Shit is not, actually, fucked, I just wanted an excuse to use that title.
Anyway.
Text received from Coop at 11:20 p.m. last Thursday, when I was at a party at his suite with him present: "Who invited [S.W.]?"
Okay. I can't completely play dumb. I know he "likes" him in the way you "looooooove" your ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend. And I also know he thinks S.W.'s a pussy and an all-around loser. So, yeah... not so much a fan. But still, he's my boyfriend, and if the charade of our friendship is to continue, then he has to accept my boyfriend and his, y'know, basic existance. That text told me everything I needed to know about Coop and how he feels about me, and us as friends. Or, "friends."
So now he's avoiding me. And when he's avoiding me, and not so much a fan of me, then his bad qualities become pretty fucking obvious. Like how he'll make fun of you to your face (or, in my face, not to my face, but to the girl sitting next to me). In other words, he became an ASSHOLE.
I'm thinking I'm just going to confront him about it. If he really is what he prides himself on being--tactless, in-your-face, etc etc--then he'll be able to handle it.
If not, then... I just don't know.
It's "that time of the month," so I'm 5 lbs heavier, a C cup (not that any guys are complaining, but they are FUCKING ANNOYING), and my face is breaking out. I am not cute right now, not cute at all. Also, since spraining my ankle last weekend, I haven't run in a week and I am feeling like a slug. So I'm shall-we-say not at the top of my game. Eh.
However: I haven't been in the launch in like 2 weeks. Zimmer must like me. Or something. Or maybe he just got me and DBrown confused again. Who knows.
Lover! Come back to me!
ETA: Proof of why shit is not fucked and life is actually good: my grades so far, as of midterms:
Latin Civ: A on paper + undeserved 88 on midterm (not bad for literally never, ever going to class) = A-
Roman Social History: B+ on midterm (again, not bad for finishing the midterm in literally 15 minutes. Apparently I achieved notoriety in that class for walking out and everyone thought I failed. All those haters don't know shit)
Shakespeare: A/A- (whatever that means... I don't do the reading)
Austrian History: umm... who knows, but my prof thought my paper was "creative" and "innovative" with "no big problems" (a ringing endorsement!). Not sure what grade that translates to
My GPA is kicking ass and taking names so far. Knock on wood so I don't crash and burn on my finals. Also: that's what happens, kids, when you take 3 histories and an English course. Yay! I love humanities!
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Friday, November 2, 2007
Long Time
It's been a while.
Activities since last post:
- S.W. and I are... good again. Of course, I get bored when I'm not standing directly in front of him, but... come on, where else am I going to find a Jim Halpert look alike? Besides John Krasinski himself. So... silver lining.
- Channeling my creative impulses into actual writing. New plan: on last day of work at LDailInc, I will hand my manuscript to Tamar, who will then immediately book me and I will be published by the time I graduate college. Excerpt later.
- Princeton Chase. aka, DOMINATION.
- Dressed as Pam for Halloween. You know the "fashion show at lunch" shirt? I have it in blue and wore it and, as C.C. said, "BOOBS." Yep. I have them. And my body thinks its pregnant now so I'm like a fucking C cup. Oh, to be a man...
And that's about it.
Now, let's play a game: who is who?
Nat, Vicky and I took our trays through the lines for the sandwich bar, filled glasses with Diet Coke, and sat down at our table.
The grilling began immediately.
“So, I heard about last night,” Vicky said archly.
“What did you hear?” I asked innocently, taking an innocent sip of my soda and wiping my mouth innocently with a napkin.
“Omigod, you’re a slut now!” Nat brayed.
Vicky ignored her and looked at me. “So what happened?”
“I thought you heard about it already.”
“Morgan told me you and Jake hooked up. But beyond that, nothing.”
“We did,” I confirmed.
“Define ‘hooked up.’”
I took another huge bite of my sandwich and chewed as slowly as possible.
Nat squealed. “Tell us!”
“Let me guess,” Vicky said. “You two hooked up, hooked up.”
I put my sandwich down and swallowed. “We did not have sex.”
“Did I say that?”
