on holiday

My mom and dad are going to see my sister for a few days next week and I decided to take advantage of them being gone by taking a holiday from work.  It'll be so nice to have some time to myself for a change.  Dad works during the week and Mom works on the weekend so someone is always home to annoy me.  I love them, blah blah, but a guy needs some solitude, ya know?  I was starting to think I'd have to take a pilgrimage to Waldon Pond just to find a quiet place to poop and ponder.

Mom excitedly told me my sister wanted me to come along, too.  Like she was trying to convince me my sister really wanted to see me.  Like I'm going to buy that crap.  It was annoying because I've already made my feelings clear and nothing anyone says or does it going to change it.

I just haven't had much to do with her after she acted so cold toward me when I needed her years ago.  For so long, I was her biggest fan.  She was always disinterested in me.  Now it's my turn.  We were never close and we never will be and my mom needs to stop trying to make us pals.  It is not going to happen.    

In my continuing to self-destruct my diet, there's a new pizza place open a few towns over and I want to go eat some.  I figure I have the next week to re-dedicate myself to diet and exercise and I am on vacation.  I can splurge a little, right?  But didn't I splurge last weekend and the weekend before that?  Holy crap, I'm such a fat kid at heart.  It doesn't matter how much weight I lose, I'm always going to crave Coke and cookies.

I thought about going to eat with someone but then I realized I had no one.  My work girlfriend has a real-life boyfriend and he probably wouldn't appreciate me going out with her, although most guys aren't threatened by me, which makes me feel really great about myself.

It usually goes a little something like this:

The boyfriend says, "You're going out with some guy?  I don't care if he is 'just your friend.'"

He takes a look at me.

"Oh, okay, call me when you get back."

Just about everyone else sucks so I don't know who to turn to.

I am really alone.

Of course, I just started this entry by saying I wanted to be alone but not like this.  Not lonely.  I thought about buying some crocheting needles and driving back down to the Starbucks in Florida and joining the lesbian knitting group I saw there last time, or either stabbing myself in the jugular with them.  I'm still undecided.

I guess I'll just have to make a go of it solo.  Just get out of the house and explore.  Drive in my car.  Play some emo music to get me in the mood to meditate.  I might even make a whole day of it.  Make the mall my Walden.

The only problem is I wanted to be constructive on my days off.  I wanted to finish editing the first draft of my book by next week so I can do rewrites and ask people to start proofreading/reviewing it soon.  My plan was to write several blog entries for the first day or two I was off and store them so I could concentrate on finishing the book while still continuously updating my blog.  So far all I've managed to do is literally stay in bed all day long and play video games.  So that's one day wasted and if I go out of town tomorrow, that's another day gone.

But maybe I need it.

Or I could muti-task and work on my book at that Starbucks.  'Cause that wouldn't make me look like a douche at all.

musculature

Saturday night, I had a date.
.
.
.
.
.
.

With a pizza.

I so looked forward to getting off work and grabbing a mocha frappe and then coming home and getting it on with a spicy Italian pie.  We chatted for a bit (preheat oven) and as soon as the oven dinged, things got hot and heavy pretty fast (400 degrees for 12 minutes) and we had an enjoyable time together.

Now that's amore.

And for liquid afterglow, I drank down the frappe like my happiness depended on it.  'Cause in many ways, it did.  It was over way too soon but I was ravenous.  My carnal cravings had kicked in and needed to be satisfied.

And several weeks ago, I went to dinner with an acquaintance and had a cheesy turkey sandwich with sliced and seasoned potatoes.  Then we went to Starbucks where I got a 5,000 calorie frozen coffee drink and (this is embarrassing) then we drove across the street to Taco Bell where I got 4 Doritos Locos tacos.

So, in case you weren't aware, I haven't been doing well on my diet at all.  Of course, I blame my rude acquaintance and the fact that my social life, work life, and life life sucks for why I've been sucking up food like a gluttonous vacuum.

