Alert. Here is a personal entry that contains many juicy details of my oh-so-thrilling life. So if you are really into stalking me, you just hit like, the MEGA jackpot. Try to contain your excitement.
Chapter 2: Waiter, There is an Answer in my Soup
We left off with me going home last May and finding myself happily happy there, and then I was stuck wondering what to do with my life. Should I leave California for a bit and try to figure myself out? Would I find the friendship, connection, and inspiration I was looking for at home or was I just fooling myself into thinking it would be an answer to problems far beyond simple fixes? Well, I decided to go for a second visit to see if I could work on finding some answers. Remember how I had a super awesome time and was totally happy throughout my whole trip in May? This trip was basically the opposite. This trip was like a shit sundae.
The hoard of crazypants feelings I'd been having over a boy exploded like a bloated, long over-due zit in the middle of my face. I hate to think that I really care that much about dudes--I like to think I am smarter and stronger than that-- so I choose to think that what happened has just been the cherry on top of the shit sundae that has really set me off down the dark path of total doom and self destruction lately. This is going to be the part of this saga where I simply go over all that stuff that went down, a large chunk of the reflection will come later, just so you know. Because I know you just LOVE reading THAT part. So yes, you will have to sit tight to get the full picture. As usual, there is a lot to say. I'm terrible at brevity. Now without further ado, let me attempt to describe the events that transpired in the most gracious way I possibly can.
I liked a boy. Let's call him Lord Tennyson. Look, I know it's stupid to use a pseudonym, especially one like that, but he chose it, so what can I say? I'm writing about all these poor boys and the least I can do is let them choose their own pseudonym. Anyways, pseudonyms are stupid but it's my blog and I've always dreamed of being like Carrie Bradshaw on Sex and the City because I really like that show because I'm girly and indulgent sometimes even though it doesn't even make sense because only like ONE guy has a pseudonym on that show and none of the others do and we are never really sure why, it's just kind of weird but whatever, it's my blog and my dream so don't crush it, OK?!? Anyway. Ahem. Back to what I was saying.
I'd always kind of liked Lord Tennyson passively in the past (hehe, I can't stop giggling about that sentence), but as it usually does with most guys on my part, the feelings of likingness took a, uh, particular turn when I saw him and did things with him and then I was like "Oh no captain, the feelings are attacking our spaceship!" and the captain was like "Feelings blasters, engage!" and I was like "Captain, our blasters have been knocked out by amazing boy smell!" and so the captain was like "Warp speed ahead, let's try to lose these bastards. They got my grandfather in 2351 and I won't let them get me!" And so we tried to outrun them but they were hot on our tail and they weren't letting anything get in their way. SO. I decided to do what everyone told me to do and I was like "Ok, fine, I'll try and talk to him about this shit and maybe these feelings won't eat me and the captain alive." The captain nodded in agreement. He was very tired. He hadn't slept for days piloting our ship. So yea. That was my plan.
I didn't really expect anything to come out of it, at least nothing good. I mean, I'd hoped, but I didn't expect anything because years of disappointment has taught me not to and I knew I was dealing with an emotionally scarred boy here and it's not like I'M ready to deal with anything serious I mean JESUS. Have you met me? I'm about as functional as the comic-con ticket purchasing system. Can you imagine the comic-con ticket purchasing system dealing with an actual relationship of some kind? Yea, I didn't think so. That'd be a shit storm. That'd be the definition of a shit storm. But I thought maybe if I just said something about it, we could all have a good laugh, establish some ground rules so the feelings monsters did not attack anymore, and life could move on. Because really my idea of “feelings” is “I'm happy to be around you, and I'm sad when I'm not,” and then it's just like “Yep, ok, uh-huh.” The end. And it's really not that difficult, so the whole thing should have been pretty easy to say right?
