Back to the Future.

Heyyy there blogspot! Remember me? I went back through some posts I'd written a while ago but was too afraid of posting and published them so the whole wide web can see. I was hoping someone would see them and find pleasure in my pain.

Anyyway. Not too much on the boy front lately. There's this one guy I'm so crazy madly in love with that it feels like I'm in an 80's movie... of course he doesn't know how I feel! How else would I make Jake Ryan comparisons?

I'm pretty much done with college applications so expect loads of updates on my musings. Cool.

Happy holidays!

hrrm.

Guy I had a brief fling with this summer goes on year-long tour of Europe with friend, one month in and he has a relationship.

Guy I hooked up with a month ago ("you don't make out with someone you hate") hooks up with other chick, she goes to Japan, now she has a boyfriend, but he still wants to hook up with her.

I've given up on trying to decipher modern relationships. I doubt I will ever really learn anything on the field of romance in my lifetime. But in the meanwhiles...

Guy (#3). There is a spark. I fidget when I talk to him. My stomach hurts just thinking about him. We trade stupid insults. But (and it's a big one) he has a girlfriend.

-Pause for dramatic effect. Long sighhhhhh-

Fuckshittitsfuckandfuck. Why is he flirting with me if he has a girlfriend? And it's not like he's an idiot, a douche, a prick, a mofo. He's a great guy.

So what is this nonsense?

From the Vault, #2 - Hooking Up With Friends.

Alright now...we've all done it.

And if we haven't, we certainly know it exists. (500) Days of Summer is the perfect example- they hold hands, they have sex, and yet they can't take the leap that defines them as boyfriend and girlfriend.

So... I did it. I've done it. Twice, actually. Technicalities and complications keep me from dating these people-I mean, do I actually want to date them? Each time, though, I've been plagued with insecurities the week after. Will he tell anyone? What will people think? Was it really as awkward as I thought it was when I fell off the couch? And so forth.

This time was a little different than the last. This time, it was obvious that he wanted to. It was the second time I'd been over at his house and the second time he'd hinted that I stay after everyone else left. Part of me wanted to- he's just so good-looking- and another part of me, the part of me that does what my parents tell me to, knew I had a curfew. This time I compromised my curfew in favor of making out on the couch. It was a little awkward- no, I will not blow you- but enjoyable at the same time. I wanted to, he wanted to- him a little more so than me, but that happens.

It's the afterward that makes everything difficult, and oh-so-confusing. We've clarified that it just happened, and I know for a fact that he doesn't want a girlfriend. But I don't know how I feel about hooking up with someone I see almost every day. I don't know if this is going to be a recurring thing, and if it is, can it be possible that it's ever consensual?

From the Vault, #1

...and I feel lost. Confused, like I've lost my center. The past (Four? Six? How long has it been now?) weeks have gone by in a blur and while I love it, I think I need a break. I've begun to stop berating myself for losing focus in class, and I'll go as far as to say that I simply don't care much for grades anymore. I've analyzed literary works for so long- can't I be done now? I'd rather discuss the merits of living alone in the wilderness with Jon, Collin, Natalie and Mikayla. Why can't I get points for enjoying intellectual conversation?

Fuck.

I've slipped back into the hole I find myself in from time to time. What starts off as innocent flirtationship starts to feel real and all of the sudden I'm walking on eggshells. Did he get that joke? Why didn't he respond to my text? It's all fuckin' baloney and I'm engaging in the same thoughts I tell others to avoid.

Wasted space.

A college rep dood from Yale is visiting tonight and I just can't bring myself to care.

Why?

Haven't I been telling everyone that Yale is where I want to go? What happened to the feeling I got once I set foot on campus?

Fuuuuckkk.

Do I not want to go to Yale anymore? Or have I just seen so many college presentations that one more would make me blind myself with the pencil I'm using to take notes?

Why do I say the things I say?

That old familiar feeling's crept up on me again, like I haven't found my space. Where's my "group"? Sometimes I think I'm better off without one but I just can't shake this feeling.

Donnnn'ttt you want somebody to love?

Realizations, parte uno.

It's Senior Year, and I'm having all of the stereotypical "I DONT GIVE A FUCK" realizations. These people I see everyday? I probably won't see them again after this year. In fact, I've only known them a year. Last year was spent trying to hide all of my weirdness, the awkward qualities I've always hated.