Despite that, I've actually been pretty consistent with my working out, which surprises me.  I hate exercise more than I love food and so I'd almost rather not eat than work out.  Maybe there's been a shift in my head.  And maybe the working out has offset the terrible eating and that's why I haven't gained any more weight.

But I certainly haven't lost any.  The sixth month of the year is winding down, which means I should be sixty pounds lighter.  I'm only thirty.  I've been down thirty pounds for three months now, fluctuating between gaining two pounds and losing three and gaining one and losing one, etc.  And it sucks.

But muscle does weigh more than fat so maybe I'm still slimming down (albeit extremely slowly) and the scale is just representing the muscle that I've put on.  I can tell there's more definition in my arms and my legs look and feel pretty good.  It's just my meddlesome midsection that's holding me back from feeling good about myself.

I've been doing the old school Power 90 (I'm almost at day 60 with only a month left) and I can tell my endurance has increased.  I can last longer, go harder, and can do more push ups and crunches than when I first started.

The worst part, as it's always been, is getting started.  The monotony has settled in big time.  I'm just tired of putting on my shoes and turning Pandora on and listening to the same ten songs (although I choose different stations frequently) and doing the same routine day after day.  I was excited to switch to the second phase of Power 90 but I forgot the only difference is there's another round of cardio at the end of each segment.  Nothing else is switched up.  I know I can do different workouts but I really want to see these 90 days through to the end.

But once I get up and get going, it's not so bad.  Because I'm so familiar with the routine, I know when I'm close to being done and knowing I'm almost finished helps push me through the last little bit.  And I enjoy the sweat.  When it rolls down my face and stings my eyes, it makes me feel like I really did something.  I've started to enjoy the ache of exerted muscles, the fatigue, the wobbly limb feeling of giving it my all.

Also, I've had to switch to a smaller belt.  I've already bought smaller work pants and will have to buy more soon.  I bought smaller jeans today.  My pajama tops are getting looser and my torso isn't rubbing up against the fabric like it used to.  It's nice.

I've also been getting compliments from people, which is also nice.

But I'm still not where I want to be.  I feel like I need to crank up my diet and start eating better.  At the same time, I haven't beaten myself up over my nutritional mishaps like I used to in the past.  I've just realized that I'm weak when it comes to food and that's okay.  I can say no to bad food choices five hundred times in a row but that doesn't mean I've conquered it.  I never will but that doesn't mean I can't put up a fight.  That also doesn't mean all the times I've given in will negate all the times I didn't.  For example, despite those four Doritos Locos tacos, I'm still getting thinner.  It's taken a bit more time, sure, but it's not as if that one delicious mistake has caused me to gain all my weight back.

I don't want to be the poster boy for cheating on a diet but really, it's not that huge of a deal.  Just don't cheat every day with every meal and you should be fine.  It's taken me a long time to learn that and I feel good knowing that it is okay to have a taco here or a pizza and frappe there.

I was so excited to come home and enjoy this.  Who needs a companion when you have carbs? :| If only carbs could cuddle.

sour cherry

"I want to learn how you save yourself 
for someone who loves you for you
So many times we just give it away 
to someone who couldn't even remember your name..."
-Sense Field, Save Yourself

"We're under the sheets
and you're killing me..."
-Ellie Goulding, Under the Sheets

One day in my art history class, I sat at my desk and looked around me as my professor droned on about Duchamp's "Fountain" and surmised I was probably the only virgin in the room.  I was not interested in a urinal as a piece of art so my mind wandered and landed in sexland. 

Because art history was a foundation class, the students were not separated by major and it was a mixed crowd.  Everyone from the trust fund valley girl fashion student to the animation student who doodled bunnies with manga eyes in his notebook to the chunky girl who wore pajamas to class every day sat among me.  And they had all probably been laid before.  So, why hadn't I?

"Well, look at me," I thought to myself.  Although I was the most attractive I had been in my young adult life, I still felt chubby and untouchable and I thought my physical appearance was why I hadn't yet had sex.