Well you know how I am. I can't actually talk about things! That is why I have this blog. I like to think I can talk about things and I prepare to talk about things but at the last second I always chicken out. But I was ready to try, for the sake of my poor, poor captain and his dear beloved grandfather. So that is what I set out to do. I arrived in Colorado and started to make plans with Lord Tennyson, who was busy, but said he could try to come over at some point later that evening. I told him that sounded good. Then I proceeded to not hear from him for three days. I, being a girl (y'know due to my vagina and all), started freaking out after about one full day and multiple unreplied-to texts. I knew things were not going to work out to be a dream come true, but I started to wonder if things were worse than I had realized. Was this going to be like high school all over again, where all these people that I loved didn't like me or want to talk to me for some unexplained reason? My brain went into full scale freakout just remembering the traumatic experiences. I tried to be tactful, trying not to vomit my freakout all over the place where people could see, but I could not even get in touch with Lord Tennyson even over a simple question about ice for a party I was planning, and the freakout vomit was building in my chest cavity.
Oh right. The party. There was a party. That I threw. We'll get to that.
The party was actually the only reason I ever did finally get in touch with Lord Tennyson. There was a large debate over whether or not we would be getting a keg and there came a certain point where I needed to know. Seeing as the drinks were his responsibility, I finally managed to get him by phone. That is when we finally had the conversation I had been hoping for, except that it was not the conversation that I had been hoping for because SURPRISE. I couldn't say a word. The conversation was, as I had expected but hoped would not be true, me receiving the same schpeal that I feel as if I get from every guy ever. “You're awesome! You're pretty! But I don't want to date you because of vague reasons related to me being a 20 something dude afraid of commitment, emotions, and other reasons and stuff. Blah blah blah. I just want to be friends.” Yea, I love that speech. I know that speech well, it seems. I, of course, was on the other end like a business call. “Yes, uh-huh, good to know, thank you sir have a nice day.” The end. It's like I had nothing to say.
I really didn't have anything to say, though, at least not at the time. You hear stuff like that enough to know there isn't much use fighting it. I guess if I'm being honest I don't usually hear the speech per say, but I've been bro-zoned many, many times and I'm sure I've mentioned my invisible penis to you before? I'm cynical enough to know there is no such thing as changing a man. In the end you just have to come to accept that no matter how awesome you are told that you are, you are still not amazing enough to be “the girlfriend” or even “that girl that I am kind of seeing” (because let's face it after three years of being single you've definitely lowered your standards to that). So what happened from there?
I hung up the phone, went home and attacked the crap out of some cookie dough, feeling frustrated like I was one of those gymnast chicks who had spent her whole life working her butt off to get to the Olympics and then hit puberty and simply grew too tall to ever make it. I let a friend take me out for a drink that evening. I didn't intend to get drunk; I wasn't in the mood for it and I knew I'd be throwing a party the very next night, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't expect to get at least a little buzzed. It's basically unavoidable with my laughable alcohol tolerance. Seriously, a 12 year old boy with acne and a cracking voice could probably drink me under the table. I also wasn't driving. So yea, I intended to appreciate the fact that I was 21. But then there was this drink on the menu called a “slurricane,” which was so intriguing I decided I needed to try it. It came a personal sized pitcher and turned out to be very tasty; I quickly learned that it was very rightfully named, especially when my friend declared she needed to go in ten minutes so I better finish my drink and I still had half of it left.
|This very liquor-rich drink was dealt with in just an hour. By me. You do the calculations.|
It wasn't even dark out yet and I was hammered. I asked my friend to take me by the liquor store so I could buy a handle of vodka to stuff down one of the watermelons for my 4th of July party the next day. This was the beginning of a series of poor decisions on my part. I sat alone in my room, sipping on straight up vodka (bad decision number one) and vigorously cutting holes in the watermelon, angry at boys and angry that Colorado was not giving me what I wanted right then. I was halfway through my trip and had spent the majority of my time miserable and alone in my room crying. The other half I had spent doodling crazy cat ladies alone in my kitchen. I then asked another one of my friends-- we'll call him Dylan Thomas (his choice not mine)-- to come over, drink vodka, and watch only the best show ever with me so we could make fun of the main characters' clothing choices. In order to convince him to come, I used the phrase that probably no inebriated girl should ever say if she has absolutely no intention of hooking up with a guy: “I don't want to be alone right now.”
