a girl in her city, watching the sunset

Archive for the month “August, 2012”

This was supposed to be 100 things but I think I was super tired and went to sleep before I finished.

  1. I remember most people’s faces.
  2. I can recite whole conversations
  3. I love routines
  4. It takes me 3 tries when I have to renew my password for my fingers to do the new password perfectly
  5. Often, I have no idea what lyrics mean
  6. But I love poetry
  7. I don’t end sentences in prepositions
  8. I don’t sleep til noon.
  9. I don’t mind that you do
  10. I prefer to eat with my hands
  11. I don’t eat  flour, sugar or dairy
  12. I do not stand for entitled drivers, but do not find it hypocritical that I am an entitled pedestrian
  13. I always sit at the back of the bus
  14. Street art sometimes moves me more than what I studied in university
  15. I appreciate physical labor
  16. My vision is pretty bad, but I don’t talk about it.  i have a friend who has talk-aboutable vision issues.  I don’t want to complain about mine so much as just say.
  17.  I’ve never been in a fight
  18. I scrub with coarse sea salt mixed with liquid soap and peppermint oil when I take a bath or a shower
  19. I’m a functional insomniac.  Since before I was born.
  20. I have a twin brother.  He sleeps 10 hours a night.
  21. The two toes that are the piggies who stayed home are missing toenails
  22. I don’t like having long hair
  23. I don’t care if you like long hair.  It doesn’t look right on me.  Grow your own if you like it
  24. I walk more than 5 miles a day, just as a matter of course.  Not because I try extra hard to do that
  25. I drink black coffee
  26. I spend nearly every waking hour online, unless I’m in a museum, or on a date
  27. I am not generally competitive with anyone but myself
  28. I can’t lie with any effectivity
  29. I am good at math, but slow with arithmetic
  30. I diagram sentences people have said when I’m bored in meetings
  31. I diagram those sentences in my head
  32. I prefer doing laundry on Friday or Saturday nights.  It doesn’t take that long, there’s no one there, and when I’m done, I drink wine
  33. I once knew Romanian and German
  34. I have had electroconvulsive therapy
  35. If I worship anything, it is the Pacific Ocean
  36. The first time I wrote a novel,  I finished with 250,000 words.  I wrote it in three weeks.  I was stoned the entire time and it made very little sense
  37. The second time I wrote a novel, I really liked it, but I lost it when I was backing up to a hard drive and the laptop hard drive blew off its spindle and took the external with it.  I didn’t write for a year.
  38. I’ve written a novel in 2nd person
  39. I feel off if I don’t keep my apartment tidy
  40. Or, if I don’t keep my apartment tidy, I feel off
  41. Except I don’t like mopping on Tuesdays
  42. Usually this means I mop on Mondays
  43. My floors aren’t that big
  44. I mop with vinegar
  45. I have no desire to own a car
  46. I intentionally disregard the rules of subject-verb agreement.  Because sometimes the rhythms is better.
  47. I have scaled Half-Dome
  48. I prefer the Eastside, except insofar as the Ocean
  49. I can’t sing for shit
  50. I love music
  51. I always hear something piercingly high pitched, from the left side.
  52. My hands are the same as my grandfather’s
  53. I didn’t see a live concert that wasn’t a symphony or duo cello/piano until I was 34
  54. I feel safe walking at 2am where I live
  55. I like early mornings, but I’m better at night
  56. I have my next 3 tattoos planned
  57. I got my first tattoo when I was 19. I got my second a month later
  58. I love strings of light bulbs
  59. I will not get married again
  60. I love being cut.  Bleeding at the hand of a trusted other is amazingly cathartic
  61. I am immensely grateful for so many people
  62. I cut my own hair
  63. I have huge feet
  64. I have to think about good posture continually or I am a U
  65. I sleep on a pile of blankets that other people have given me
  66. Save for one, my nearest and dearest friends live in other states and countries.
  67. I am unapologetically close to my mother, but she has very little say in what I do
  68. I am impatient for weird things.  Like the end of an episode of a tv show.
  69. I trust busses to be on time
  70. I’m right more often than not on that score
  71. I am unimpressed by ostentatious displays of fortune
  72. I am far more impressed by a winsome smile
  73. I say thank you and good morning every time it’s called-for and I ask people’s names when I see them frequently
  74. There are few things more satisfying to me than my skin feeling stretched by sun and salt and whipped by sand in the wind
  75. I knew I was staying in LA forever on the evening of January 6, 2012 as I waded in the Ocean and watched the sunset
  76. My cigarette of choice is Camel 99s
  77. I am reliably early
  78. If I’m late, there’s probably something  wrong
  79. I don’t wear a watch because I’m allergic to most metal.
  80. I still know what time it is
  81. Once I memorized The Jabberwocky.    I never forgot it.  It was 2nd grade.  I had the most ambitious poem recitation in the whole grade.  I thought I was going to be a famous stage actor
  82. As it turned out, I was a totally un-famous stage manager, because after a while I wasn’t that kid in 2nd grade and I couldn’t really act all that well
  83. In 5th grade, having no idea what the words combined to mean, I memorized Song by John Donne.  I didn’t forget that either
  84. The summer I was 10 years old, I read the Complete Works of William Shakespeare.  See #81
  85. I am supposed to wake up in an hour
  86. A cop stopped me for jaywalking once and instead of giving me a ticket, he made me give up my shoes.
  87. I don’t like pizza
  88. There was a summer I lived in Mexico, building houses
  89. There was a summer I spent cleaning the Union Rescue Mission
  90. These are two of my favorite summers in high school
  91. There is no fucking way I’m going to live in the country ever again
  92. I love big dogs.
  93. I have had orgasms from headaches

