Ever feel like you don’t own very much? A fundamental part of being a twenty-something is surviving with second-hand items or making do without. Sannah Kvist recently photographed a bunch of people “born in the 80s” with every scrap they … Continue reading
Well, I ran into him at the bar last night. Forget the part where I knew that this was his favorite bar and he would probably be there, it was completely chance. Turns out that, yeah he had a death in the family, no he’s not interested in me, and apparently I’m really awkward because I didn’t really talk to him all night (I thought he was on a date…), despite the fact that he made no effort to speak to me either. So there it is. Like I said, dating is strange. Were we even dating? I really have no idea. I do know that I’m a little sad he’s not interested, but now I can stop feeling guilty for pseudo-cheating on my pseudo-boyfriend who I can only pseudo-date because he lives on the other side of the country. That sentence made me sound insane, right? Yeah, I know. I think you’ll get over it. I know I did.
Why should almost 2,000 miles (read this) stop me from regularly interacting with someone who really understands me? I think we’ve reached a silent agreement that if ever a time comes in our lives when we may be able to live near each other and there are no other ties, we’ll see whether it works. That we live as far away as we do and have been communicating regularly for a year, care about each other and are able to stay friends when one of us is seeing someone and “lovers” when neither is – is, I believe, healthier than you would think a long distance non-relationship with someone you met on a video game would be. Have I mentioned I know that most of this is just rationalizing? Because I do. Know that.
And now, I will leave with this. My cat has decided that my cowl neck sweatshirt from Victoria’s secret that I usually wear as a pajama top is an invitation for him to stick his head down my shirt.
When I was a freshman in high school, I joined a weekend orchestra program to replace cheerleading after I’d unexpectedly quit three weeks into basketball season. My Saturday mornings became a ritual of waking up earlier than I wanted to and riding to Poughkeepsie in the passenger’s seat of my mother’s Winnebago. I’d been placed in the orchestra which housed mostly middle school students, partly because my private teacher was the conductor and partly because I was very behind the well-educated students who had taken private lessons for longer and more consistently than I had, therefore I was seemingly one of the oldest people there.
We rehearsed in the dank basement of an older church, the church where my grandparents were married, and I quickly drew the attention of a boy who was very tall (at least, compared to me) with dark brown hair and bright blue eyes – he looked like one of the “popular” kids. I’d never been hit on before by a boy like that and was very much anorexic at the time. So when he started teasing me about having to pay him a toll to get past him during our break, I gobbled it right up. I was starving to have a boy pay attention to me. This was when I was wearing skirts that were way too short (only 15 inches from waist to hem) and heels that were way too tall and shirts that were too tight and worked their way up my abdomen until my lower back and belly button were showing. I wore makeup almost every day and still bothered to straighten my hair. I just wanted someone, anyone, to pay attention to me.
I don’t remember much about how that romance blossomed, we saw a movie (I don’t remember which), he came to my house once (we made out the entire time while listening to Good Charlotte), and he brought me to a family function at his cousin/aunt/uncle/something’s house near the old train station across the street from the river. I remember standing in the wind, wearing my blue American Girl rain coat/windbreaker (that’s how young I still was; I was wearing American Girl clothes) which was warmer than any coat I own today and which would probably still fit me had I kept it, while he was hanging upside down from a tree. At the time, I felt so grown up, looking back it’s hard to imagine I was ever that young or that innocent.
We were still at the playground, he leaning against a tree while I leaned my body against his, holding hands as we kissed when he started pressuring me to flash him. I’d had a boyfriend before, so this wasn’t exactly the first time I’d been asked to do something I didn’t want to. It just felt so inappropriate to risk some passerby seeing me simply because it was something we couldn’t do in a house where parents were. I think I finally gave in; the first of many times I would waive my comfort at the request of some random boy.
The next day, he broke up with me.
I like words. I like the look and the sound and the texture of them. And I believe they are capable of more truth and communication than most of the human race typically permits them. How are you? Fine thanks, and you? Can't complain. Well I can, and I do.
Presenting poems that make words do what they are supposed to.
Yep, they WANT their fans to pirate their music or buy it from them directly. Why? Because, shockingly, their production company keeps way more of the proceeds than they should.
And politicians claim online piracy is what’s hurting musicians…