Love

It’s been exactly a week since Kelly got on a flight to Costa Ricca. The days between then and school letting out for the summer were something close to perfect. We spent nearly every day of that week together, setting up her new apartment, relishing in the fact that we could now cook with something other than a microwave (we’ve been living in the dorms for the last two years – they come ill equipped), and partying almost every night… with  just the two of us, or an occasional trip to my hometown to party with my friends there. A lot of booze, one food processor, and a small bit of sanity were sacrificed – but it was worth it. We talked and talked, listened to music, smoked her hookah, and made plans for the summer. After the hellish drama that had gone on for the last year while living in the dorms, and having a couple of near-death experiences, that week was the most relaxing, best week of my existence. I know it’s a little mellow dramatic to put it that way, but in all honesty, it really was.

I miss her insanely. It sort of worries me – I became really codependent in my last relationship, until it was ripped out from underneath me. After much strife I was finally able to grow, move on, and tell the asshatter to fuck off when he tried coming back to me. Those were dark times in my life, but it allowed me to mature and know myself better. How I feel and am beginning to feel about this woman scares me. I think I’m afraid of falling in love again (though if I were being honest, I already have – I didn’t say that), afraid of being betrayed again, afraid of giving everything, sharing myself completely with another person, and having them walk away. I’m afraid of receiving nothing but another push towards being a bitter, heartless bitch in the face of relationships.

That aside, though, I miss seeing her, being able to talk to her, and touch her. I don’t think it would be so bad if it weren’t for the fact that I can’t call or text her whenever I feel like it – my only real communication is email and the off-chance that I’ll catch her signed into Windows Live.

She calls me occasionally – her family is very well off in Costa, and they can afford international calling – but every time she does, she apologizes and says that she feels like an idiot for missing me so much, and tells me that she has to resist the urge to call me more often. I wish she did, which I tell her, but I don’t think she believes I’m being sincere. She has some issues with self-worth, and though I try to ease her mind and make her feel better about herself, I know (from personal experience) that finding love and respect for yourself is a personal journey. It’s something we have to do for ourselves.

Fuck, I miss her so much.

Relationships are difficult… making them work is difficult. Every short term and extended relationship I have ever had has failed – I don’t know if it’s because of me, the other person, our levels of communication, or what. Technically I’ve never been dumped, it’s always been easy enough for me to walk away from all of them – with the exception of the last serious relationship before Kelly… that one hit me very hard. But I was still the one that initially walked away.  I was with him for a little over 3 years…

I wonder if they’re worth it? Worth the time, energy, and pain. Is exposing yourself completely to another human being, to the point of vulnerability, really worth it? I think, if they in return do the same, and you’re standing before one another completely naked (metaphorically speaking, people), and you can still accept and love each other… then yes. But I have yet to have that happen.

I don’t know.

I’m afraid of being with Kelly, though I’m risking myself anyway. She doesn’t know the pain and torture of betrayal and heartbreak – I am her first real relationship – her heart hasn’t been hardened. My last serious relationship, the one that went on for 3 years, was with a boy that also had never seriously been with another person… and that one brought me very close to death. I know Kelly and Chris are two very (VERY) different people, and it isn’t fair to compare them, but I think it’s close to impossible not to. I see the similarities, the excitement over finally finding someone that understands, sees, and accepts you, the devotion, the mild dependence, the glittery eyed naivety and believe that you can do no wrong. I see it, and though I do think it’s worth the risk of myself to be with someone I believe to be one of the greatest people I know, it still scares me.

I’m afraid of destroying it. Of corrupting her. Of having her know just how far away from perfect I truly am… because I am very, very far away from perfection.

So is she, I know. I know her flaws; I know her temper, I know that she is prone to drinking and depression, I know she throws tantrums and hits walls hard enough to split her knuckles. I know she doesn’t know what it’s like to struggle, I know that almost everything has been handed to her. I know that when she is sad, or angry, instead of facing the person and the issue, she shuts down and walks away – she waits until she’s alone to react. But I love her for those flaws – they are a part of who she is, just as her merits are. She is an awesome, beautiful, intelligent, selfless person.

Anyway, I’m scarred shitless. I’ve been with people since Chris, but not anything serious. This is the first time I’ve opened myself and my world to another person since him.

I don’t know. I do know.

I think the pain of it not working, of being hurt and having my heart ripped out before my eyes, is worth the joy and comfort of it working out. I guess that’s the question it all comes down to. Holding your breath and taking the risk of the jump.

-Nyn

Awkward white elephants

In my freshman year of high school I was a terrified mess of anxiety and uncertainty. I had no idea who I was, what I wanted, and a plague of self-hatred was setting in (something that would affect me for the next six years of my life). I didn’t want to be noticed, looked at, or spoken to. Good thing I donned the bleakest articles of clothing I could find, put on eyeliner like I was icing a cake, and dyed my hair Vampire Red once a month. That certainly made sure I didn’t stand out, or acquire a pathetically large amount of stares everywhere I went. It made sure most people steered clear of me, and whispered amongst themselves (instead of directly addressing me), though. At least I never listened to Marilyn Manson (until I met Kelly – long after that stage of my life had passed).