This year's only just started and I'm already embracing my freaky side. Por ejemplo: crab walking through the hallways. Why? Because I can. And yesterday's audition may or may not have been maimed due to the fact that Andrew and I had been rehearsing the scene (NEW CHOICE!) as stoners a beautiful five minutes before we were about to go on. Now I'm in the one act, a fact I had looked down upon up until ten minutes ago when I realized HOW FUCKING COOL the one act is. And Pat is directing it (PAT PAT PAT PATPATPATPAT!!!!). Win.

Uhh, that's all. Oh, and highschool relationships are bullshit. Sorry to anyone who has them, but to me they have no meaning. They are stupid, and time spent worrying over them is stupid. Which only makes it all the more funny to me when people complain about their love lives. Or when I complain about my love life. Hah! What love life? Exactly.

Chris and Gabe talk about my non-relationship with Ben Phillips (we make awkward eye contact in the hallways), and in return I teach them East Coast slang I make up off the top of my head. When I get home from whatever extracurricular I have chosen to participate in for the day I sit down and play "Life on Mars" on the piano for half an hour. I make airplane noises while walking to AP Lit; I glare at my unusually cheerful Psych teacher.

Life is good.

A Reminder.

(I swear to Godga I have never posted this many times in one day before.)

“Boys are cute and we like them (unless we hate them) but they’re mere dressing on the salad of life. We find it much more sensible to hang out with people- male or female- whose company we groove on, not to go hunting for a mate.”

-Margie and Mary Ann

And then there's this other thing-

This glaring THING that's been bugging me since that night. A stupid, stupid girl sitting on the bed, audibly gasping when her top falls down, stating she's leaving because she doesn't know where the conversation is going. And it was embarrassing! Just sitting there, watching this idiotic girl play right into the hands of a man's world, I felt like I wanted to take her outside and give her Feminism 101. Doesn't she realize that it's GIRLS-LIKE-HER who perpetuate sexism? Doesn't she understand that GIRLS-LIKE-HER are the reason GIRLS-LIKE-ME are undateable? Doesn't she see that IT'S FUCKING 2010 AND PLAYING DUMB TO MAKE BOYS LIKE YOU WILL NEVER, EVER BE IN STYLE?

Sitting there, on that bed, I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to scream and pull at my hair and throw things and mess up the sheets. I wanted to know why she continued to diminish her intelligence and her potential in the face of boys. I wanted to know why, and how she's made it this far on what little she has. And most importantly, I wanted to know why society has failed to punish her for her embarrassing behavior.

Sex and the City vs. Second Base and the Suburbs

Last night was a real eye opener to the mishaps of teenage dating. You think I'd be well aware after being invited to "hang out" and subsequently "make out" on more than one occasion, but noooooo. Last night, for the first time, I really saw just how difficult it is to establish your feelings for another person. On Sex and the City and usually in adult life, flirting is followed up by a first date. In the sitcom of my life I have oh-so-cleverly labeled "Second Base and the Suburbs" (move along folks, there's definitely no sex here), flirting can be accompanied by a number of things, but "dinner" or a "date" is never one of them. Have we rendered the word "date" obsolete? And if so, how am I freaking supposed to tell the nature of the "hang out"? Asking someone to dinner is the most direct way of stating you're interested romantically, but asking someone to hang out is the most dense way of stating you could have a number of feelings.

So why have we stopped using the word "date"? Are we so afraid of actual romance that we'd sooner pretend it's dead than be upfront about our intentions?

not doing it.

sometimes it feels as though not doing it is easier.

it being kissing, making out, hooking up, saying you like someone.

it.

right now i'm not doing it. a week ago i wasn't doing it either. she's not doing it, he's not doing it. we're all avoiding the big IT.

we are all so fucking afraid of our potential demise. well guess what? it's going to happen anyway. a little rejection won't speed it up. a little rejection could be just what you need to slow it down. the world works in funny ways.

so then there's you. i've known you for ten years. we weren't supposed to know each other for this long; you're a charmer and i'm awkward/you're ballsy and i'm afraid/you're you and i'm me. our history is hardly cut and dry--more like chopped and reordered, segments of one important piece bleeding into another, everything is so muddled. a noteworthy detail: when you liked me i didn't like you. when i liked you you didn't like me.

