The Countdown

Confession time. I don't buy groceries because I would rather spend my money on outfits. Honestly? I feel that clothes are more deserving of my money than food. A therapist would say I have issues with body image. I would have to counter that with what I believe to be, an excellent fashion sense. Ha.

Although, I don't think I'm much of a shoe gal. In fact, many of my most magnificent power trip moments are ruined by shoes. I can never strut high and mighty for more than ten minutes without stumbling. Flats. Heels. Barefoot. Je deteste les pieds.

I HATE falling in public...more so than most. I have a strong aversion towards anything remotely awkward and embarrassing. I hate weakness and I especially don't like to display it. Where I come from, emotive gestures and facial expressions would count as displays of weakness. Case in point, I get uncomfortable when I have to hold someone's gaze for more than a minute. My personal eighth circle of hell would be to keep eye contact, in a hug, as I squirm uncomfortably. For all eternity.

Along those same lines, I scorn co-dependence and long term commitments. Suffice it to say, I have yet to be proven wrong. Of all my crazy (but correct) theories, this is one I have become personally invested in.

Plus, I am a great example of why people should be suspicious of any long term commitments. It's called the Great Initiator Syndrome, and it's a pretty widespread epidemic so I'm sure most of you are at least familiar, if not already diagnosed with it. Symptoms generally include falling prey to great ideas and then running out of steam during their implementation and execution. In extreme cases, one simply stops after envisioning a great idea. If it weren't for this medical setback, I'd be a Nobel Prize winner already. We'd all be winners already.

Apparently, it seems like I'm archiving my faults. Add to the list that I am hopelessly and perpetually indecisive. Forever a benchwarmer because there are different sides to every situation, and I feel the need to assess every one before I actually play the game. Usually by then, the game is over and I've managed to talk myself out of it.

Also see:
- compulsive nail biting
- plastic bags hoarder
- excessive abuse of the 3 second rule
- cannot light a match for my life
- gross abuse of mascara (but being that I have no lashes, it's even more pointless)
- chain penny tipper (in all participating dunkin donut and wawa stores)
- notoriously bad driver
- almost always a failure under pressure
- will most definitely forget your birthday, and that includes family members
- hunching
- This one surpasses even me. Whenever I see left over food, on someone else's plate or on an empty table, I have a strong urge to go and eat it. But I don't due to social restrictions, otherwise...

Dieluded

Most people drink to feel loose. These days she drinks to blend in. No, literally. To blend into the rest of the crowd. To achieve a degree of anonymity that her sober self would never tolerate. Some would call her an abberation in the bar scene because she takes on the role of a wallflower.

It's odd because public expression was never a skill she struggled with. Often times, it was a skill she questioned worth having. But in the back of her mind, the girl always knew that somewhere in the throngs of people she preferred to be surrounded with, there were at least one or two who loathed her self usurped limelight. And if you feign interest, you would never catch it. But being the narrator, I remarked a tiny streak dash across those magnificent round browns, sparkling with her latest anecdote. I duly noted it as a quick glimpse of nerves.

In the most ironic sense, she lacked that same skill for self expression. For the girl with an endless supply of garrulous energy and simultaenous emotional restraint, life was a troublesome affair. Left to her own devices, she would cry when she felt pain, she would protest when she felt snubbed, she would take offense to unpleasantries, she would do whatever the hell she pleased. Yet in public she never could exercise these liberties to the same degree, she was far too classy for such outbursts. But it distressed her all the same. And she spent her waking moments always dreaming, dreaming of being someone other than herself.

Now she was leaning against the bar, wobbly holding an empty glass up to her face, and ignoring the misogynistic lyrics of a song she once got up to dance for. Dancing for the crowd was something she did better pre Vodka and Tonics anyway. Unsuccessfully, I could only make out a little of her distorted appearance, muddled through the empty glass. Seemingly unphased by her own wierd behavior, she turned to watch her friends do shots, still holding the empty glass up to her eye. It was a strange sight, to see everyone grow bolder and louder while she receded to sitting reserved at the bar. Timidly, the girl set down her empty glass and reached out to order another drink. The last thing I remember is stupidly thinking how calm and clear she looked.

Word To Your Mother

'What will your obituary say?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Not the beginning of a trend, by any means.

Because Reality is Whiny

My mother is either really persistent or just incredibly dense. I have a feeling it's a little of both. I sometimes find myself unexpectedly amused, touched even, by the woman's blind dedication to serve and protect. Tonight however, was not one of those times. She was nagging me about chatting up some boy from my childhood, now a trader in California. I don't know what's more irritating or insulting: The fact that she thought my single self was a desperate cry for her matchmaking skills, not to mention desperate enough to go across the country. The fact that this is the 20.5th time she's not so casually brought up my childhood best friend when I've made it very clear what I think about dating anyone she recommends. The fact that she repeats this with the same insistence and tone as if she were asking me to eat some more of her cooking, or to put a jacket on because it "might" be cold outside. Or the fact that this became the instigation for an unnecessary argument, yet another, between my dad and I. Oh did I fail to mention that my dad is home briefly from China?