“You said hooked up, hooked up.”
“Okay, if you and Jake had sex, I would be really freaked out,” Vicky said. “Because he is way old. And you’re a virgin. And fifteen.” Vicky liked to act like she was much, much older than me, but it was just a year—she repeated sophomore year when she came to Westcott. I would make fun of her for it, but every other school asked me to do the same thing.
“Do you want to have sex with him?” Nat demanded with her usual subtlety.
“Um, when did the conversation turn to sex? I did not mention sex.”
“I didn’t say you did. You’re the one who brought it up,” Vicky pointed out. “Freudian slip much?”
“What does that mean?”
“It kind of sounds like you want to have sex with him,” Nat said. Vicky shot her a look—clearly, the two of them had been talking about this, since Nat was not usually that perceptive.
I kept my eyes on my food.
“I knew it!” Nat crowed.
Vicky just looked at me. “Really?”
“No,” I snapped. “Can we stop talking about this now?”
“Okay, okay. Back to what actually happened.” Vicky caught my eye and knew I would tell her everything later, when Nat wasn’t around.
“Okay. Well, like I said, we hooked up.” I paused, looking around. I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “And . . . I gave him head.”
Nat clapped. “Good girl!”
Vicky shushed her. “Really?”
“Yep.”
“How’d it go?”
“All right.” What kind of question was that? “It went fine. Nothing weird.”
“Did he like it?” Nat asked awkwardly.
“Yep.”
“Good girl!” Nat repeated again.
I picked my sandwich apart and ate a tomato. “It’s not a huge accomplishment,” I said, irritated now. “You’ve all done it. Morgan’s done it. I’m sure this is not the first time Jake’s gotten it. So would you all please stop talking to me like I just got potty trained or something. Because it is definitely not such a big fucking deal.”
Nat just stared at me like an idiot. God, she could be annoying. To her, I was sure the fact that I joined the oral sex club was a big deal. It probably made her feel like less of a slut. I didn’t feel like a slut, no matter how much they could joke about it. I just liked Jake and I just wanted to do what everyone else who liked someone did. That was it.
Vicky rubbed my arm in that guidance-counselor way. “All right. We’re done. But you have to tell us what’s going on with the two of you. Are you guys, like, together now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you talk about it?”
“No.”
“You should probably talk about it,” Nat said.
I resisted the urge to glare venemously at her and consoled myself with a sarcastic response: “Really? You think?”
Not getting it, she just nodded. “Definitely.”
I looked to Vicky for help, but she was agreeing with Nat. “And you shouldn’t hook up with him again until you talk to him about it.”
I stared. “So you’re a Rules girl?”
“No. I just think you should.”
“Why? I like him. I liked hooking up with him. He’s a good kisser.”
“Because . . .” I knew Vicky wanted to say something about him being older, and a hockey recruit, which meant he was probably a player. I knew she wanted to warn me that I could be hurt. And she also knew how well I would take that. So she trailed off, giving up for now. She stood. “I’m going to get more soda. Anyone else want?”
“You should hook up with him again,” Morgan announced.
We were sitting in the library during E, which the four of us—Morgan, Will, Randy, and I—had free. Will and I would always spread our school stuff in front of us, at least pretending to do work, but Randy and Morgan didn’t bother with even that; for Randy, this was the only time he saw the inside of the library, and I very rarely saw Morgan doing work. Like sleeping, homework seemed to be optional for Morgan.
“Definitely,” Randy agreed. “With who again?”
“With Jake,” Morgan supplied.
Randy whistled. “Really? Jake? Well, I’m not surprised. He’s been talking about you since the first week of school.”
I tried not to smile.
“That kid’s a dick,” Will muttered. He looked down quickly and I knew he’d seen that brief look of satisfaction that I couldn’t keep off my face.
“You don’t even know him,” I said.
“I know him well enough,” he snapped back.
Morgan was following this exchange gleefully; I saw her bright green eyes widening as she looked back and forth.
“He’s cool,” Randy said. “You’re just jealous.”
We all froze. Will kept his eyes carefully trained on his Chemistry textbook.