But I knew a lot of trolls who had engaged in sexual activity so that couldn't be it.  Just about anyone can find someone to sleep with.  People are so horny these days that being picky isn't always an option when the possibility of orgasm is within reach.  And it wasn't so much the fact that I thought I wasn't good-looking enough to be touched, but my looks caused a crippling insecurity that made me feel unworthy of intimacy.

I had enough trouble feeling good about the way I looked clothed, with all of my biggest flaws completely covered.  I couldn't imagine stripping away all the layers of protection and revealing everything to a partner.  Nakedness and intimacy opened up a whole new world of insecurity.

What if I wasn't good?  What if I wasn't well equipped or satisfying enough?  What if I jiggled too much or had no coordination?  I can't even pat my head and rub my stomach at the same time so how can I be expected to kiss and thrust and massage all at once?  Did I have the capability to cause pleasure?  Could my tongue tantalize?  Could I cause another to shudder with satisfaction?  It was something I hadn't thought much about.  It was a foreign concept to think I could put my body next to another.

When I was younger, I was fascinated with the concept of kissing.  I never understood how people could be bad kissers.  It seemed pretty simple.  Press your lips together and voila, nerve endings react and fire and pleasure pervade the body.  But when I actually had my first kiss, I understood.  I was so nervous and focused on not landing on her nose that all pleasure drained from the activity.  I tried to navigate my lips around hers without mashing my face into her mouth and the whole thing felt too hard and mechanical.  The thought of tongue usage terrified me so I cut our kissing short.

So with that taste of intimacy, I realized I was either done with it all or simply just not ready.  Through the years, thoughts of kissing progressed to thoughts of sexual intercourse and how much more involved it seemed than kissing but I still wondered how anyone could be bad at that, either.  I guessed it was possible but when you get down to it, don't the same basic mechanics as kissing apply?  Aren't you still just pressing parts together and waiting for the slippery friction to send waves of calm across the body?

I feel like some of you are giggling right now, thinking I have a lot to learn about how bad it can be.  But who will I trust enough to teach me?

Do I even want to know?

haute coffee

While I was sitting in Starbucks, I looked over my shoulder at the group of people knitting in a corner.  And I wanted to belong to that group.  It was an all female group lead by a masculine looking woman with black glasses and a map of the world on her head in the form of dyed blue and green hair.  Their multi-colored yarn and threads were scattered across multiple tables, the needles in their hands dancing and catching light from the florescent lights.  And I wanted to belong to that group.

Well, not that group necessarily.  Knitting is fun and all but not my favorite subject.  The point is I wanted to have a group that I could go to on a Friday or Saturday night, and a place we could all converge to hang out and share ideas and laughter.

There is no such a place in my town.  Or the town over.  Or anywhere near.  I had to drive nearly an hour away to another state just to go to Starbucks.  Our area is just not set up for youth.  All I see at work are old people, women buying clothes for their bedridden husbands.  Women buying suits for their dead husbands to be buried in.  Blue veins and rinses.  Cheap perfume and arthritis.  Liver spots and slipping dentures.

And those who are born here endure eighteen years of pain and monotony and then get the hell out when given the chance.  That only leaves a few young ones left, those like me who tried to get out and failed and those who were never given the chance to escape.

And so I feel lost because the young are a rare breed here and those that are left are all scattered.  There's no coffee shop or building for kids to congregate.  There's nowhere for ideas to spark and flourish, for talent to transcend one individual's temples, for friendships to form with frappes and fritters.  There's not even a place for one individual to rest or write or read a book in a chill setting.

I've been expressing my frustration to a couple of people and they keep saying we should all pool together our resources and open up our own coffee shop.  We all joke and say it should include an internet cafe with state of the art computers and a snack bar with high quality breads and cheeses and truffles and cupcakes flecked with gold.  It would be really upscale and we'd call it Haute Coffee.  It's a nice idea but not one I think anyone would take seriously.