All of that aside, I did manage to make a few friends in one of my classes – Art, of course.

I can still remember when I first met the three equally confused adolescents that would forever change me, and for whom I blame for my curse. Chaz, Jennifer, and Johnathan.

On one random day, convinced to skip homeroom, the three of us met in the field that separated the high school building from the closest neighborhood. Winter was approaching, and the humidity level was so  low it sucked the moisture right out of your skin. My nose peeled and flaked so bad that year, I had my mother commenting on it. The grass and shrubbery that grew from the field stood tall, brown, and brittle – a biting breeze swaying it lullingly. The houses blocking the horizon were awkward white elephants that spoke of the suburban world our rural town was turning into.

Pulling out a pack of Marlboro Reds and settling onto the ground, Chaz’s black tipped fingers pulled out a hand full of the sticks and handed one to each of us. So there we sat, skipping class, and watching the grass.

After a general assortment of snaky, senseless discussions, we each flicked our finished smokes out into the field, carelessly neglecting to snub the bastards out.

Here is where it begins.

After laughing at Chaz hogtieing himself with his own shoelaces, and listening to Jennifer degrade him in her fake Cuban accent, we arose to leave behind the tranquility of that  moment. And realized that the grass was smoking.

It started smoking more.

And then, of course, the fire began.

All I can remember thinking, is Fuck Fuck Fuck Shit Fuck before all of  us leaped on it and began trying to stomp it out… to no avail.

This, readers, is what we call a brush fire.

I still have the Converse I had been wearing… the sole of the left one is melted. I loved those shoes – they were one of the best pair of Converse I have ever owned. They lasted me for years – they saw me through so many adventures and experiences. Not like the Converse of today, pieces of shit that they are. Now I buy a pair and I’m lucky if they make it 4 months without ripping down the sides and peeling apart. My ex said it was the canvas – that I needed to invest in a pair of leather Converse.

Fuck.

That.

Anyway. The brush fire – right. So we leave, don’t tell anyone, and the fire department eventually shows up to extinguish the now awesome-fire-of-doom. I still don’t understand why no one said anything about it to us, or why we weren’t caught. Maybe because it was off school property? I don’t know. In any case, we were dumb-fucks.

And so that was the beginning of my fire curse.

Two years later I caught my room on fire, melting its interior, and causing a hell of smoke damage throughout the rest of my house.

Six months later I caught the bathroom on fire and melted the trashcan, the wall, and the counter.

One year later I was pulling a pan of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven, with a tea towel (bad idea). One end of it slung out of my grip, hit the interior of the oven, and erupted into flames. I threw it in the sink along with the cookies. It melted the sink (cheap ass plastic sink – what is the world coming to?).

By my freshman year of college, no more of these incidences had taken place, and I was convinced that the curse had ended.

Until I met Kelly, who showed me how to breath flames.

I caught her bed on fire.

And so, with the exception of lighting cigarettes, I make sure I steer clear of fire and anything that could potentially be flammable while lighting said cigarettes.

No candles, no incense, no traditional grilling, and no campfires for me.

I’m cursed.

Ironically my father is a retired fire-fighter.

HA.

In reality, I’m pretty sure I’m just a dumb-ass who doesn’t pay attention to safety precautions.

At least I wear my seat belt.

-Nyn

I was tired anyway.

Summer and I share a love-hate relationship.

I love the warmth, hate the humidity, and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t already be on the brink of stir crazy, if I could find a summer job. Or were in summer school. Which I am….. it just hasn’t begun yet (that’s on Monday). It is times like this, when I’m sitting on my ever widening ass, pirating a movie (Groove, if anyone’s interested), that I wish I had more people to talk to at 1 am.

I suppose that’s the point of lovely devices like StumbleUpon and 4chan.

And the Sims. I’m pretty sure I would do some naughty things for the person who can find my Sims disks for me. I miss that game like my ex misses his balls. He lost those a looong time ago, though.

You’ll be proud of me, oh Beloved Imaginary Readers – I lumbered my tree-trunk-legs over to the neglected stair-stepper-of-death and proceed to climb imaginary (like you) stairs for 10 minutes while listening to a Bloody Beetroots remix. That’s the third time this week! Go me!

I have to turn my headphones all the way up to drowned out the squeak of the machine, though… I’m sure if anyone where to walk by they would be quite amused. Or aggravated. I stuck the death-stepper in the would-be dining room next to the kitchen. It’s completely out of place considering that also happens to by my studio. Luckily the only person around is the cat… and he actually likes it. His pillow head will turn to the left, his ears will twitch, and he’ll just stare at me. I love it.

Anyway, the music is what convinced me to look around for a Groove torrent – I used to worship that movie. Before I actually tried MDMA and discovered what good trance, drum/bass, trip hop, etc etc was. I’m looking forward to it.