“I’m not jealous of that fucking cripple,” Will said finally.
“He just pulled a hamstring!”
“Like I said, cripple. What’s he doing this fall? Yoga?”
“All the hockey players do yoga in the fall.”
“Oh, like Hunter? Or Reid?” Two guys on his soccer team.
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”
“Children, calm yourselves,” Morgan said. “Breathe in, breathe out.”
Randy giggled and nudged Will, who just glared at him. Will leaned farther forward, bracketing his textbook with his arms.
“Here.” Morgan tugged her shirt down. “Try to get something down my shirt. Come on. It’ll make you feel better.”
Randy immediately tore off a corner from one of Will’s notebooks, balled it up, and aimed carefully at the front of Morgan’s V-neck. No luck. “Fuck!” he yelled, pounding on the desk.
No one looked up but the librarian, an ancient crone named Mrs. White, who immediately stalked over. “Randolph!” she hissed. This use of his given name shut him up better than any threat, and he sunk down in his seat so his nose was on the same level as the table top. I stifled a giggle. She crossed her arms, sent him one last scornful look, and marched back to her station behind the circulation desk.
I lost it the second her back was turned. “Randolph!” I wheezed, trying to control myself. “Omigod, how did I not know that?”
“Randolph Walter Spencer Cushing II,” Morgan was only too happy to supply.
I covered my mouth. “No!”
Will nodded gravely, patting Randy on the back. “I’m afraid so.”
Randy sat up. “I can’t believe you don’t know this already, but they don’t let you live in Greenwich unless you have Roman numerals after your name. My dad’s name is actually Mohamed, but my parents just made up a name and tacked the II on so no one would kick us out.”
I leaned against Morgan. “God, your parents must hate you.”
“Yep,” he said cheerfully.
“Well, it can’t be as bad as my middle name,” Morgan said. “Maude.”
This was too much for me. “Maude? Are you kidding me?”
Will cracked a smile in my direction, and suddenly I stopped laughing, leaving a slight smile on my face I hoped he knew was for him. Maybe he didn’t hate me. “Morgan Maude Fawcett,” he said.
“Oh, wow,” I breathed.
“It’s an old family name,” Morgan said defensively.
“So is Randolph,” Randy said. “And Walter. And Spencer. And Cushing. I have family names coming out of my fucking ass.” He tore out another sheet of paper from Will’s notebook. “Okay, now that I’m completely traumatized, can I try again?”
Morgan sighed and leaned way back in her chair. “Okay, but I’m making it hard for you.”
Randy let fly, and the little ball of looseleaf arced gracefully through the air, landing in Morgan’s cleavage. He punched the air triumphantly. “Victory!” he whispered, with a look to the circulation desk. “Okay, Chris, your turn.”
I crossed my arms over my chest (primly concealed beneath a polo shirt) as Morgan fished around in her bra for the errant projectile. “Nope. Sorry.”
“I guess that’s Jake’s territory now, anyway,” Randy said with a dramatic sigh. “Oh, so much possibility, so cruelly wasted.”
Morgan produced the little ball and flung it at him. It landed on the table, halfway between us.
“No big loss,” Will commented, looking directly at me.
Yep... I think it's easy to tell who is who.
Activities since last post:
- S.W. and I are... good again. Of course, I get bored when I'm not standing directly in front of him, but... come on, where else am I going to find a Jim Halpert look alike? Besides John Krasinski himself. So... silver lining.
- Channeling my creative impulses into actual writing. New plan: on last day of work at LDailInc, I will hand my manuscript to Tamar, who will then immediately book me and I will be published by the time I graduate college. Excerpt later.
- Princeton Chase. aka, DOMINATION.
- Dressed as Pam for Halloween. You know the "fashion show at lunch" shirt? I have it in blue and wore it and, as C.C. said, "BOOBS." Yep. I have them. And my body thinks its pregnant now so I'm like a fucking C cup. Oh, to be a man...
And that's about it.
Now, let's play a game: who is who?
Nat, Vicky and I took our trays through the lines for the sandwich bar, filled glasses with Diet Coke, and sat down at our table.