As I said, there's not a lot of youth here.  Haute Coffee would probably be bare most of the time.  Our typical eighty-two-year-old resident would come in and have no knowledge of Macs or macchiatos.  They wouldn't recognize the music unless it was Elvis or Hank Williams Jr.  They wouldn't know how to turn on the computer.

"Hold the mouse?" they'd ask.  "Y'all got mice?  Better call an exterminator or this place'll be shut down!"

It's just best for me to leave.  The town will probably never change.  It's best suited for those winding down their lives instead of those just trying to start them.  Then again, if I stay here much longer, I'll probably begin the process of winding my life down, too.

The Internet has sufficed so far.  I've met some talented and creative people through this outlet and it's been nice but it's still not the same.  Blogs don't equal bodies.  I want a real time connection, a flow of ideas that feed off one another, tiny seeds we plant inside each other's heads, watching as the eyes sparkle and the mouth moves in recognition.

I think I also crave the physical aspect of belonging to a group, something I've never truly felt.  I'd like to know there's a place I could go where I could sit among like-minded people and say that's my book club or knitting circle or Buffy fan club.  I'd like to feel wanted.  Safe.  Occupied with something constructive and motivating instead of taking up my time eating garbage and hating myself for it.

If there's nothing like that here and I can't make my own, the only choice is to leave.  But where would I go?  How would I cleave myself into a community?  Do I just go up to the gal with the Coke bottle glasses and green hair and sit down with my knitting needles and ask her to put on some Tegan and Sara while she showed me how to whip up a cozy winter scarf?

Or what if I started my own group.  The qualification would be pretty simple.  If you don't suck, you can show up.  I guess I've been so starved for quality conversation that my standards might have slipped a little.  I think trying to find people similar to me would be a bit of a quest so if they could just not be intolerant rednecks, I think I could work with that.  If they'll provide the conversation, I'll provide the coffee.

twenty cows and a kitty

I know in my previous entry, I complained about being stuck in the country but there are some good aspects.  Low crime.  Sweet tea.  And lots of pretty cows.  These guys were chilling in the pasture out past my backyard.

And I shot a small clip of these gorgeous creatures grazing, too. With special guest star, Miss Kitty, who also thinks she's a cow.

battlefield

Just as I suspected, as soon as I started making progress with my weight loss, I stopped trying as hard.

I have yet to get past thirty pounds.  I'll get really close and then gain another pound and then lose it and then gain two and then lose three and then gain it all back again, etc.  My eating is not great and I'm getting tired of my workouts.  I know I can change it up and do a different workout but I think I'm just tired of exercising in general.  I'm tired of the monotony of getting up and putting on my shoes and bouncing and punching and kicking for half an hour.  I'm also tired of not being able to have pizza.

Like I mentioned before, it took losing some of my fat to realize how fat I was.  As the pounds started coming off, I became more critical of myself.  I think it took me getting serious about losing weight again to see how bad I had let myself go.  Despite my thinning frame, all I could see was fat.  I was oblivious to how big I was.  I most likely just blocked out the fat because I couldn't handle it but once I knew I was making a difference and taking the weight off, I allowed my eyes to be opened to the damage I had done to myself.

The thing that sucks the most about being a big guy is even though I've lost thirty pounds, I'm still fat.  A fact that people still point out.

I still say retail is horrible.  It's demeaning and thankless and you run into some of the rudest people.  I had a guy come in the other day who needed help finding a dress shirt.  Like most guys who come in, he didn't know what the numbers on the shirts represented but he said he was a small, which was around a 14 1/2. 

"What size do you wear?" he asked with a smirk.  Completely irrelevant question but I knew where he was going with it.

"Probably a 16 1/2," I answered with a slight sigh.

"Yeah, you're a big boy, aren't ya?"

"Yeah, I am, and I'm working on it," I said and then walked away from him without another word.  What a dick.

I've had similar experiences at work with people calling me fat, whether they said it subtly or straight out.  I already struggle with trying to lose weight and trying to remain determined and it doesn't help when I get that kind of negative attention because of my body shape.  It's another deterrent.  