I was drunk, ok? It didn't occur to me that this is commonly used as code for “let's do it.” I don't even know if that was how it was interpreted on Dylan Thomas's end, but I still should probably not have said it. I mean, it was true. I didn't. My moodiness over the past few days had escalated in a way that I knew was dangerous. I could feel myself in that black, inescapable pit and I really did need some platonic company to keep me distracted. I had had enough nights of crying myself to sleep. The point is. I said it, and he came over, and we watched the best show ever for a little while and then yea, that happened. That thing that I do usually when I drink too much even though I'd much rather do it when I'm not drinking but somehow it never happens that way. Yep. I passed out shortly after, slept a good long while, then woke up in the morning still partially drunk. It took me a few moments before my brain registered the events of the last night and how I ended up where I was, and suddenly I was half mortified at what I had done and half ridiculously entertained, laughing at myself like “Oh Meri, you little rascal, you did it again!” Or maybe it was something more like "Ahahahahahaha. Hahaha. Hahaha. Ha. Ha. Heh....Fuck."
Dylan Thomas is my good friend. We talk a lot mainly because we share the same angst. We are depression buddies. Talking to each other doesn't necessarily help our problems, but at least for me it is nice to talk to someone who knows how it feels, confirm that yes, that is a legitimate feeling and you are not totally and completely insane. He also doesn't try to tell me to “chin up,” or “look on the bright side of life!” like most normal people do before I attempt to punch them in the face, because that isn't how depression works, dammit. I never, ever intended to hook up with Dylan Thomas and I wasn't that I was upset because I had or even that I had hooked up with someone when I was drunk yet again...Ok, so maybe I was a little upset about that. But I was mainly upset because I had been really, really drunk. I was kodak moment drunk, meaning that I only have a few quick snapshots of the things that transpired in my head. How had things transitioned from one to another? I have no idea. How the experience as a whole was? Not a clue. Still frame images and big blank black spots. That's all I've got. It's not that I said no but I don't particularly remember saying yes either. That's what bothers me. It didn't feel like I was in my body at all; I didn't feel like the same person. That's why I didn't want to talk about it, or why I didn't want people to know. I've never been that reckless about drunken hook ups before. I felt like I had crossed a line. But yet the word got out pretty quickly. Gee. Fun how that always works.
I spent the morning contemplating what I had done—or whatever my body I had done, because my actual self had gone far, far away the previous night-- huddled over a trash can by the toilet, daring my body to get sick, but it refused, like the big fat tease it likes to be (or not). I informed Dylan Thomas that if he told anyone I would punch him in the dick (that threat didn't work) and then proceeded to let him know that I really just wanted to be friends. There I was. Perpetuating that fucked up circle of friendship. Everyone is “just friends” with each other and I felt as bad as I did the day before when I heard it from someone else. Sometimes I wish I could control who I wanted to be with and who I didn't, because then I would just fall in love with a rock and that rock would never disappoint me because rocks can't speak and tell you that they just want to be friends. We'd have a beautiful love, me and that rock. If only I could learn how to love it... Sigh. One day little rocky, one day.
|True love. <3|
Somehow despite what will probably be my worst hangover of 2013, I managed to get things ready for 20+ people to come over and get smashed while I did not even want to think about another drop of alcohol entering my body. It was going to be an interesting night, I knew that much. And thus began my party.
After the week of sludge-feelings and one deathly hang over, I really struggled to get in the party mood, but I tried my best. I honestly was thrilled to see so many awesome people that I had missed so much (and then a lot of others I had never really met, but whatevs, it was cool), but there was this tiny part of my chest that was like, “No fuck you, you just get to be sad no matter what,” which is always so inconvenient during party times. I was fortunate to be the party host, I think, since it meant I could run around everywhere distracted and neurotic as much as I wanted and it would make sense... I just had to check in on my party peeps, yo! And then when Dylan Thomas and Lord Tennyson showed up later, I tried to keep my cool by repeatedly commanding my body to “be cool be cool be cool be cool be cool dammit,” when really there were these leprechauns made out of freakout vomit dancing around in my chest cavity now like it was no big thang. Dammit freakout vomit leprechauns, you're making me nervous! You might break something with all that dancing!
I kept trying to drink enough to make myself chill and content with the whole situation, but my body very dramatically refused to get drunk. So I was just like this on the inside for awhile:
Then some things happened.
Lord Tennyson wanted to talk again, like conversation real talks, and I was just like “Oh god.” I wanted to talk too, and I vaguely remember having things I wanted to say but I can't remember them anymore. We walked away from my house across some grass and into the open space and had conversation real talks, which I wish I could remember better but because I was so anxious about having a serious conversation in person, my body went into a really weird state of awareness and a lot of it was a blur. I was also slightly tipsy at that point, thanks to my anxiety driven attempts to get drunk, and my friend Donovan's wicked strong drinks.