but then you were back. you were at my going away party. you told S to get rid of his reefer, it was my fucking going away party for chrissakes, don't fucking ruin it. i was surprised at how you defended me. we talked. i felt it again. then i was gone.

while i was out i hardly thought of you except for in passing. whatever we had seemed unimportant, remnants leftover from a childish romance. almost nothing. murky water.

a week ago we spent three days together. three days cut and dry t-shirts soaked in sweat, sunburnt and revealed skin, feelings of pure ecstasy. the world was at peace. the feeling was back, but covered. i wasn't sure if it was mutual. i wanted you so badly. i still want you.

now the problem is how to say it. how do you word ten years' feeling? how do you tell someone how important they are to you, and yeah, you really wouldn't mind kissing them too?

ten years.

How do you get from Point A to Point B?

I contemplated this idea last night while nervously glancing at the object of my desire. Eventually I threw caution to the wind and said "So do you wanna kiss me goodnight?" Well, duh, he did. He was just being awkward about it.

But, honestly. How do you get from a desire to an action? From my car seat to his? In theory it seems so simple- it seems like it should BE so simple. But it's never worked out that way for me. Is that in and of itself a reason not to go through with it? The seemingly unnecessarily difficult aspect of the action? It's a fucking kiss. It shouldn't be hard.

vacanze romane.

you look like rob lowe but italian. you're definitely older than me, somewhere in the 19-25 range (26, tops. i have no idea how italian men age.) and you were unexpectedly nice when my brother and i sat our touristy selves down at the restaurant where you waiter.

so you can imagine my surprise when you asked me out the second time i saw you.

we had passed by the restaurant on our way back to the convent and my uncle decided it would be a good idea to pick up some wine. my brother and i stood outside waiting when i noticed you lingering near the doorway. out of the corner of my eye i could feel you nervously watching me but i feigned ignorance. when you suddenly walked back inside, my brother bent closer and whispered "i think he was waiting to talk to you." eyes wide and full of disbelief, i wandered indoors to see what was taking my aunt and uncle so long. i nervously looked around the crowded store, a pantry packed with pasta. then i see you come down the elevator, changed out of a work outfit and into more comfortable clothing. you catch my eye and we say "how are you?" at the same time.

giggle.

"I'm good."

"What did you do today?"

but my answer was unimportant, merely the bridge you needed to get to your next, more important question: "What are you doing tonight?"

"oh, out to dinner with my family-"

"so you are here with your family? ah. is there any way you could get out of it?"

"well-maybe"

"i have to work tonight, tomorrow night?"

"i'm leaving tomorrow morning"

and so words were passed back and forth, eaten and swallowed and pushed back up until no agreement was reached because i was off to some villa and then pisa and never to see you again.

i wanted to say yes for the sheer thrill of it but practicalities got in the way: you were working that night and i was leaving the next day. and then there was the fact that i hardly knew you and was not sure of your name (had i learned it the other day? who knew?) as we said our goodbyes and i walked away, a feeling and an innate knowledge came to my attention. the idea of going out with this guy frightened me. in fact, the idea of going out with anyone made me feel like i had spent a few too many moments underwater. what?! why was i so suddenly afraid of men? why did the idea of marriage make me want to run for the hills?

tales from the far side - a party

we sit around scratchy burnt sienna couches while glowsicks buzz off foreheads and dull house music thumps from another room. your brown eyes look choclatey and i'm reminded of home; you keep saying "i want to make out." we are sitting on each other. alcohol has been consumed and i am merely a wallflower, an iguana along for the ride. i sit in my proverbial corner and smugly observe the drug induced drama unfolding before me.

i'm still sitting on you. body heat is easier. the bathroom exhales five/six people in a cloud of marijuana smoke. my head is a swivel stick, i am the chandelier overhead. i think briefly about making out with you to pass time before remembering i have never been turned on around you, ever. and so we drape on one another.

five minutes pass and a parent has been in and out, leaving a very visible path leading to "what just happened." he said that she said that, oh, well, we were all about to smoke pot outside when her dad saw. snatched up and the weed was gone.

deep inside, the knife hits wooden chopping block and i think, another one bites the dust. you too?

meanwhile she is poised to dispose of her virginity. a male has been selected and is only too eager to drop his pants. his wife beater clings to his mediocre body in anticipation. both of them are on the stairs, one foot out the door. later i learn that he has a small penis.

back up five minutes and slow-mo the most excruciating boredom you have ever encountered. there we were, experiencing the very medieval torture you are imagining. life had been whisked out of our bodies, which were stretched upon every available surface. someone actually falls asleep. i speak repeatedly of leaving but stay seated.

