what it's like to be a chair
Sunday. 4.21.13 10:09 pm
I think we all kind of understand the tendency of cats to lock onto and spend the whole night rubbing on that one person in the room who has a deathly feline dandruff allergy. That's what cats do. They find the person who doesn't want anything to do with them, and they express their love only for that person.
Children are my cats.
Disclaimer: I love children. I think they are wonderful. But, I have no urge to have children, personally, AND being around them makes me kind of nervous, for some reason.
They realize this and run, full speed, towards my unwanting arms.
Yesterday, there was a local fireworks show in my hometown, and I was up there for the weekend, anyway, because SURPRISE I'm turning 21 on Tuesday. So, I decided to go with my friend Meagan and her family (I asked my mum to come, but she didn't want to)--and Meagan has two younger sisters, but the older of the two has met me, and the younger I assumed, correctly, would be shy.
The problem was the friend. Meagan's sister was sitting in her lap, so her sister's friend comes waddling over, assesses the situation, and then decides to plop down into my lap like it's casual freaking Friday, and I freeze and look at Meagan with an expression that roughly read, "WHAT. HOW. WHY. WHAT."
So I'm about to be like, Yoooo where is your mommy and daddy, when the punk turns around and goes, "You're pretty."
Fast forward fifteen minutes, I'm explaining why the moon matters to us to a complacent little girl in my lap. I'm trying to keep it simple. "You know at the ocean, how the tide goes in and out?"
"The moon makes it do that."
"Oh. That firework was really close to the moon. I hope it doesn't blow it up."
"The moon's pretty tough, I think it will be okay."
BUT IN THE MEANTIME CAN YOU NOT?
The parents came and found her, after enjoying the fireworks show--they didn't care. I didn't really think it was that bizarre, either, but that's mostly because of the constant stream of babysitting job offers I get from total strangers. I'm not kidding about the cat thing.
Something about me and kids, man. They know.
So that's your fun fact for the 21st of April.
Thursday. 4.4.13 8:48 pm
Any given person would define my town as a city. We have an awesome downtown area, a great nightlife, and the traffic to match--not to mention the squished-in population and huge hoards of tourists. I guess, at first, people kind of take that to heart: A lot of our new students' parents get worried about their kids living in a "city environment," not only because of the crime (which we do have), but because of how overwhelming they think it might become.
This whole city knows damn near everyone. If you're out there for more than a couple days, you'll have a network bigger than what you'll know to do with. We have movie nights in the giant local park with all our favorite vendors (and yes, the whole city loves very specific vendors), and we have amazing restaurants with photos up of all their favorite guests--and some of these places give their frequent customers free drinks, pasta, and whatever else they feel like. We sit down and talk to our guests, at the bed and breakfasts. We hear stories about depression, and marriage, and childbirth, and a billion other things that you wouldn't expect to hear from strangers. You can run into anyone you know, in the shopping district--even people you didn't know were visiting. Even when you're also just visiting. And city people walking around the busy streets always remember to smile when they make eye contact with a passerby, because that's just us.
That's the south.
I used to think that my life was meant to be spent in New York City, or San Francisco, or somewhere...you know. Big. Busy.
There's just something to being able to sit out on the piazza in a big rocker, a glass of sweet (and I mean sweet) tea to the side, katydids whirring all around, and watch the sun go down. It's slower, here. People smile and make conversation and get involved with strangers' lives and conversations. We are what we drink--extra sweet.
And I don't think I appreciate it enough, sometimes.
Monday. 4.1.13 11:05 pm
I want to hang out. Go to a park, sit there, swing, lay in the grass, eat a picnic. Go out to eat and not worry about him paying, for the love of all that is scientific! I just want something that doesn't put pressure on either of us. Enough with the gender roles, enough with the games, enough with the way society does it. I hate dating. I want to spend time with someone without feeling like he's slowly purchasing my affections. Just...buy me things because you like me so much that you want to. Not because it's expected.
I'm so sick of dates. I feel like there's something greater than an ambient candle between me and my dates.
And enough with the bullshit about a woman of "quality" being expensive on a date (and worth it).
THAT SOUNDS LIKE SHE IS A PROSTITUTE DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT WE AREN'T GOODS TO BE PURCHASED. DATES ARE NOT A SERVICE.
All the older ladies in my life pressure me to go on "real" dates and let the guy pay, because I guess that's what defines my femininity and worth, but screw it. I just want to meet at the beach and splash around while I'm getting to know someone.
black fur wolf
Friday. 3.29.13 8:57 pm
I can feel her distance like my ankle senses the length of sidewalk between it and an ice pack (achingly). I've been walking to class, ever since realizing that the bike ride wasn't quite gratifying enough (fumbling with the u-lock, sweating my balls off--things only my mother's genetics could possibly control), but it takes a greater toll on my ankle, which never really, properly healed.
I tell her about that, and she asks about a doctor visit (I have; I went through a month of physical therapy, and still this). We go on like that for a while. I know she's depressed, but I never realized just how much of an agonizing feeling it is to talk to a depressed loved one. Please laugh. Please express interest in my life. I'm like a puppy biting at ankles and pissing on the carpet. That fear rushes in, that your attention and support is inadequate. She won't laugh at my jokes, and I keep asking myself why I would expect anything different, right now. There's this urge to be encouraging and especially shallow and pleasant about conversation, because the last thing you want is to trigger anything.
I've been depressed countless times, but I'm still a total jackass, fumbling for the right thing to say and never finding it. I tell her I'm a jackass. She says a few things but I never hear outright disagreement (it's trivial, I remind myself. She probably doesn't care, right now. Not the best time to be selfishly apologetic). Shoot. I'm a dick. I've become a total asshole. I've been feeling it, myself. It's been a weird week, full of conflict and unsteady hands. The reminder that my two most recent major flames won't even look at me makes me take a second--and third, and fourth--look at myself. Is this the reflection of my affection? Is this the type of person I attract?
And how do I stop?
Insecurities, they pile like that. I think that's a big part of why she's depressed, but I won't say that, because it's a crappy thing to suggest. Yeah, thanks for the help. I'm really in a place where I'm ready to climb out.
I struggle to let her get there on her own. Seeing her like this is like a mirror on my worst days. After feeling all that, it's hard not to step in. But I don't know what she needs, and I think others do. Just a conversation. A small step. One little reach back into the world, after being covered by a black veil for months. It has to be slow and small, at first.
Page: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134
NuTang is the first web site to implement PPGY Technology. This page was generated in 0.011seconds.
|All content © Copyright 2003-2047 NuTang.com and respective members. Contact us at NuTang[AT]gmail.com.|