They might not be in the correct order, but a couple of things do happen to stand out in my mind about that conversation, despite the bluriness of it all. Lord Tennyson assured me that he hadn't been lying to me, particularly when he said he found me attractive. Actually, this is something that kept happening all night. People kept reassuring me that I was attractive, as if I was insecure or had doubts about this or thought that due to their borderline sexual harassment behavior I somehow thought otherwise. Yea, because y'know, I'm not concerned what people think about my personality or anything. SEXISM. UGH. Anywho, back to what I was saying before Feminist Meri stole my blog for a moment...
We talked briefly about me and Dylan Thomas and then he asked me something. He asked me if I was ok. But like really. Was I ok? I shrugged. No. Not really. Somehow we had transitioned from walking to laying in the grass next to each other on the other end of the park. He asked me what I really, truly wanted and I could feel myself choking up as desire and truth knotted in my stomach as I said “I want to come home.” I wanted to turn away and be like “Nope, this is not gonna happen. I'm not going to cry in front of people.” Because even though I cry like, basically every day right now, I never let people be around while I do it. Badasses just aren't like that. But then he turned me back towards him and told me to look at him, in the eyes. The lump in my throat went away and all my freakout vomit leprechauns stopped their wild dancing and were like “Oh dawg, shit just got real.” Did I mention my freakout vomit leprechauns were totally gangsta?
|Yea, I know my brain is weird sometimes, you don't have to tell me.|
I'd never had an experience like this before. I'd never had someone demand that I look at them like that and I had never so willingly said something I truly felt out loud and in person like that. We continued talking for a little while about California, coming home, and some other stuff probably, I can't really remember, but I do know that, at least for me, it was pretty hardcore conversation real talks. After a bit, he moved me to lay on top of him and told me to be still. I tried making a sarcastic joke about acro yoga (blog about that coming soon to a desktop near you!) but I eventually complied. I lay on top of him and sat still while I let him put his hands on me and hold me in the dark in the middle of that field.
Lord Tennyson was probably really drunk at that moment. I have my doubts about whether or not he intended to do something like that, because it was awfully confusing for me. But I wasn't about to stop it, because it was there that my hard earned cynicism melted away for a few moments as I appreciated that wonderfully safe feeling of just being held, of just being physically close to someone, of doing it by choice and being able to remember it later on. I'm normally terrified and anxious just about hugging my friends, let alone letting it last more than a few seconds, so you must realize what a big deal this kind of thing is for me. The person I used to be, the Meri that was once filled with love and earnestness surfaced for a split second. Earnest, Love-filled Hippie Meri met with the Badass, Sexless and Cynical Meri that took over the drivers seat after years of Earnest, Love-Filled Hippie Meri got us into all sorts of emotional messes, and they nodded at each other like there was one day hope that they could somehow coexist in harmony. It was like a surreal movie moment, like when a character meets himself in the future or becomes his own son or some other weird jam. And that was what was so terribly, heart breakingly cruel about Lord Tennyson: his ability to create these movie moments in my life like no big deal. First the severe sexual tension sunglasses moment and then this. It was utterly unbearable.
Earnest, Love-Filled Hippie Meri had meanwhile faded away and probably gotten locked back up in the trunk by Badass Meri, who proceeded to take control again. She was overcome by amazing boy smell and had to break the whole thing up by saying “You know, if you still want to make out...” Lord Tennyson looked tempted but said, “Yea, but then I'll probably get carried away and want to have sex with you.” Badass Meri nodded in agreement and looked off into the distance, “Yea...” like a farmer contemplating the weather and his crops and when he should try to harvest them.
...Good simile, eh?
It was then time to head back to my party, and Lord Tennyson decided for some reason to help me up by trying to pick me up off the ground completely. This failed as he stumbled over uneven ground, dropped me, and then fell on top of me. Or namely, my foot, which screamed at the rest of my body in response. Ok, so maybe being held was not such a great thing after all. Sexless and Cynical was back on track. I limped back to my house, where my foot was already swelling like pineapple in a bathtub. Does that make sense? No. Does it have to? No. But really though. It did not take long for it to look like something had laid eggs in the top of my foot. Over a week later and it is still swollen and injured, actually. Dancing has been tough. Just what I need. Fun times.
