Why Boys Are Bad
Boy #1: He's younger than me. I really liked him but apparently no one told him he should take showers. He is also a very hyper melodramatic sort. We were boyfriend/girlfriend for a week once. I just consider him my younger brother. Never date a younger brother.
Boy #2: He's older than boy #1 but younger than me. I like him. I mentioned him a couple posts ago. There's just something about him that I like. I remember well who the hell he is now...he was a drug dealer. Never date drug dealers. (I'm glad he's going back to where he's from.)
Boy #3: We're the same age. He's really nice. Too nice. He was the first for everything. I love him...like a brother. Never date a guy who's like your twin.
Boy #4: He's a year older than me. He is the biggest dork, the rudest dickhead, and a pothead. He's funny, knows when I'm in a bad mood despite my lies that I'm fine, and he is cute. He's also the same sign as me. Never date a Scorpio male, especially if they're born in October. (My apologies to my comrades, I'm sure I'll meet a Scorpio male that isn't stupid.)
Boy #5: He's about ten years older than I am. He is really funny and can be charming. Sometimes he cares about an issue too much. (Don't we all?) I like him. He's cool. I also mentioned him in the last post. The Writer. He's been married twice before. Never date a guy that has hang-ups on power (so admitted by him as reasons of his divorces).
Boy #6: He's nearly twenty years older than I am. He's about as geeky as I am. And I have this odd suspicion that he really likes me. Oh boy. He's a really nice guy, I'm not saying that he isn't, but I don't subscribe to my friend Kat's theory that age is just a number. People older than me have had more experiences just because they've been around longer. It's a logical thing. Never date a tall, lanky geek who's way older than you are.
In all fairness, I've only really dated two of these boys. I've quasi-dated the other four. I'm sure if I were actually dating any of the others, it would be different. Who knows...maybe it's not. I just wish I could find a guy to date that's my own age, has some wisdom, and can be cool with me. But that's what all of us are looking for anyway. So maybe I'll just sigh and go back to studying.
Wednesday, May 15, 2002
Monday, May 13, 2002
What's Up With the Boys?
I am in the coffee shop, reading an interesting book and not really paying attention to anything. Suddenly, a Fuel Cafe mug enters my line of vision, the person attached to that cup purposely sets it down loudly. I look up.
"Hey, there," I say, recognizing the person, my friend The Writer. (He's trying to write a book.)
"Hey," he says, smiling.
"Where in the world have you been? I haven't seen you around for months. What've you been up to?"
And then we sat and chit-chatted some. He's actually not that bad of a person. Older, of course, but still humorous. Actually, if I think about it, maybe that's the reason I hang out with older people. I have the cynicism of a 30 or 40 year old. I learned the art of cynicism at my mother's knee, my formative years were during the time when she was in her 40's and 50's. Now she's approaching 60 in a few, short years. What twenty years will do to a person. I'm not afraid of growing old; I'm afraid of becoming closed-minded and set in my ways. I'm afraid of becoming the "you damn kids" old person. Sadly, I find myself saying that now about some of the teenagers I meet. Then again, when I was teenager, I was saying it about my contemparies...maybe it's not so much younger people than it is some of the dumb behavior I witnessed. I am a person who believes in freedom but I also think that with that freedom comes responsibilites that must be taken care of. I guess I'm just weird like that.
That, and I like The Writer. He's interesting. And guess what? He's moving out of state. Grrrr.
I am in the coffee shop, reading an interesting book and not really paying attention to anything. Suddenly, a Fuel Cafe mug enters my line of vision, the person attached to that cup purposely sets it down loudly. I look up.
"Hey, there," I say, recognizing the person, my friend The Writer. (He's trying to write a book.)
"Hey," he says, smiling.
"Where in the world have you been? I haven't seen you around for months. What've you been up to?"
And then we sat and chit-chatted some. He's actually not that bad of a person. Older, of course, but still humorous. Actually, if I think about it, maybe that's the reason I hang out with older people. I have the cynicism of a 30 or 40 year old. I learned the art of cynicism at my mother's knee, my formative years were during the time when she was in her 40's and 50's. Now she's approaching 60 in a few, short years. What twenty years will do to a person. I'm not afraid of growing old; I'm afraid of becoming closed-minded and set in my ways. I'm afraid of becoming the "you damn kids" old person. Sadly, I find myself saying that now about some of the teenagers I meet. Then again, when I was teenager, I was saying it about my contemparies...maybe it's not so much younger people than it is some of the dumb behavior I witnessed. I am a person who believes in freedom but I also think that with that freedom comes responsibilites that must be taken care of. I guess I'm just weird like that.