I'm still here, hoping.

The entrancing scent of smoke and mint combined with the sound of your heart beating beneath your shirt: faster, faster, faster. The forcefully tender way you smoothed back my hair and our fingertips colliding again and again and again. I reached my arms around you and you pulled me closer, our hands meeting halfway. The collapse as our bodies released all tension. You adjusted your face close to mine and our noses touched. The centimeters between our lips were just a barrier for you to overcome, while for me they were a buffer zone that spoke of my romantic ideals and fear of disappointment. As I felt the approach of your hand under my chin, beckoning me in, I turned my lips in on themselves in apprehension of disaster.

This is what girls want:

(TENDERRRNESSS)

“Are we simply romantically challenged, or are we sluts?”

I can tell you for a fact that I am not a slut.

And this fact, simply, is because I consciously strive to avoid the dreaded title. I won't hook up with guys that have any questionable morals (which leaves few) or anyone thinks questionably about (which leaves none).

I have to ask myself: what am I doing? Instead of living life the way I want to, giving in to whatever desires and impulses I see fit, I'm living life the way I think I should so that I can fit into a certain stereotype.

Something else I've noticed: people choosing to have "things" instead of relationships. What defines a relationship, and why have we eschewed the traditional title in favor of something more befitting of scattered moral standards? Do we believe it's easier to break a "thing" off? Do "things" entitle us to a little extra booty on the side? How long until a "thing" becomes a relationship? Will it ever?

C

I don't want you on my mind.

confusion is how I describe my natural state. completely untrue is the truth of my self-analysis. analysis, I believe, is essential for growth. self-preservation is no longer necessary: I reserve all rights to make an ass of myself. I have no shame, or so I like to think. my heart is twisted up into knots and the words can't seem to make it out onto paper. fifty percent thought and fifty percent action. music constantly streaming, constantly searching, searching for anyone, someone, him. "the one", my one and only.

James Dean.

I think constantly about love and soul mates and relationships and sex and crushes and kissing and romance. I like how boys make me feel. I hate how boys make me feel. boys break me down and tear me apart. they make me feel inadequate, worthless, preposterous, strange, sexy, interesting, fantastic. a week can go by and every feeling you rest your weary feet on can go from good to worse. suddenly your rock is the weight holding you down. suddenly you just can't wait to break free, to start the cycle once again, the cycle we all love to hate and hate to love.

dating.

I haven't had a boyfriend in a really long time. I've stopped trying to figure out why.

I didn't understand.

and so continues the cycle, the homework, the friends, the work, the forced conversations, the easy conversations, the dry eyes, the teary eyes, the hugs, the late nights, the early mornings, coffee coffee coffee, add music as your sugar substitute and stir well.

swallow.

everybody needs somebody. my somebody is tall, thought-provoking, witty, nerdy, musical, talented, intelligent, well-dressed. my James Dean.

my romantic ideals leave me heartbroken and alone more often than not. soul mates are not always found. until then i'll "live the questions."

C

weekends seem to drag on until they're done.

A slice of one mind delivered to another. A story. A succession of events strung together by one common thread: hope. I didn't write this but I believe in it. I didn't edit this for fear of contaminating its pure state. I brought this here for you.

You Must Be an Illusion, Can I See Through You?

Because I am normal. That is why my life got out of control. Because out of the whole entire world I was the only one who could see people for what they were… I was the arc angel. I was the chosen one. I was the saint among sinners. I was the one guiding light. No one was able to see through these old urchins. Everyone in this town believed in what they saw. If I told them there was a far away land made of ice and snow, they wouldn’t believe me that it could exist. Until that one winter where we got 3 feet of snow. Then and only then did this magical place have any probability of existing. This is how I became who I am.