Anyway. Back in the past at my party, I went back to being like this on the inside:
|The almost-broken foot was just a bonus feature|
Except distracted by the really intense pain in my foot that I was trying to ignore but failing.
My moments of peace were gone and replaced by many moments of not so peace. The gangsta freakout vomit leprechauns went back to [break]dancing in my chest as time carried onwards. Party things happened. Someone broke a pot, and Lord Tennyson pulled me into the closet with the excuse of looking for a vacuum to clean things up, when really all that he wanted to do was put his hands down my pants. This was another very confusing but still welcome moment, although not quite as calm as the one before. I kind of treat sex like potato chips. If they are there, I am pretty much just going to eat them. It doesn't even matter, I just don't give a fuck. I don't get potato chips very often, ok? I'm going for it. I feel very guilty about it later, but you know, it is what it is. I don't do much to try and change the habit. So I let it happen for a little while.
The gangsta freakout vomit leprechauns were so excited about this they decided to invite the unicorns next door to come party with them. The unicorns, being much more practical creatures, went ahead and alerted me that “Hey. You're in a coat closet fooling around with a guy that you want but doesn't really want you except physically which is kind of nice but ultimately probably not the best decision with where you are in life right now. I mean maybe you could be ok with that at some point but not right now when you just had all this mess inside you and did some stupid things last night and yea. Clear your head before you make any decisions, girly. Also this coat closet doesn't even have a proper door, it's just a curtain and people are looking for you so you better cut this crap out.”
The unicorns are such party poopers. Curse those responsible little gits.
But I did what they told me to do because I value the opinions of the unicorns. They usually steer me well. I then proceeded to watch Lord Tennyson turn around shortly thereafter and commence with what appeared to be an orgy of other people in my very own shower, which led to him disappearing with someone else for a few hours to do the you know what, which was really not ok. The gangsta freakout vomit leprechauns basically started a full scale riot where they looted all the businesses located in my lower intestine and burned my already half dead liver and other such things. It probably didn't help that I was incredibly sober while everyone around me was indeed quite drunk.
At about 2 AM I attempted to call it quits and go to bed. I went into my bedroom and lay down, where I squeezed one of my fuzzy bear-head-shaped pillows (yes I have one of those don't judge me) as hard as I could and stared at the wall. I was exhausted, but I could not shut my eyes for the life of me. My blood was pounding so hard against my entire body, my stomach still felt sick from the hangover earlier that day, and there was this tight pain in my chest. Everything was wrong. So wrong. Colorado was not supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be the place where I was happy. I felt betrayed by my home. I felt broken and sick. How was I going to make a decision about what to do now? THERE WAS NO HOPE. I was so tired that THERE WAS NOTHING. It was dramatic. You know, how I like to do things.
I tossed back and forth for a few hours, getting up intermittently to check on the few stragglers still awake in my house to make sure they were all set for sleep and such. By 4 AM everyone else had finally found their heads on a pillow and the house was completely still, except for me, and the gangsta freakout vomit leprechauns rioting inside me. They were about to come out, full force. I made a quiet dash for my porch, where I sat on a chair and screamed silently to the hills and sky of my hometown, letting the leprechauns come jumping out as I breathed sharply and irregularly, swallowing down the lump in my throat and wanting to explode with pain.
I started cleaning up as much of the after party mess on my porch as I could as it began to rain. I shivered but continued, unwilling to stop moving anymore. To stop would just to be letting the pain come back. But I was soon to find a new, very urgent distraction, which! Will be continued in The Fucked Up Circle of Friendship Part 3: From the Donut to the Donut Hole*
*This title makes absolutely no sense but neither does my life so who cares?
Note: It really bothers me that I just wrote 4,000+ words on pretty much just boys, and I am probably saying this more for my own sake than anyone else's, but there is more to my woes than just all this mess. The few days described above here were kind of a build up towards a lot of different stuff, and I'll probably get to talking about that eventually, but I think I just needed to put this out there so I could be done with it. Stupid freakout vomit.
Click here to read Chapter 3: The Donut and the Donut Hole.