My harsh responses to my mother's dim-witted proposal must have given me away, and dug me a hole I could not quickly enough climb out of, because they were both firing relationship questions at me. And I must admit I came off bitter and angry. My dad started to shake his head, frown, clear indications of what was coming: a life lesson. Beginning with my shortcomings. He was rattling off the list, I am simple, I'm only hurting myself in my hatred for others, forgive and move on, I'm wrong, principles, principles, principles. All wise sayings, no real advice to back any of it up. Most of it was right, but coming from him it was shit. Where were they when I was going through it? I briefly remembered an incident back in September. I had tried to tell them how I really felt, that heart break and pits of despair weren't just expressions used by those who are "weak" in character. They didn't react. In fact my mother said she was disappointed in me. Can you believe that, disappointed, like her daughter's sad mental state was the equivalent of getting bad grades or failing an exam. I haven't outreached since then, and I wasn't about to start now.

I started to lose it. It was all just so fucking ridiculous. Most of the time, I'm not even angry or bitter, I'm just trying to live. But with my dad it was never about "most of the time", he had gotten a whiff of weakness and was on my trail now. My parents, strange how they're never there to support, but always ominously present to criticize. Like that time in sixth grade, when I was wrongfully accused of cheating on a math test. My dad, my own frickin blood, sat in the teacher's office, in disbelief, asking me over and over again to tell the truth. He was worse than a stranger in that meeting, and I never forgot it. To present day, I realize not much has changed. That made me livid. I am the way I am today because I got myself through the rough patches, who were they to jump in at the last minute with their god fearing words of wisdom? I'm well aware that we are not emotional people, or particularly concerned with "soul searching." And when I'm older, I'm sure I will come to appreciate the odd ways in which my parents express terms of endearment. But now, I can't be bothered with all that. Because for now, I can only count on me.

PS. My ipod broke. Or rather froze. Everything I touch breaks.

PPS. I'm going back to fiction.

Stretch to the Point of Breaking

"Hey babe, I'm so sorry...I just forgot..."

His apologetic drone trailed off as I began to scrutinize some piece of dirty felt stuck on the bottom of my new Rocket Dogs. With one hand propped on his left shoulder for balance, I leaned in and popped out my right heel. The romantic nature of such a stance reminded me of this generic childhood daydream. The one where you're kissin your fella and one heel, preferably the right, just automatically pops out. I always thought that was too cliche, an ideal kiss made for lame TV audiences who consumed their lives with bothersome fantasies that would never materialize into reality. Never once considering that it was I, who would be the fool. That was the trap laid by most cliches.

Right then, instead of reaching for the garnish on my heel with my free hand, I decided to seize the moment. I looked into his eyes, and touched my lips to his. It was horrible. The deep ache I had been hoping would subside only drilled more holes into my stomach. His eyes, the ones I normally spent hours being lost in, gave me a creepy falling sensation. Like I had tripped and fell headfirst into a bottomless well. Both the kiss and the embrace were picture perfect, we were two people who knew just how to lock lips in public. We were a goddamn black and white, candid, Doisneau work of art. But that was just it, we were two strangers going through the motions, faking the emotions.

As short-lived as our pose was, I lost track of who pulled back first. All I knew was that my right shoe needed attending to. He fell back into silence, or rather, the awkward limbo between avoidance and admittance. With utmost concentration, I peeled off what appeared to be a missing piece of someone's --well I really didn't know what it was. It was a soft pastel blue, the color and texture both made me think of babies' garments. How on earth could a child's clothing have ripped? The possibilities, which were endless, dutifully preoccupied my mind.

"Babe?"

Maybe a baby was kidnapped and his shirt ripped. Slim to none odds.

"I'm really sorry I forgot, It's just that work was so stressful, and they want me to do all this crap. It's not an excuse I know, but I want you to know I feel terrible about it."

It's probably just some shithead babysitter or nanny that got the child's shirt jammed in the stroller or something. Maybe the dog snagged a piece. Maybe it's from the shirt a dog was wearing...how was I even so sure it came from a baby?

"Babe, I'm saying I'm sorry, will you at least hear me out?"

He was sorry a lot lately. But still, there was a lot to be stressed about. I saw myself give him a smile, playfully bump into him, and drop that fascinating piece of discovery in order to hold his impatiently shaking, extended hand. The fabric once again came in contact with the concrete, ready to entertain someone else who would be feeling neglected.

I thought we could pretend another day, or maybe until the end of the summer, indefinitely.