The grilling began immediately.
“So, I heard about last night,” Vicky said archly.
“What did you hear?” I asked innocently, taking an innocent sip of my soda and wiping my mouth innocently with a napkin.
“Omigod, you’re a slut now!” Nat brayed.
Vicky ignored her and looked at me. “So what happened?”
“I thought you heard about it already.”
“Morgan told me you and Jake hooked up. But beyond that, nothing.”
“We did,” I confirmed.
“Define ‘hooked up.’”
I took another huge bite of my sandwich and chewed as slowly as possible.
Nat squealed. “Tell us!”
“Let me guess,” Vicky said. “You two hooked up, hooked up.”
I put my sandwich down and swallowed. “We did not have sex.”
“Did I say that?”
“You said hooked up, hooked up.”
“Okay, if you and Jake had sex, I would be really freaked out,” Vicky said. “Because he is way old. And you’re a virgin. And fifteen.” Vicky liked to act like she was much, much older than me, but it was just a year—she repeated sophomore year when she came to Westcott. I would make fun of her for it, but every other school asked me to do the same thing.
“Do you want to have sex with him?” Nat demanded with her usual subtlety.
“Um, when did the conversation turn to sex? I did not mention sex.”
“I didn’t say you did. You’re the one who brought it up,” Vicky pointed out. “Freudian slip much?”
“What does that mean?”
“It kind of sounds like you want to have sex with him,” Nat said. Vicky shot her a look—clearly, the two of them had been talking about this, since Nat was not usually that perceptive.
I kept my eyes on my food.
“I knew it!” Nat crowed.
Vicky just looked at me. “Really?”
“No,” I snapped. “Can we stop talking about this now?”
“Okay, okay. Back to what actually happened.” Vicky caught my eye and knew I would tell her everything later, when Nat wasn’t around.
“Okay. Well, like I said, we hooked up.” I paused, looking around. I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “And . . . I gave him head.”
Nat clapped. “Good girl!”
Vicky shushed her. “Really?”
“Yep.”
“How’d it go?”
“All right.” What kind of question was that? “It went fine. Nothing weird.”
“Did he like it?” Nat asked awkwardly.
“Yep.”
“Good girl!” Nat repeated again.
I picked my sandwich apart and ate a tomato. “It’s not a huge accomplishment,” I said, irritated now. “You’ve all done it. Morgan’s done it. I’m sure this is not the first time Jake’s gotten it. So would you all please stop talking to me like I just got potty trained or something. Because it is definitely not such a big fucking deal.”
Nat just stared at me like an idiot. God, she could be annoying. To her, I was sure the fact that I joined the oral sex club was a big deal. It probably made her feel like less of a slut. I didn’t feel like a slut, no matter how much they could joke about it. I just liked Jake and I just wanted to do what everyone else who liked someone did. That was it.
Vicky rubbed my arm in that guidance-counselor way. “All right. We’re done. But you have to tell us what’s going on with the two of you. Are you guys, like, together now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you talk about it?”
“No.”
“You should probably talk about it,” Nat said.
I resisted the urge to glare venemously at her and consoled myself with a sarcastic response: “Really? You think?”
Not getting it, she just nodded. “Definitely.”
I looked to Vicky for help, but she was agreeing with Nat. “And you shouldn’t hook up with him again until you talk to him about it.”
I stared. “So you’re a Rules girl?”
“No. I just think you should.”
“Why? I like him. I liked hooking up with him. He’s a good kisser.”
“Because . . .” I knew Vicky wanted to say something about him being older, and a hockey recruit, which meant he was probably a player. I knew she wanted to warn me that I could be hurt. And she also knew how well I would take that. So she trailed off, giving up for now. She stood. “I’m going to get more soda. Anyone else want?”
“You should hook up with him again,” Morgan announced.
We were sitting in the library during E, which the four of us—Morgan, Will, Randy, and I—had free. Will and I would always spread our school stuff in front of us, at least pretending to do work, but Randy and Morgan didn’t bother with even that; for Randy, this was the only time he saw the inside of the library, and I very rarely saw Morgan doing work. Like sleeping, homework seemed to be optional for Morgan.