In which the author resolves to forget

I had imagined writing this at my laptop.  But it’s perversely apt that I’m starting it with my thumbs.  Ninety-eight per cent of the relationship described herein was via txt msg.

So, there was a fellow I liked quite well.  It had appeared the feeling was mutual.  But getting together was an unusually difficult matter.  I don’t know why I was such a scary monster to him.  Or for that matter, why he couldn’t just say, ever, that he didn’t like me/want me/want to see me — etc.

But in a roundabout way, it’s kind of my doing: I had ignored the better angels of my datebook ((Muchgrrl and Ipso Facto) -and any of my literary and literacy benchmarks) to meet up with him in the first place.  He seemed happy and clever enough in his prior-to-us-meeting emails and txts. (I believed him profoundly dyslexic (not a deal breaker) but his missives employed rather unconventional punctuation and some very creative spelling.)   I was gear on the happy/clever part (when he made sense), but I was unconvinced that he’d present anything approaching remarkable.  We nicknamed him “Game”.  (Currently, there are six nicknames for him in my address book.)  The reason he got pegged with that for a name?  He said he had “no game when it came to women.”  But in the days before we met, he sent a few txts that were passing sexy that made me exclaim, “ooh, maybe he done got some game.”  His writing didn’t strike me as alarmingly brilliant, and I make it a point to avoid having sex with stupid; but I wanted to give him a shot, so I met him.  It was Valentine’s day, and I was under the weather.  It was a karmic act, I hate being cancelled-on.  I wasn’t anticipating much.

Then, there he was, with silly, easy confidence and a Mohawk.  Lanky and lazy, he endured my rapidly worsening flu symptoms. Our first date lasted 6 hours.  It was at difficult length, and with forlorn gaze from me, that he took his leave so I could get rest and so he could elude catching the plague.   He said “rain check”.  He kissed my brow and as he made his way home on public transpo (a facet I more than appreciated), he txtd me that I was something else, really.

And then ensued six weeks of near daily txts, with not insignificant frustrations (I was the frustrated party – he made and cancelled at least five fuckdates).  Finally, both healthy, forgiven, and the cosmos of the schedule stars having aligned, we got together, we talked and drank wine and fucked.

There’s a lot more to the story.  (Which I haven’t let go unwritten, only that I’m unsure that part is fit for public consumption.)

There’s more to the story in which I probably have wholly fabricated a perfectly winsome man named Brian, who loves riding bikes, who has a wide, elfin grin and a beautiful voice, who told good stories and got excited about shit he could share to make me giggle.  Who sat rightupnexttome so our shoulders were touching, who took my face in his broad hands to kiss me, who held my hand as I walked him to the bus (way too late for a school night.)   The one guy in fifty some dates who didn’t lose his fucking erection over the fact I had no bed yet.  My possessing nothing at all didn’t faze him in the slightest.