Despite the douche, I have had two other experiences where I ran into people I hadn't seen in a long time and they both noticed I had lost weight and told me I looked good.  And that felt good.  But not good enough to keep me going, at least not in the long run.  It temporarily motivates me until the depression sets in again and nothing settles my soul (and my stomach) like chocolate chip cookie dough.

I still struggle every single day.  When I get off work, frustrated and mentally exhausted, the only thing I can see is fast food.  The only thing I want is ice cream.  And when it comes to exercising, it's the last thing I want to do.  Food is forever my temptress.  My mind is forever my tormentor.  My body is forever a battlefield and representation of the feud between me and food.

All you have to do is take a look at me to see who is winning that day.

work boyfriend

"I'd photocopy all the things that we could be
If you took the time to notice me
But you can't now, I don't blame you
And it's not your fault that no one ever does..."
-My Chemical Romance, Cubicles

I think I've finally figured out the relationship I have with her.

I'm her work boyfriend.

I don't know why I didn't figure it out before.  It's so simple and makes so much sense.

She has her boyfriend when she's away from work.  He's the real deal, a guy she's actually attracted to who she can hug and kiss and cuddle and whatever else they do.  He's the one that matters, the one she gives herself to, the one she has formed bonds of affection and dareIsay love with and I'm just that other guy.

To her, I'm just safe.  She can go to work and when I'm there, she knows she can laugh and she has someone to talk to who shares similar interests and the same sense of humor and lack of tolerance for annoying people.  There's only two other guys that regularly work with us and she doesn't like one and the other one is disaffected so that really only leaves me as the only semi-decent male energy.

But isn't that all she is to me, too?  She's the only positive female energy I can find, the only one I have the most in common with and the only one that is on my level as far as education and lifestyle.  She's just a good time, someone to converse with to distract me from my depressing job.  And she's the prettiest.

Although I'm pretty sure it's strictly platonic with her, I do sometimes wonder if she sees more in me.  I often wonder if she'd pursue anything if she wasn't involved with the other guy.  She told me a couple of times she wasn't sure if it would work out due to some of the circumstances in his life but nearly eight months later, they're still together so I guess it's not all that bad.  Unless she's just chosen to ignore those certain aspects of his life but they can't be ignored indefinitely.

It's all good.  I'm her work boyfriend and I'd hope I'm also her friend outside of work but if not, that's fine.  I've been left behind by too many girls when class ended or when they left their jobs and it's always hurt more than it probably should have and so I just try to keep things light and breezy, enjoy them while they are around and move on when they do.

redneck fever

"I'll always be unhappy
one way or the other
I'll always be unhappy
if I don't sing..."
-Anthony Green, If I Don't Sing

I often wish I could be a good ol' country boy like so many of my male peers.

I wish I had a bushy goatee and drove a giant pickup truck that could bulldoze a small house.  I wish I liked to drink and fish and hunt and keep a wad of tobacco in my cheek at all times.  I wish I had a closet full of camouflage and didn't have to worry about my complexion or the complexities of social interaction.

I wish I worked offshore on an oil rig and was married to a nurse and we had a baby boy that we bundled up in John Deere apparel or a little girl that we bundled up in pink John Deere apparel.  I wish I could be a good Republican Christian and sit in church on Wednesdays and Sundays and believe in everything the preacher yelled through gritted teeth and bulging forehead veins.

I wish I could enjoy Sunday football and have a few beers with my buddies from high school.  I wish I had buddies from high school.  I wish I could cut the grass in my cowboy boots and own a big dog that rode in the back of my truck.  I wish I could be tough, be burly, have a farmer's tan and live an uncluttered life.

It seems simple.  They have simple jobs with simple spouses and take orders from a simple God.  They seem satisfied.  I just wonder if they actually are.  Do they ever wonder about making a difference in the world?  Do they believe they have the talent and the ability to make a change, to create art and inspire others?  Do they ever wonder what's outside their small town bubble?