“Definitely,” Randy agreed. “With who again?”
“With Jake,” Morgan supplied.
Randy whistled. “Really? Jake? Well, I’m not surprised. He’s been talking about you since the first week of school.”
I tried not to smile.
“That kid’s a dick,” Will muttered. He looked down quickly and I knew he’d seen that brief look of satisfaction that I couldn’t keep off my face.
“You don’t even know him,” I said.
“I know him well enough,” he snapped back.
Morgan was following this exchange gleefully; I saw her bright green eyes widening as she looked back and forth.
“He’s cool,” Randy said. “You’re just jealous.”
We all froze. Will kept his eyes carefully trained on his Chemistry textbook.
“I’m not jealous of that fucking cripple,” Will said finally.
“He just pulled a hamstring!”
“Like I said, cripple. What’s he doing this fall? Yoga?”
“All the hockey players do yoga in the fall.”
“Oh, like Hunter? Or Reid?” Two guys on his soccer team.
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”
“Children, calm yourselves,” Morgan said. “Breathe in, breathe out.”
Randy giggled and nudged Will, who just glared at him. Will leaned farther forward, bracketing his textbook with his arms.
“Here.” Morgan tugged her shirt down. “Try to get something down my shirt. Come on. It’ll make you feel better.”
Randy immediately tore off a corner from one of Will’s notebooks, balled it up, and aimed carefully at the front of Morgan’s V-neck. No luck. “Fuck!” he yelled, pounding on the desk.
No one looked up but the librarian, an ancient crone named Mrs. White, who immediately stalked over. “Randolph!” she hissed. This use of his given name shut him up better than any threat, and he sunk down in his seat so his nose was on the same level as the table top. I stifled a giggle. She crossed her arms, sent him one last scornful look, and marched back to her station behind the circulation desk.
I lost it the second her back was turned. “Randolph!” I wheezed, trying to control myself. “Omigod, how did I not know that?”
“Randolph Walter Spencer Cushing II,” Morgan was only too happy to supply.
I covered my mouth. “No!”
Will nodded gravely, patting Randy on the back. “I’m afraid so.”
Randy sat up. “I can’t believe you don’t know this already, but they don’t let you live in Greenwich unless you have Roman numerals after your name. My dad’s name is actually Mohamed, but my parents just made up a name and tacked the II on so no one would kick us out.”
I leaned against Morgan. “God, your parents must hate you.”
“Yep,” he said cheerfully.
“Well, it can’t be as bad as my middle name,” Morgan said. “Maude.”
This was too much for me. “Maude? Are you kidding me?”
Will cracked a smile in my direction, and suddenly I stopped laughing, leaving a slight smile on my face I hoped he knew was for him. Maybe he didn’t hate me. “Morgan Maude Fawcett,” he said.
“Oh, wow,” I breathed.
“It’s an old family name,” Morgan said defensively.
“So is Randolph,” Randy said. “And Walter. And Spencer. And Cushing. I have family names coming out of my fucking ass.” He tore out another sheet of paper from Will’s notebook. “Okay, now that I’m completely traumatized, can I try again?”
Morgan sighed and leaned way back in her chair. “Okay, but I’m making it hard for you.”
Randy let fly, and the little ball of looseleaf arced gracefully through the air, landing in Morgan’s cleavage. He punched the air triumphantly. “Victory!” he whispered, with a look to the circulation desk. “Okay, Chris, your turn.”
I crossed my arms over my chest (primly concealed beneath a polo shirt) as Morgan fished around in her bra for the errant projectile. “Nope. Sorry.”
“I guess that’s Jake’s territory now, anyway,” Randy said with a dramatic sigh. “Oh, so much possibility, so cruelly wasted.”
Morgan produced the little ball and flung it at him. It landed on the table, halfway between us.
“No big loss,” Will commented, looking directly at me.
Yep... I think it's easy to tell who is who.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
News
- Applying for Time Editorial Summer Internship. If I worked at EW, my life would be made. Of course, competition is stiff, but... I will fight and claw to get it.