But I don’t think he exists, though I could swear I saw him eating tomatoes in my kitchen, leaning against the wall, one foot bent at the knee and braced under his ass – and I would aver that I fairly choked on my wine to see the very sinew of his arm muscles as they flexed when he gestured.  I would affirm that I speak the truth when I recall how he sounded when he came to orgasm; I truly believe all of this really did happen.

And that he was so damnably un-presumptuous.  I thought.  Maybe it was just sheer vacancy that I misappropriated into charm.

The fuck of it isn’t that Game consistently made dates and consistently bailed on them.  It isn’t that he repeatedly turned down sharing a bit of my lunch hour when it was all of a 10 minute walk for him to get a coffee.  It isn’t that he wasn’t supplied with ample honesty to answer questions when they were posed.  It isn’t even that he was so cowardly that he couldn’t just say what the fuck was going on with him.

All of that sucks.  But it isn’t the crux of the biscuit.

It’s that I’m a fool for believing he was beyond all of that.  And, really really honestly, I’m a fool for thinking he would be beyond all that because of my being an open, graceful, happy, confident girl.  The parts of me that smart and sting at this realization want to lash out and say mean things. (Before you stop me — the things I just said, up there a bit?  Those aren’t mean. That’s just things.  That isn’t one way or another.)

The hard-to-swallow actuality of it all: he didn’t find me worthy of his time.

And, balls to all that.

But why should I inform my time with spite? My time is the lunch hour in which I might spend 35 minutes writing, or, it could be the next 45 minutes wasted in bitter reflection upon the last 6 months of a relationship that occurred nearly wholly in zeros and ones.

I don’t assign him a corporeal form any longer.  I have some photos from him, few of them involve his face.  I’m not sure it matters what he looks like, at all, in general. In six months he’s managed (deigned?)  to see me twice, so I have no reason to think he has any fucking clue as to what I look like —  for instance, the last time he saw me I was 20lbs heavier than now, and different hair, and different goggles and — fuck– I’ve had more than three more months of this new life.

Also, this is probably more true than I care to admit– I share my grandmother’s elephantish memory.  I know I can recall things far better than he can.  (Thank you for my history/art history degrees.)

I wish I hadn’t believed he was different than everyone’s fair warnings.  I wish I hadn’t assigned him some saline quality.  But I don’t do well wishing for things.  I do better cleaning, I do better cooking. I do better making things happen.  Wishes will do me no fucking good.  I don’t want to say, “I wish I could go back and erase.”

Neither will it do to dwell upon the if-onlies or the it’s-too-bad-thats.

I’m left with a bunch of rememberings. I will light these on fire, step through the flame and have done with it.   I won’t bother with wishes. I will learn.

But learn what?  To emerge with some strong resolve to never trust anyone seems pretty unlively.  Dour isn’t a good look for anyone.

Rejection is part of life.  I’m sure Game has perfectly quantifiable reasons to have done it, and it isn’t as if I can undo it by assailing him with cheerfulness and babble.  I am now in a place in which I grasp fully that he doesn’t know me at all well enough to even say who he rejected, and while it is small and cold comfort, it’s still the case. My seeking his company, sex or no, had to do with what I saw as the honor of knowing him for him, not simply out of appreciation for his equipment.

I had a teacher once, I feel fairly certain it was an acting class or coach (maybe in high school?)  He proclaimed that when people broke up with you saying, “it’s not you, it’s me,” you can bet your sweet ass that it is you.  For 20 or so years, I’ve carried that one about.  Like this: if it wasn’t for my being myself, I wouldn’t have gotten abandoned, or dumped, or forgotten about.  Something about me is wholly forgettable, and that’s why I’m —


That’s utter shite.

I logic the complete flip-side: It’s not just that it’s not you. The total exception to the rule is that it’s about you.  No one is thinking about anyone else –  it is always about them.  

Game’s incapacity is his.  I don’t have to make up for it by wondering when I’ll receive another disembodied cock pic.

Nor do I have to apologize to anyone, especially him, for refusing me.

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