With nobody ever believing you, life can progress to a place where you don’t believe yourself. All of your thoughts that come into your being aren’t real. They are just those damn chemicals acting up again. Making you hallucinate into oblivion. The first sixteen years of my life was made up of hallucinations. Fantastical visions of nothing real or so I was told. I’m not really sure anymore. I mean my life could have been lived in India, Afghanistan, Quebec, or Ghana. Who knows at this point. These illusions stopped however, thanks to a boy. He showed me how to take off the rose colored glasses, and live my life, for me.

I met him on my sixteenth birthday. My best friend had a get together at her house for me, a complete surprise of strangers. How thoughtful my friends are. She really just wanted a party, more of an excuse to alter her mind into the state mine was. This is how she tried to bond with me, she would take a puff and it would make her feel like I didn’t, or she would take a snort and feel like I wanted to feel. None of it made sense I know, I was confused about all of this as well. As she and these other strangers were altering their lives, I tried to alter mine. Unsuccessfully I might add. No matter what I put into my system, I had these hallucinations. I had these thoughts of the universe and questions on why humans act like they do, why simple actions of compassion were commonly misplaced among us.

I really did try to turn them off for this one night. It was my birthday, I wanted to feel special and normal and fit in with the rest of the droids. Going with the usual rituals of the droids, I decided to engage myself in experimenting with another. I was curious to see if my chemistries, plus another, would equal the so called butterfly effect of anticipation and love. With this boy I chose, there was nothing. I gave him the most vulnerable side of me, and there I was feeling completely void of emotions. My illusions were gone temporarily and it was the most naked I had ever felt in my life. Almost as if I was standing on a diving board without a suit in front of a packed crowd and then belly flopping right into the water. What kind of person can create such a feeling without even doing anything? All that was clear was that something was wrong. With me? I didn’t know, with boy? I didn’t know. It just didn’t fit right.

Finally the illusions came back. I put the rose glasses back on. I resurfaced and recollected myself and joined the rest of the droids. At the time I didn’t realize how much of a profound effect this experiment would have on this boy. All I can say is that word of it reached people closely connect with me and they were not happy at all. Harsh words were shared by people who were previously allies. My fault. My entire fault. Sometimes terrible experiences for you are equally terribly for the other one. This boy also had to live with what happened, it would be remembered forever in his mind. My experience with him however was just another notch to add to the good ol’ bedpost. It was neither a significant nor memorable notch.

We went our ways. Said our good byes and good nights and continued on with our lives. Or so we thought? The pathways of our lives met up again that night. Different place, different time, same people. We all sat. And sat. And sat. Me and him awkwardly pressed together on a couch with one too many people on it. Seeing me cringe, a fellow stranger named J came to my rescue. He held my hand through the uncomfort and whispered sweet nothings and happy birthdays into my ear. For a moment, suspended forever in time, I felt like a birthday girl. Every part of my life that distraught me was gone. He walked me to the car, gave me his jacket and held my hand the whole way. We kissed in a back seat quietly and discreetly. Sweet and soundless. To this day I get butterflies when just thinking about it. Perfection is the only way I can really describe it. Crammed on a couch we slept. I felt his embrace for the whole night; we woke up to see the sun coming up. He gave me a kiss goodbye on the forehead and one last birthday wish as I half asleep told him thank you for everything.

From this moment on he would always be familiar to me, I always thought I had see him swimming laps or digging through the crowded hallways at school. He was everywhere. Except, I was never really sure if it was him or not. He wouldn’t look at me or smile or wave. I was a stranger. Then I would look over and see my phone blowing up with his number asking me to swing by his house. Obediently I would go. My anticipations would get high hoping that the night of butterflies would be recreated.

Orders.
Commands.
Rules.
Quick.
Impersonal.
False promises.

That night was gone. It wouldn’t be recreated. It was a hallucination. But it wasn’t of my playing, it was his. He tried to be like me and have an illusion of the world; he had to change himself to feel compassion. He wanted to be wanted. I wanted to be wanted. Just because I wanted to feel wanted, didn’t mean it was what I needed. We wanted each other. Circumstantial was all it was. I couldn’t accept this. Repeatedly I tried to feel that night again. Failing every time. Making up lies and excuses to myself as to why it wasn’t happening. It was my entire fault. Everything was my fault. Never his. It couldn’t be his. He couldn’t be defective. The way he looked, my illusionary perception of him… was too perfect to be defective.