- Could get an interview with FNL's Jesse Plemons. Of course, my email hermit tendencies are making me shoot myself in the foot, but... that would be SICK. And I could ask him wtf is up with that murder.
- Could get an interview with FNL's Jesse Plemons. Of course, my email hermit tendencies are making me shoot myself in the foot, but... that would be SICK. And I could ask him wtf is up with that murder.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Ugh
Charles recap:
Had to pass Rutgers on the outside, way wide on Weeks turn. Okay, fine. Not fine? Having to drop the ports out on the Elliot turn. FUCK. Oh, and thanks, Zimmer, for having us practicing high rates. Wtf? We've barely rowed higher than a 32 and he wants us at a 37? Um... no.
More later.
S.W. came, which made me happy. But... I pissed him off when I wouldn't let him stay over. I should have. It would've been polite. But I am a selfish bitch.
Had to pass Rutgers on the outside, way wide on Weeks turn. Okay, fine. Not fine? Having to drop the ports out on the Elliot turn. FUCK. Oh, and thanks, Zimmer, for having us practicing high rates. Wtf? We've barely rowed higher than a 32 and he wants us at a 37? Um... no.
More later.
S.W. came, which made me happy. But... I pissed him off when I wouldn't let him stay over. I should have. It would've been polite. But I am a selfish bitch.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Midterm Season Rapes My Life
Latin Civ: Over.
Shakespeare: Over.
Seminar paper: Am fucked for.
Roman Social: Um.. how long has it been since I've been to that class?
Yeah, I'm screwed. But as Lyla Garrity says, I made my bed. (FNL tomorrow night!)
I think S.W. and I are over. Prague plus my new social life (that's still kind of pathetic and nonexistant) have proven too much for us. But really, you know it's bad when people who barely know me go, "He really only likes you when you're miserable." It's true. I have a personality this year; I'm happy(er); I'm even doing well in crew for the first time since high school. And he can't handle it because he still has nothing. Not that I ever, ever want W.E. to be right about anything, ever, but his nickname for S.W. is apt: Tears. I called him tonight and he just sounded like a beaten-down puppy. In the wise words of Angela Martin, "Sometimes you just need to grow a pair!"
Why do I always end up the man in my relationships? This is exactly like me and B.T. back in senior year of high school. He went to college; I didn't. He wanted to talk every night and didn't want to go out and get a life; I had college applications and a second-place ranking to worry about. So I dumped him. I sound pretty blase, and I was. It's easy to break up with someone who is very far away (see also: K.N.). It's harder to do when you will see him every day (well, thank god for the lightweights' 6 a.m. practices! No shared buses!) and be around him all the time. It's harder when everything on campus will remind you of him. And when you still have some of his clothes and he has your books and iPod and a pair of shoes and your pillows still smell like him from the last time he slept over (was it really a week ago?) and all you can think about how is that yet another good religious Southern boy loved you and you went and fucked it up because nothing will ever ever ever be good enough for you.
I know this is unforgiveably melodramatic, especially since I'm only 20. But at least count I have had three Great Loves of My Life who all thought they would marry me and whom I hurt, badly, each and every one of them. So I feel like, after fucking with three separate guys' hearts, I am qualified to say that I am irrevocably fucked up and hopeless with love and destined to be alone forever. (I'm allowed to say shit like that. I'm grieving. Leave me alone.)
You know what's sad? I still sleep as if he's with me. Or I usually do. But today when I napped, I slept facing the other way, the wall. And yes, it felt weird.
Shakespeare: Over.
Seminar paper: Am fucked for.
Roman Social: Um.. how long has it been since I've been to that class?
Yeah, I'm screwed. But as Lyla Garrity says, I made my bed. (FNL tomorrow night!)
I think S.W. and I are over. Prague plus my new social life (that's still kind of pathetic and nonexistant) have proven too much for us. But really, you know it's bad when people who barely know me go, "He really only likes you when you're miserable." It's true. I have a personality this year; I'm happy(er); I'm even doing well in crew for the first time since high school. And he can't handle it because he still has nothing. Not that I ever, ever want W.E. to be right about anything, ever, but his nickname for S.W. is apt: Tears. I called him tonight and he just sounded like a beaten-down puppy. In the wise words of Angela Martin, "Sometimes you just need to grow a pair!"