Maybe they do.  But I don't see that.  I don't hear anyone wanting to break out of Alabama and transform people.  But that's not to say that they don't.  They might help out in smaller ways and there is nothing at all wrong with that.  I just want to make a bigger difference, reach a wider audience.  I just can't seem to do that here.  Everyone else who wanted to escape pretty much has.  As for me, I'm in a weird place, in every sense of the word. 

Note: I'm not diminishing these people or their choice of lifestyle or career.  I am not above them in any way.  I just see them taking the easy route and compromising their dreams and goals for security.  Of course, they're better off than I am because they do have that security and I followed my dreams and crashed and I'm still burning.  And really, what's wrong with taking the easy route?  I just know it's not for me and I often wonder why I was plopped in the middle of nowhere with no outlet, no inspiration and no way out.

I thought I'd contract some country if I put some chewing tobacco in my back pocket or watched NASCAR and camouflage clad men shooting deer on television.  I thought I could tailgate in the Burger King parking lot and go mud riding and I'd fit in and finally feel fulfilled.  But nothing stuck.  It doesn't mean I don't still think about it often.

There are times when I think it would be easier to throw away all of my dreams and choose to be another nurse or construction worker.  It wouldn't be a good fit, however.  I'm too sensitive, too artistic, and definitely not macho enough to fit in with this town and these people.  Every time I am forced to venture out into the city, when I'm in the grocery store surrounded by the elderly talking about church and tomato plants and guys with their Wranglers tucked into rubber boots and women wearing shirts with football teams plastered across their chests, I'm reminded that I don't belong here.  I just don't know how to fix it.  

I also know that I will never change.  There's a burning inside me that flares up when I think of giving in.  In the deepest corners of my heart, I want to create, to share, to help, to touch.  I don't think I'll be satisfied if I couldn't do that.  I'll never be happy under the hood of a car.  I'll never get excited over college football.  I'll never be satisfied with myself as long as I'm trapped here, constantly comparing myself to these country boys and girls, grasping for a connection and realizing there is none to be had.

There are some days when I wish I could catch the fever.  But I look around and see the drones following the same path their parents followed from their parents and when I see them set their children down that same road and never want to venture out past the pavement, I look at myself, very much outside of them, and I'm glad I'm immune.

book notes #8

After writing, on and off, for about four years, I have finally finished the first draft of my book.  And when I say on and off, I mean I wrote for about two weeks, then took four months off, wrote for about 5 weeks, then took two months off, etc.   So it's not like I labored tirelessly for four long years straight through.

But I have written more in the past several months than I have in the past several years and it feels good to finally be finished.  Of course, I'm not completely finished but I've written the work and the real magic (or madness) begins with editing.

Speaking of, the book ended up being 589 pages!  That's way too long.  And you all thought I was long-winded with my entries.  Imagine them all crammed together and bound into a book.  Although, to be fair, it does cover an entire school year.  A lot of stuff happened.  But I'm going to have to make some difficult cuts to trim the size a bit.

The bad part is I already left some things out that I didn't think were important and I even rushed the last section because I thought the book was running too long.  But hopefully I can even it all out after a few edits.  Once I cut out enough stuff, I'll feel more comfortable going back to the last several chapters and fleshing them out a bit more.

After I finished, I went to print out the book so I could really go in and start marking it all up with my red pen.  But after about twenty pages, my printer ran out of ink.  The next day, I picked up some more ink and went home and changed the cartridge and after about 200 pages, I ran out of ink again.  Maybe I'm not an ink expert but does ink really run out that fast?  Trying to print this thing out is already becoming annoying and costly.

I hope the editing won't take more than two months and then I'll send it to a few people for more editing/content and just to get a different perspective.

It's going to be weird when I really am finished.  Like I said, I've had this project close to me for four years now, even if it has been on and off.  But when I put it out there and no longer sit down and revisit those memories and events, it's going to be strange.  Might even be like a part of my day is missing. 

That's not to say there will be an empty space.  I already have plans for a follow-up book and then I want to participate in National Novel Writing month coming up in November and I have the book I wrote two years ago for National Novel Writing month that I would like to mold into something nice.  So other books are in the works and I should keep busy. 