That, and I like The Writer. He's interesting. And guess what? He's moving out of state. Grrrr.
Tuesday, May 07, 2002
Hoopdy
"This is like a ghetto car or a pimp car," I said. Naturally, I was drunk.
"Naw, Mouse, it's my big car...my hoopdy," he replied.
I laughed. "Your hoopdy? Aw, man, that's funny."
Dammit. I really like this guy. There's just something about him that I like. Grrr.
Oh, and he lives in Colorado. He's just here visiting. Dammit.
"This is like a ghetto car or a pimp car," I said. Naturally, I was drunk.
"Naw, Mouse, it's my big car...my hoopdy," he replied.
I laughed. "Your hoopdy? Aw, man, that's funny."
Dammit. I really like this guy. There's just something about him that I like. Grrr.
Oh, and he lives in Colorado. He's just here visiting. Dammit.
Monday, May 06, 2002
Runaway
For some strange reason, I started thinking about John again. I don't quite remember what the thought patterns were to lead me to a few memories....
When I was a wee lass - about three or four, I think - I hid underneath a bed at my grandfather's apartment. My aunt was there, cleaning his place because he needed the help. Then she noticed that I was missing. She tried looking all over for me...I could hear her calling my name. I was under there for a really long time and wasn't about to come out. Well, not come out until I heard the phrase "call the police". I was a smart kid; I knew the difference between Big Trouble and Really Big Trouble. Yeah, I got yelled at, but my mother would have killed me if the police had been involved.
When I was in first grade, I got really mad at my family. We lived on the top floor of a duplex at that time, so there was a stairway to a vestibule and front door. So I left the house but hid in the stairway. I saw them - my dad and my brothers - outside looking for me. I also heard my mom running around and yelling my name. The most hilarious thing about this is that I was in the front hallway and on the stairs the whole time. No one ever came down that way. They looked in the front door, they open the door at the top of the stairs and yelled for me, but no one physically walked down the stairs. I managed to stay out of sight for awhile. I finally came back up the stairs and walked into the house. I got yelled at.
In second grade, I decided that I was going to run away. I even had a bag packed. I marched downstairs (we lived in a townhouse at that time) and announced my departure. My mother and my brother sat around and laughed at me. "So what are you going to eat?" my mother asked. "How are you going to get food?" I was not happy with this. I felt like I was being made fun of (which, in a way, I was) and I was completely serious. I mean, there had to be some nice people I could live with...some childless couple who wanted a daughter. At the very least, someone was going to be concerned about a small child out there on the street by herself. I got so upset I went back to my room and cried.
I don't really remember any more incidents of trying to run away. At 16, I told my mother that I wanted to move out at 18. "Well, then," she said, "if you want to go to college, then you'll have to pay for it. We won't help you." I told her that I was sick of living with them. She just said "So what?" and then proceeded to badger me about getting an education and going to college, which meant living with them. I devised a plan to go to an out of state college. They hid all the mail from these places. Oh, and they weren't going to cosign any loans. At 18, I told them I was going to take six months off from any kind of school (boy, were they mad) and it turned into a year. At 20, I said that I would like to move out on my own for awhile. Again: "We're not going to help you with school then, and you have to finish school." So here I am at 24, asking myself the question, "What the fuck?" (Excuse my language, but if they haven't gotten the hint in the past 20 years that I don't want to live with them, then they are dense.) I will be finishing school, and I don't care if I have to live in a cardboard box underneath a bridge to do it, I will not live with them. Everyone envies my "comfortable" life, and yeah, it is better than most, but I haven't had a life of my own yet. I can't possibly have a life of my own, jumping through all of these hoops that my parents want me to. Entrapment. Caged. And now they want me to get a job where I'll be halfway across the country or the world. I just don't get it. Now I have to start out at the plans I had at 18 and go from there. And my mom's on crack if thinks I'm calling her with any regularity. I've been in purgatory and dammit, I'm going to enjoy my freedom. Once I leave here, she's going to get a shock that I just want to work and then do nothing. I don't give a damn about what she wants for me. I've fullfilled my requirements and if I never get married or never have children or have children without being married, I DON'T CARE. I earned the right to live for myself.
