will laugh about it for years. I won’t call to tell you I’ve been thinking about what you said. But I will think about what you said (when I am laughing about it with my friends).


You still look good. I wonder if girls ever tell you how good you look. I can’t tell you – not now, not here, not while I’m enduring this drunken, misguided torture. Not while he’s mooning over me. Instead, I sit, not listening anymore to the drunken pleas of a drunken idiot. I’m thinking about my jacket itching the side of my neck. I’m wondering if my hair is still in place. Wondering what you’re doing. Imagining you having fun, not with me, over on the other side of the room. Imagining what we could be doing if he weren’t here. Imagining if he had just stayed home – my hand in yours, not clutching my wallet in a desperate attempt to escape this madness. The song keeps changing for what seems like years and my head is all you, you, you.

And there’s no easy way to walk away. Another beer down, another hour (5 minutes? 2 hours? 3 days?) wasted and the night is almost over. And, here I am, same as it ever was. Too nice to just walk away; too nice to just end it here. Somehow, I walk away just in time for the night to end. Fabulously wasted as we walk to our cars and I want to yell. I want to follow you. I want to start the night where I left it, and say no to the shot and no to the pathetic, alcohol-soaked conversation. I want to stay by your side, right where I should not be, and not care who thinks what and not care how bad it makes me look.

The drive home is me yelling. Taking the long way home, miles out of the way, to yell the words to songs and to yell at myself and, for some reason, to yell at my phone like it should be making you call me. Call me to tell me to come over and talk or kiss or just look at each other. And I’m mad at myself for not just looking at you more. I’m mad at myself for wasting valuable time and I wonder if you even know.

There’s something about this feeling – this somewhat obsessive nagging feeling of love me love me love me. It’s mean, you know, to make me wait and to tease me. The delicate, soft side of me says wait it out, wait for the moment and my body says now, now in a sultry moan. When I think about you I can’t breathe – my heart skips and I close my eyes and imagine how it will be. And I don’t care so long as your lips are on me.

Unintentional Hiatus (what blog?)

Fuck yeah, internets! Been a while.

It's been a long chunk of months filled with depression, dating and death. Strangely enough, none of the 3 are related, which makes them all the more AWESOME!

So.

Depression. Like a genius, sometime around May 2011, I tried to work my way off of my medication and live a [prescription] substance-free life. I had left my terrible, demeaning, verbally abusive job (*cough* boss), had started a new, painless job with an office and a salary, and was in one of those "this is so perfect!" relationships. What did I have to lose?

My sanity, that's what. I can best equate it to PMS, around the clock. I was tired. I cried a lot. Over everything - broken nail, tear in my tights, screwed up my eye makeup, END OF THE WORLD. One day, I had to sit in the bathroom at work and compose myself because the paper cutter wouldn't cut straight. Spent weekends at Matt's, in bed, not fucking, but sleeping. And whining. No one likes that chick. He certainly didn't like that chick.

So, eff that. Back on the meds. Let's not try that again. Even the occasional feeling of numbness is better than the constant feeling of FUCK EVERYTHING.

Gradually, I have worked my way back into the real world. Working, adventuring, dating again.

Dating. Yeah, turns out, it was one of those"this wasn't so perfect because he didn't love me (as much as he loved me naked!)" relationships. And it's ok. We move on, like we do. And we try - sometimes we happen upon the worst dating decision we've ever made, and then sometimes, as we are losing hope, we happen upon sheer awesomeness in the form of something we never saw coming. And I'm going to stick around for this one.

So, Death. Fuck death. I lost 2 amazing people in 2011. My father passed away on Father's Day Morning (thanks, irony, that's really cute of you), and my uncle, who had been kicking cancer's ass for 3 years, passed away a little over one hour after my father's wake.

Before this turns all teary, I have to turn it around for a bit. My father was not good to himself. We all begged him for years to get his weight under control, for fear of, well, exactly what happened. We lost him 40 years before we should have because he just couldn't reverse years of damage. Moral of the story? Take care of your damn self. I assume I've got a good 55 or so years left in me. I would like to live those years. I don't want to leave my future family without a mother/sister/daughter/wife because I didn't take care of myself.

And don't get me wrong - I love to eat junk food, I'm terrible at pushing myself towards physical activities, and I have my fair share of bad habits that my doctor would not condone. But I try. In the end, I look at what happened to my family over the past few years, and I am able to say, "No Fucking Thanks."

My job is enough to keep me afloat, and I have amazing friends and family to keep me going.

Optimism is hard, but it is there.