But for now, this one means the most to me.

smear campaign

At work the other day, I went to grab a pen and felt a wet stickiness on my hand.  I looked down and the pen had somehow started to leak and left a streak of ink on my palm.  It was a pretty thick streak, too.

Instead of grabbing a tissue, I pulled out the hand sanitizer and thought the wetness plus alcohol would lift the ink right off my palm.  I squirted a healthy dose into my hand and started to rub it in but immediately knew I had screwed up.

Instead of lifting the ink off my hand, it just spread it all over both my hands.  I looked at what I had done to myself and immediately went back for more hand sanitizer.  No such luck.  I just kept making it worse.  By this time, my hands were a gross shade of gray like I had lost circulation in my hands.

Let me also point out that it was dead in my department.  Not a customer in sight.  Until I made a mess of myself.  Then everyone congregated to my department and a lady even asked me if I could show her how to tie a tie.

Of course.

She said she needed to shop some more but said she'd be back so I took that opportunity to dump out the rest of the hand sanitizer in hopes some of it would rub off but I just kept smearing the inky black all over my hands and into the crevices of my fingernails.

I went over to another department and rifled through their hand sanitizer as well.  There as no one on staff to relieve me so I could go to the bathroom and wash my hands so the sanitizer was my only hope.  I dumped out another pile and washed my hands in it in vain.

By this time, the smells of both sanitizers was getting to me, green apple and granny perfume.  I probably smelled like the fourth hour of The Today Show and all I managed to do was make it look like I had been digging for truffles the night before.

The lady came back, with her daughter, and asked me to show her how to tie the tie.  I sighed inside myself because the girl was pretty.  She'd take one look at my  hands and reel back.  By this time, I had gotten the majority of the dark ink off my hands but I smelled strongly of alcohol and had a ring of gunk in my fingernails so I wasn't feeling too confident.

Then I felt the beads of sweat forming.  My chest felt like a radiator and I wondered if I should point out my soiled hands and get it out of the way or just let it be.  Maybe they hadn't noticed.  Through my own observations, I've noticed people aren't very observant, at least around here.  Mentioning it would just bring more attention to it so I didn't say anything.  

I limbered up my hands and the lady said, "Now, watch really closely, Carol."

I hoped Carol had stunning eagle vision 'cause I didn't slow down for her to comprehend a thing I did.  I tied that tie faster than I've ever tied one before, my hands a blur, like I was pulling some sleight of hand magician trickery.

I gave them the tie and finally a supervisor came by and I put my hands in her face and said I needed to go wash up.  By now, the hand sanitizer had begun to clump up all over my hands and my hands felt raw and gritty.  I washed away the hand sanitizer and the majority of the ink but the wonderful fingernail stains were still there.  I just pressed on through the rest of the day with my hands in my pockets.

First my zipper broke and then I had a brush with a leaky BIC.  What's next?  Trip and fall on my face in front of a crowd of tweens?  Throw up burp in front of a customer?  Accidentally fart over the loudspeaker?  The humiliating possibilities were endless.

It's just not looking good for me.  

conversation

"It's time to come clean
And make sense of everything
It's time that we found out who we are
But I wish I could feel it all for you
I wish I could be it all for you
If I could erase the pain
Maybe you'd feel the same..."
-Ellie Goulding, Guns and Horses

I finally talked to her.  We went far too long without exchanging words.  So many things were left unsaid and hanging in the air and it got to a point where I didn't know where we stood or how she felt about things or even if she even thought about it or cared.  And in the conversation, feelings were finally expressed.  Heated feelings.  But they needed to come out and be heard and internalized.

The conversation made me see some things about myself that I had either been unaware of or outright ignored.  I realized I had bottled up a lot of the anger I had over various other circumstances and directed toward her.  I chose her to be the face of my pain, my death.  And she wasn't deserving but I think I did it partly because she was tangible and partly because I had a connection with her that I had never shared with anyone else.