Which I might have to explain to them. I may be failing a class and have to take something else.
For some strange reason, I started thinking about John again. I don't quite remember what the thought patterns were to lead me to a few memories....
When I was a wee lass - about three or four, I think - I hid underneath a bed at my grandfather's apartment. My aunt was there, cleaning his place because he needed the help. Then she noticed that I was missing. She tried looking all over for me...I could hear her calling my name. I was under there for a really long time and wasn't about to come out. Well, not come out until I heard the phrase "call the police". I was a smart kid; I knew the difference between Big Trouble and Really Big Trouble. Yeah, I got yelled at, but my mother would have killed me if the police had been involved.
When I was in first grade, I got really mad at my family. We lived on the top floor of a duplex at that time, so there was a stairway to a vestibule and front door. So I left the house but hid in the stairway. I saw them - my dad and my brothers - outside looking for me. I also heard my mom running around and yelling my name. The most hilarious thing about this is that I was in the front hallway and on the stairs the whole time. No one ever came down that way. They looked in the front door, they open the door at the top of the stairs and yelled for me, but no one physically walked down the stairs. I managed to stay out of sight for awhile. I finally came back up the stairs and walked into the house. I got yelled at.
In second grade, I decided that I was going to run away. I even had a bag packed. I marched downstairs (we lived in a townhouse at that time) and announced my departure. My mother and my brother sat around and laughed at me. "So what are you going to eat?" my mother asked. "How are you going to get food?" I was not happy with this. I felt like I was being made fun of (which, in a way, I was) and I was completely serious. I mean, there had to be some nice people I could live with...some childless couple who wanted a daughter. At the very least, someone was going to be concerned about a small child out there on the street by herself. I got so upset I went back to my room and cried.
I don't really remember any more incidents of trying to run away. At 16, I told my mother that I wanted to move out at 18. "Well, then," she said, "if you want to go to college, then you'll have to pay for it. We won't help you." I told her that I was sick of living with them. She just said "So what?" and then proceeded to badger me about getting an education and going to college, which meant living with them. I devised a plan to go to an out of state college. They hid all the mail from these places. Oh, and they weren't going to cosign any loans. At 18, I told them I was going to take six months off from any kind of school (boy, were they mad) and it turned into a year. At 20, I said that I would like to move out on my own for awhile. Again: "We're not going to help you with school then, and you have to finish school." So here I am at 24, asking myself the question, "What the fuck?" (Excuse my language, but if they haven't gotten the hint in the past 20 years that I don't want to live with them, then they are dense.) I will be finishing school, and I don't care if I have to live in a cardboard box underneath a bridge to do it, I will not live with them. Everyone envies my "comfortable" life, and yeah, it is better than most, but I haven't had a life of my own yet. I can't possibly have a life of my own, jumping through all of these hoops that my parents want me to. Entrapment. Caged. And now they want me to get a job where I'll be halfway across the country or the world. I just don't get it. Now I have to start out at the plans I had at 18 and go from there. And my mom's on crack if thinks I'm calling her with any regularity. I've been in purgatory and dammit, I'm going to enjoy my freedom. Once I leave here, she's going to get a shock that I just want to work and then do nothing. I don't give a damn about what she wants for me. I've fullfilled my requirements and if I never get married or never have children or have children without being married, I DON'T CARE. I earned the right to live for myself.
Which I might have to explain to them. I may be failing a class and have to take something else.
Saturday, May 04, 2002
Funny, Ain't It?
"You know," she said to me, after I described my delusions, "that sounds a lot like this one girl I knew. She said the same things...and she was schizophrenic. Wow. You sound just like her. It's like, a special type of it though."
So maybe I'm one of the people who's crazier than you. I love votes of confidence. But I'm not crazy:
"Really?" I replied. "Maybe she didn't have a mental illness at all."
"No, she did. It was some certain type. I can't remember what it was."