Why do I always end up the man in my relationships? This is exactly like me and B.T. back in senior year of high school. He went to college; I didn't. He wanted to talk every night and didn't want to go out and get a life; I had college applications and a second-place ranking to worry about. So I dumped him. I sound pretty blase, and I was. It's easy to break up with someone who is very far away (see also: K.N.). It's harder to do when you will see him every day (well, thank god for the lightweights' 6 a.m. practices! No shared buses!) and be around him all the time. It's harder when everything on campus will remind you of him. And when you still have some of his clothes and he has your books and iPod and a pair of shoes and your pillows still smell like him from the last time he slept over (was it really a week ago?) and all you can think about how is that yet another good religious Southern boy loved you and you went and fucked it up because nothing will ever ever ever be good enough for you.
I know this is unforgiveably melodramatic, especially since I'm only 20. But at least count I have had three Great Loves of My Life who all thought they would marry me and whom I hurt, badly, each and every one of them. So I feel like, after fucking with three separate guys' hearts, I am qualified to say that I am irrevocably fucked up and hopeless with love and destined to be alone forever. (I'm allowed to say shit like that. I'm grieving. Leave me alone.)
You know what's sad? I still sleep as if he's with me. Or I usually do. But today when I napped, I slept facing the other way, the wall. And yes, it felt weird.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Chuck Season
Um...
I got the Charles boat.
Seriously, no false modesty: you could've knocked me over with a feather. I think I actually turned white when I asked John who was in the New Boat and he was like "you." I think Zimmer thinks I'm crazy because I had to ask after practice (where I'd been coxing the Charles boat) who was coxing on Sunday. He also thinks I'm crazy because he had to tell me to email my mother.
So. Excited. And terrified. I have Pete Cipollone's voice in my head. I am muttering "one, SEND, two on the LEGS, three, DRIVE IT" and "finishes, finishes, finishes" all day, every day, and visualizing the course (and not crashing into Elliot Bridge).
I got the Charles boat.
Seriously, no false modesty: you could've knocked me over with a feather. I think I actually turned white when I asked John who was in the New Boat and he was like "you." I think Zimmer thinks I'm crazy because I had to ask after practice (where I'd been coxing the Charles boat) who was coxing on Sunday. He also thinks I'm crazy because he had to tell me to email my mother.
So. Excited. And terrified. I have Pete Cipollone's voice in my head. I am muttering "one, SEND, two on the LEGS, three, DRIVE IT" and "finishes, finishes, finishes" all day, every day, and visualizing the course (and not crashing into Elliot Bridge).
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Prague or Bust
I want to go to Prague to visit K. This is going to cause severe, severe repercussions with S.W., obvious. But... eh. I'd rather go to Prague. How I'm going to pay for it is another story, of course...
I do love that K and I can only be honest to each other (0r even nice to each other, and he pointed out) when one of us is drunk. But we're talking again, and he doesn't hate me, so it's all good. (Why do I care so much about what he thinks of me?)
Head of the Charles is this weekend. BFD. Drama, drama, drama. We know the rowers who are going, but not the coxswain... sooo much drama. I don't even really want to go, I just want to win, and winning means beating out D and S for the Charles boat. I have very studiously been keeping myself out of the fray to avoid getting my ass beat (I could take S, not so sure about D), but of course I still want it.
We'll see.
I do love that K and I can only be honest to each other (0r even nice to each other, and he pointed out) when one of us is drunk. But we're talking again, and he doesn't hate me, so it's all good. (Why do I care so much about what he thinks of me?)
Head of the Charles is this weekend. BFD. Drama, drama, drama. We know the rowers who are going, but not the coxswain... sooo much drama. I don't even really want to go, I just want to win, and winning means beating out D and S for the Charles boat. I have very studiously been keeping myself out of the fray to avoid getting my ass beat (I could take S, not so sure about D), but of course I still want it.
We'll see.
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