When I crumbled, everything felt out of sorts.  College felt terrible.  My talent was terrible.  God seemed terrible.  All those things were concrete turned into concepts, intangible notions that put a dent in my head.  And I thought what she did was terrible, too.  And unlike college or Christ, she was real to me, not just something I wanted to believe in.  She was something I did believe in and so strongly.  So when she let me down, she shattered the glass throne I had placed her on years ago.  Consequently, we both fell.

But from our conversation, I realized she didn't shatter anything.  In my mind, I had preened her to be perfect.  We were so good for so long that I never factored in that she could be fallible.  But when I realized she was, it messed me up.  And it wasn't that she had shattered anything at all, but my perceptions of her were broken.  It was no one's fault.  There comes a time in everyone's relationship when one person finds out the other is an actual human capable of making mistakes and messes.  And when she went away, I blamed her for a long time.  And then I blamed myself for blaming her but I was just hurt and confused.  I never did or said anything out of malicious intent.  Neither did she.  We both took it the wrong way, however. 

It was just easier to point the finger at her because I was hurting and she was the way I could focus the pain, make sense of it.  It was also easier because she meant something to me.  I felt something for her at one time.  She was a friend.  She was my favorite thing.  My relationship with God had always been sketchy at best so when I essentially gave up trying to find him, it wasn't that big of a letdown or much of a surprise.  It was just inevitable.

And my first year of college sucked so bad that I didn't have high hopes for the rest of my time in the institution of learning.  Although I met some decent people, the damage was irrevocable and left a stain that saturated through every person I met, every conversation I had, and every good time I experienced.  There was always and underlying tension and sense of despair with everything I encountered but not with her.

Everything was so good.

And then it wasn't.

I didn't know how to deal.  I became confused and then sad and then angry.  Really angry.  The one good thing in my life was gone and so I had to surround myself in a cocoon of cold just to cope.  I needed to preserve what little life I had left because the realization of not having her in my life was too hard to comprehend.

At the time, I thought she had caused irreparable damage and vented about it.  She caught wind and was understandably devastated herself.  I caused my own irreparable damage to her.  The worst part of it is the hurt we inflicted on each other was brought about by our own hurt.  It was the way we both dealt with pain that pained each other.

I overreacted.  I had so much anger and confusion built up that when I finally found the words to let it out, it blasted out of me like a cannon.  And I blamed her for me not being able to make friends anymore but I actually think the conversation showed me that I'm responsible for not being able to make a connection.

I often feel the relationships I have with people are one-sided.  I feel I give so much and don't get much back but it's actually the complete opposite.  I don't give enough.  I expect things to go a certain way, expect a certain amount of give from them and a lot of take from me but I see now that I don't give much.  I'm always worried that I'm not worthy enough so I leave it all up to the other person to do most of the work to show me they care.  It's gross.

And she was a good example of someone who gave time and time again and the second she didn't act in a manner I approved of, I lashed out and went off and tore it all down.

I don't know why I act in such extremes.  I don't know why I'm so insecure.  I don't know why I can't be functional.  I do a lot of pretending and playing the part of someone who has it together when inside I am completely crazy.  I actually feel like no one really likes me and it's most likely because I don't like myself much.  I feel if people knew what I know about me, they'd run away.  Fast.

But with her, I knew she liked me.  Although she didn't have full access to my anxiety, she knew more than a lot of other people and she still stuck around.  Until the day she didn't but it had nothing to do with me.  I did try to understand but it didn't stop the pain from setting in.  And I feel bad that I threw away a friendship because she was in trouble.

But I like to think things were on the mend after the conversation.  Or at the very least, I hope there wasn't as much anger as there was before.  I hope we both understood each other a little better.  We acknowledged each of our missteps as well as the missteps of each other.  And I think we came to an amicable resolution, which does make me feel better.

I just hate that it ever got that way and makes me question whether or not I can have a meaningful relationship with anyone.  But not because of her this time.  Because of me.