"You don't get my point. Maybe she was psychic or clairavoyant and they slapped that label on her. Chances are she probably wasn't ill at all. Because these things happen to me; they are real. It's something I can't help, it's something that I've lived with...."
Bar conversations can be very interesting.
"You know," she said to me, after I described my delusions, "that sounds a lot like this one girl I knew. She said the same things...and she was schizophrenic. Wow. You sound just like her. It's like, a special type of it though."
So maybe I'm one of the people who's crazier than you. I love votes of confidence. But I'm not crazy:
"Really?" I replied. "Maybe she didn't have a mental illness at all."
"No, she did. It was some certain type. I can't remember what it was."
"You don't get my point. Maybe she was psychic or clairavoyant and they slapped that label on her. Chances are she probably wasn't ill at all. Because these things happen to me; they are real. It's something I can't help, it's something that I've lived with...."
Bar conversations can be very interesting.
Thursday, May 02, 2002
Just Another Day
I like to sit around coffee shops and bars and sit and talk. But Lord, why on earth do I attract the insecure scary people? They latch onto me and don't let go. I hate that. I also hate John. I mean it this time. I really do. Oh well...
Oh, and I'm totally convinced that clothing is a suppression technique used by society to lull the masses into conformity. Take a stand! Cast off your clothing and be free...
I like to sit around coffee shops and bars and sit and talk. But Lord, why on earth do I attract the insecure scary people? They latch onto me and don't let go. I hate that. I also hate John. I mean it this time. I really do. Oh well...
Oh, and I'm totally convinced that clothing is a suppression technique used by society to lull the masses into conformity. Take a stand! Cast off your clothing and be free...
Wednesday, May 01, 2002
Coffeeshop Quandries
My friend and I decided that if I jumped off a bridge, she has to come with. If she gets a gun and shoots herself, she has to shoot me too. It's not that we'd do either of these things. This is how we describe our moods. "I feel like shooting myself" conveys a feeling better than "I feel angry, frustrated, and depressed". And what causes would be so worthy of death? Men. She knows a man that she's totally in love with and can't stop saying that she loves him. I know a guy that I steadfastly refuse to admit I'm in love with. No, I'm not in love with John. I will never be. Maybe I care a great deal, but I don't love him. Really, I don't. He's a pothead. He's a charmer. He's nearly a slut. No, I don't love him. Really. What sucks is when people start singing songs with the word "goodbye" in them. Did he do that just to annoy me? Is he serious about that? Argh. This is the problem with communicating with my own sign. We say everything by not saying it. A carefully chosen word speaks volumes. A certain song sung at a certain time, a well placed joke, a slight hint...we speak in codes. It's too silly for words. And we are sooo damn nosy too. It's a game, something I'm getting sick of...all these games that everyone plays and I can play them and convince myself that I'm not the looser of it, but it takes energy and I just don't have it anymore. People are always telling me to be careful. I've heard it a zillion times. The thing is, I am a cautious person but no one really recognizes that. Argh. My life right now is just one big "argh".
My friend and I decided that if I jumped off a bridge, she has to come with. If she gets a gun and shoots herself, she has to shoot me too. It's not that we'd do either of these things. This is how we describe our moods. "I feel like shooting myself" conveys a feeling better than "I feel angry, frustrated, and depressed". And what causes would be so worthy of death? Men. She knows a man that she's totally in love with and can't stop saying that she loves him. I know a guy that I steadfastly refuse to admit I'm in love with. No, I'm not in love with John. I will never be. Maybe I care a great deal, but I don't love him. Really, I don't. He's a pothead. He's a charmer. He's nearly a slut. No, I don't love him. Really. What sucks is when people start singing songs with the word "goodbye" in them. Did he do that just to annoy me? Is he serious about that? Argh. This is the problem with communicating with my own sign. We say everything by not saying it. A carefully chosen word speaks volumes. A certain song sung at a certain time, a well placed joke, a slight hint...we speak in codes. It's too silly for words. And we are sooo damn nosy too. It's a game, something I'm getting sick of...all these games that everyone plays and I can play them and convince myself that I'm not the looser of it, but it takes energy and I just don't have it anymore. People are always telling me to be careful. I've heard it a zillion times. The thing is, I am a cautious person but no one really recognizes that. Argh. My life right now is just one big "argh".
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