I couldn’t let it be. I couldn’t let that night escape me. I kept trying feverishly, desperately, and depressed all the while. It wasn’t working. Finally, after one too many tries I gave up. I deleted him from my life. I deleted him from my mind, forgetting him until he would pop up again in the car behind me or out front of his house when on my way to a friends’. For the most part however, he was gone.

…Well I thought he was. It was months since any sighting of him and I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe one last time. Maybe this would work. Maybe the night would be back. It was good. It was as good as it would get. The night was pushing its way back into my life, almost up for a breath of air. Almost. Almost. Almost. Then he left. He left. He left. I did nothing wrong. I knew this. He did it this time. For the first time I knew. I knew. I knew. There was nothing I did. I could have no blame. He wasn’t perfect, neither was I. My illusion of him, was gone. I took off the glasses and finally saw him for what he was. A human. Not a droid anymore or a stranger. Just a fellow human being. I cannot hold him responsible for my reactions to him. The fucking glasses wouldn’t let me see any of the truth. But now with them off, I can accept him. I can accept that night, the other boy, my friend, and myself. Circumstances and humans is all we are.

No perfect human exists. No one can right all the wrongs of the world, but no one can create all the wrongs either. We are not perfect in perfection or imperfection. We all simply exist because its what we do. We make the best of it as well as we can and try to do what our minds tell us to do. Illusions or no illusions. We try our fucking best to live our lives how we want.

How he reacted to me was a result of him. That was how he thought it was appropriate to handle the situation and I handled it how I thought appropriate. Both of us not wrong, but very conflicting. I know next time to make sure that I am ready for whatever I get myself into and to make sure the other person is ready as well. No one deserves this to happen. No one deserves to be so lost and confused over a single human being. We should do what brings us joy. I should do what brings me joy. I may not know what that is yet but I am learning.

I do know one thing now; he is gone, just an illusion in my mind. Only a memory now. Fleeting, but forever real to me.

Naivety Pt. 2

LADIES AND GENTS!

i met a boy the other day and i can't stop thinking about him. we had a cutesy fumble and then while waiting for rides (cause im lame and don't drive) ended up chatting and then i practically told him my whole life story! WHAT! and he showed me his stash! how did this happen? we met in a super weird place (which im not gonna tell you about so you won't judge me) but keep in mind this is proof that you can meet boys ANYWHERE! the grocery store, the parking lot, the park, the pool, the theater, yadda yadda, as long as you're not a hermit you will meet boys! a connection happens and BAM! you know the drill. or maybe you don't, but until then you'll keep reading jane austen novels and hoping it will happen. don't stop hoping. you're great.

i didn't get his number (you reserve the right to boo and hiss right now. go ahead. it was lame of me) but if i see him again theres no way its not going to happen. i really want to make out with him. it's all cool.

IMPORTANT- if you're into reading my blog then you should seriously think about PROMOTING IT! get the word out! getting some feedback via comments would be super sweet too. yes, I am talking to you. do it! you won't regret it.

love you,

C

LISTEN UP: HOOK-UP* ETIQUETTE.

The following is a comprehensive list from the lovely ladies S, H and T, and from the males A, E and K.

For boys::

1. If you want to make out with her, tell her. Don't pull any of that "lets get to know each other in the bedroom with the lights off" crap. DON'T BE A SKEEZ. I'm serious about this one: chances are if you want her, she probably does too. Which leads me to number 2...

2. Be upfront about what you want.

3. Don't lie and say you like her!

4. If you want her number, ask for it! She doesn't care if you only met fifteen minutes ago! A connection is a connection!

5. Don't make her feel like a slut.

6. Be funny. And I mean always, but especially with hookups, and extra especially if you twos just met. It's gonna be awkward, so don't take it too seriously and just crack a joke!

7. Follow the bases. Can a baseball player get to home without passing first? No. You shouldn't be able to get inside her vajayjay until you've frenched.

8. Be a gentleman, always. Just because it's a hookup doesn't mean it has to be sloppy. Have the decency to give her a kiss or hug goodbye.