It also got me missing Kelly – that would be my girlfriend – who is currently residing in Costa Ricca, getting trashed with her sister, hanging out in clubs, and eating sushi. I feel bad for being jealous and for wanting her to come back now. I’m glad she’s having a good time.. and I completely trust her… I just wish I were there. She’s a facebook whore and a camera is constantly strapped to her hand, so everything she’s doing is being clearly documented and posted. And believe me, she’s having fun.

I don’t know. I’m here, alone with the cat, chilling on the internet, painting, and reading. That is my life until Monday. Which isn’t so bad – it’s relaxing – but still. When ever she sends me videos of them partying it’s like she’s rubbing it in my face that I’m here. I know she’s not – she’s trying to share the funny shit they’re up to with me – but it isn’t funny. It just makes me more lonely. I don’t want to tell her that though… I want her to have fun.

I miss her a lot.

WELL. Hold up – the file just finished.
Nevermind. It was damaged.
That was a waste of time.

I’m going to go feed my cancer (it’s hungry for a smoke) then drowned my disappointment in a shower….. while accomplishing some other things, if you catch my drift. Ehh ehh?? (Psst… that means masturbation).

WOO!

Yeah.

Later, and goodnight dear Imaginary Readers.

-Nyn

I think.. he thinks it’s a bird..

At some point in my sophomore year of high school, I randomly bought a book, Why Girls are Weird, because I thought the cover was neat looking. I thought, in that moment, that I was meant to read this book, because I could identify with the woman on the cover. Black and white awkward dress, a brown paper bag over her head, and a cat in her lap. I didn’t even read the back. I just bought it, along with a couple of other titles that mean nothing to me now. My spending habits were a lot more frivolous back then – the real concept of money hadn’t yet hit me, and I had never been employed.. also my mother happened to come with a visa card and possessed every intention of supporting anything educational. And hey! What’s more educational than reading?

So I bought this book, and carried it around with me for a week or so afterward. I would sit in homeroom, or physics, and flip it open in an attempt at reading it. Of course, I never got passed the first page. I was really into fairies, eating disorders, and Xanga (though I treated it like people treat MySpace) back then. I couldn’t have told you what, exactly, this book was about. So,  inevitably, the little orange book found its way onto my bookshelf and was quickly forgotten, becoming more of a decoration than anything else.

Now I’m a junior in college, without a lot of time for pleasure reading, and in the possession of a full (and miserable) understanding of money, credit cards, and debt (along with gas prices, politics, rent, and bad relationships). So, when my mother graciously offered to pay for my first pair of contacts (I’ve been sporting thick rims since 4th grade) I almost tackled her in excitement. The only catch was having to sit for two hours in a grungy, smelly waiting room. The morning of, I grabbed the first book that caught my eye (that I hadn’t read yet) and we headed out the door.

That book, of course, was Why Girls are Weird.

And I have to say that it is now one of my favorite reads since Good Omens. I can’t put it down. And now, I can honestly say, that I completely identify with the woman on the cover – and not because of her dress or the cat. She is nothing miraculous, she’s an average, normal, woman – well… she’s full of wit and sarcasm  as well (I laughed out loud in the waiting room and received several dirty looks from the various couples around the room) and is running an extremely successful blog. She has relationship issues, friendship issues, body  image issues, etc etc, and a lot of them run parallel with myself. Which I guess is the point – she’s average and easy for any American woman to identify with. Or maybe any woman. Anyway, this book makes me feel sane without boring me. I love it.

I’m pretty sure you would have to live in a country, without electricity, to be unaware as to what a blog is – and even then I wouldn’t be surprised to hear the word thrown around somewhere. Blogs blogs blogs – the new craze (along with Twitter – though that is something far less validated).

Anyway, right. So I’ve never tried blogging… I keep journals and diaries – they’re in various stacks around my room at home – but I’ve never had a blog.. and this book has inspired me to start one. For myself, obviously.

I don’t know enough about politics, entertainment, or whatever else popular culture likes to keep one necessarily about anything. Other than myself, obviously, but yeah.

My cat is wandering around with a discarded Doritos bag in his mouth, meowing. I’m getting distracted.

Hmm…anyway, so this is it.

If you haven’t read that book yet, I totally recommend picking it up. It’s great. I keep laughing at it. Out loud. It’s kind of embarrassing.

-Nyn

Leaping In II

After having written out everything that I wanted to say, of course I made the mistake that oh-so-many have before me, bringing me to a blank post, an empty draft folder, and a new post template with the back button.

Awesome.

Coincidentally, I just finished my last cigarette for the foreseeable future (I’m trying my hand at quitting tomorrow… I have no money…) while my best friend, Ro, babbled at me about her romantic get away trip with her would-be boyfriend.

So. Instead of posting what I initially had intended, you get this.

Me bitter, tired, and ready to pass out on top of my cat.

After a massive cup of (decaf) chai tea. Of course.

I bid you adieu,

-Nyn