9. ABSOLUTELY NO SITUATIONS AND NO "PRETTY PLEASEEEE BLOW ME". Cum on dudes!

For girls::

1. Just cause you wanna get sexy with that cute guitar player from that band doesn't make you a slut.

2. Make the signs blatantly obvious that you want him.

3. Touch his junk without him having to ask you to.

4. Take the initiative. If you want him to do something, tell him. Better yet, show him.

5. Cuddle afterwards.

*Hook-up: anything physical that occurs when the two participating parties are not in a relationship. Not strictly limited to sex.

yours in makeouts and confusion,

C

Naivety Pt. 1

(Note: If I was being truly honest, this blog would be entited Naivety, Pt. Five Thousand and Sixty-Nine. The following events have actually happened. In fact, they just happened. Please excuse any confusion.)

I did it.

We saw a movie, we had awkward chit chat, we had good chit chat, he suggested we smoke some weed, I politely declined, we ate gelato, we had more awkward chit chat, some more good chit chat, he drove me home, I decided to kiss him...

and this is where things get confusing.

Although he was not the one to initiate said kiss, I pulled away not once, but twice (three times?) in order to go inside.

Simply stated- I was not feeling it.

There were no butterflies. And you, my beautiful readers, should know that I never settle for anything less than butterflies. But if I legitimately thought I might like him and have been observing his obvious cuteness for the past five months, then why didn't I feel butterflies?

Are butterflies created when we need to feel loved? Or are they a cosmic miracle?

I'm going to strike that first idea down- I wanted to feel something with said dude but I didn't. A cosmic miracle, however, is a definite possibility.

Once upon a time I met a boy- a boy who was NOTHING like my type. In fact, he was more akin to self-proclaimed "man-guido of the house" Mike "the Situation" than any Urban Outfitters hottie and his overgrown mandolin. This dude was king of protein shakes and weight lifting and had failed Algebra II. When introduced, I felt nothing except for the excitement of meeting yet another semi-cute new boy. Due to chance (and by now I am positively certain that this was all some sort of sick lab experiment) we started talking at around eleven. We kept talking until eight in the morning, when it was DEFINITELY time to go home. Over the course of a month the inevitable happened- I realized he was a giant douche (hence the Ed Hardy/Jersey Shore reference.) To this day I have no idea what happened on that night to make us connect in such an unlikely way. I attribute it to cosmic insignificance.

But what if butterflies are our body's way of telling us when we truly feel something with another human being?

A friend, W, legitimately liked a boy. She did what any other teenage girl would do- she hooked up with him. When it happened, she felt nothing- no butterflies, no spark, nothing, zip, nada. W felt completely detached. Afterward she consoled in a friend... one thing led to another and they ended up hooking up.

There were butterflies when she didn't even consider him butterfly-worthy.

I've come to a couple of conclusions with these shared experiences. First, that there are two types of connections- physical and metaphysical. Second, that you need both to have a successful sexytime love connection.

And with that I say adieu.

Peace, love, and butterflies,

C

Did you really just-? Oh wow, you did.

Since when has it become okay to tell a girl you're taking them to see a movie before a certain time because "it's cheaper"?

These are modern times, baby! Consider any notion of chivalry that still existed thus departed.

Still, I'll be a good little girl and see how it goes... after all, this is the boy who greeted me with "Hey sexy I want you now."

Cross your fingers that tomorrow night won't end in complete disaster.

-C

Encouraging storm-cloud behavior.

Am I a depression supplement? Not an antidote, but a supplement?

Do I encourage bad thoughts and behaviors?

Even though I complain like it's second-nature, I consider myself a bright and cheery person. I smile so much I have headaches by the end of the day and laugh so much I question my own sanity. I try, honestly try not to exclude people and I give help whenever it's asked of me.

And yet, one of the most important people to me is horribly disappointed with everything and there's nothing I can do to help. I used to be able to cheer her up by doing things I wasn't even aware of, and now I am thousands of miles away, and I can no longer help. It's getting tiring to hear of her angst when I have so much of my own: I know I've been in this new place for about six months now, but that doesn't mean that it's stopped biting.

We're all doing the best with what we have. But what if that isn't enough?