tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5097622530927323382023-11-15T10:48:47.567-08:00Wrecked...but still writing.Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-46811045925714480772011-02-14T17:39:00.000-08:002011-02-14T17:39:08.111-08:00Can I Lick Your Dick Into Liking Me?When I was younger, I was severely deluded about love. That being said, I have not become substantially less deluded about love in the ripe old age of twenty two. I have, however, realized a few things. <br />
<br />
Love is not found in a blow job. By the standards of my loose generation, I was a late bloomer. In eighth grade, while my friends were all giving h- jays on the bus to the Baltimore Aquarium, I was pretending to sleep so the-love-of-my-life at the time wouldn’t expect me to receive his tongue in my mouth. Truthfully, I had severe anxiety about French kissing, an anxiety so real and fervent that it caused me to sneak downstairs in the middle of the night, long after my allowed computer time hours were over, and Google websites with kissing instructions and how-tos. Nothing was ever very helpful: swirl your tongue in clockwise and then counter clockwise directions. Bite on his lip to wow him with a kiss he’ll never forget.<br />
Well maybe, random magazine article. But maybe perfecting our form and learning just the right trick, just the right angle to make him cum on command isn’t what makes us unforgettable in a man’s eyes. Maybe we should be instructing our young ones, the future generation of potential male servicing women to fall in love, rather than to fall into bed with guys to practice our tricks. Maybe the best trick is to give unto the man you want yourself, your entire an unguarded self and let that be what he loves about you. Not that you are adventurous enough to toss his salad.<br />
<br />
I did not stop at Googling “French kissing”, if you were wondering. I also Googled “the art of the blow job”, “which position he’ll like best”, and even, if memory serves, “how to 69 in such a way that your butthole isn’t directly enveloping his nose”. A reverse 69 will land a man’s asshole on your nose, regardless of careful positioning. It is not recommended, especially with the unwashed asshole that rested on mine.<br />
<br />
I recently ended a relationship with the only man I’ve ever truly loved. I’m positive that he will not be the last man that I ever loved, but at this moment in time, the blow is crushing. To think I’ll never feel his sweaty hand in my hand, or that I’ll never awkwardly try to plow through his lips with my tongue when he’s aiming for a peck, gives me chills. Gives me sick, violent tremors in my whole body. The memories are already slipping away so quickly that I can barely type them fast enough. He taught me a lesson, though. It was never about the skill I possessed with my tongue; he would have loved us together regardless. Learning how to love someone with whatever your body has to offer, that’s what is special. <br />
<br />
I will always love you in some way. I commemorate the good aspects of our love here today. Thanks for loving me through and through and teaching me that, after all, I have to learn to love my self.Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-79188760593866994032010-11-14T14:54:00.000-08:002010-11-14T15:16:55.835-08:00UPJ Crampus My StyleChanging leaves. It just <i>was </i> the favorite time of year for most, but this brief intermission between Summer and snow is leaving everyone a little uneasy. The leaves have turned from green to reds and yellows, and settled in a light brown pie crust over the grounds. College campuses across the East Coast have undergone similar transformations during the Fall semester. I find myself comparing my old alma mater to my new place of work often. Similar qualities comprise both campuses: a spread of stone buildings, illuminated by soft November sunlight, large shady trees, and sweatpants-donning students as far as the eye can see.<br />
<br />
The only difference? It is no longer my haven to enjoy, to take for granted. Now, when I walk the concrete pathways, I don't hear the patter of cheap plastic flip-flops, but the harsh staccato of high heels. I can't mosey from class to class, in fact, "moseying" is explicitly forbidden in my job description. <br />
<br />
Where am I? Better yet, WHO am I? Procuring a steady and full time job in my MAJOR no less was supposed to put me on the right track. Instead, it has only made me long for the track I was once on. <br />
<br />
But, unfortunately, my tree has shed it's tender, green leaves and replaced them with forever frozen, bare appendages.Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-19778506423089265902010-11-09T21:04:00.000-08:002010-11-09T21:04:42.005-08:00Totes Quotes“In the long run, we shape our lives, and we shape ourselves. The process never ends until we die. And the choices we make are ultimately our own responsibility.” // Eleanor Roosevelt<br />
<br />
Every artist was first an amateur.<br />
Ralph Waldo Emerson<br />
<br />
Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.<br />
Helen Keller <br />
<br />
Life is a tragedy for those who feel, and a comedy for those who think.<br />
La Bruyere<br />
<br />
In the hopes of reaching the moon men fail to see the flowers that blossom at their feet.<br />
Albert SchweitzerBeyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-24965779498211059082010-10-18T15:40:00.001-07:002010-10-18T15:47:47.253-07:00By The Way...Hate my life.<br />
<br />
That is all.Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-74735582995922570472010-10-13T08:33:00.001-07:002010-10-13T08:33:56.629-07:00Cooking Up A Meaning For My LifeThis sentence is uttered often and in different variations: “I hate my life, my purposeless, driven-less, pointless existence.” Sometimes, a pronouncement of this sort can work in magical ways. What appears to be a simple statement confided in a spouse, therapist, or any non-confidant is often meant to soar straight into heaven, landing on God’s ethereal ears. It is a cry for help. He, knowing that the source of distress was merely a person who had not yet arrived at their meaningful moment, will give them (sometimes) a gentle push in the right direction. People often describe their moment of clarity coming suddenly, surprisingly, and right in the nick of time.<br />
<br />
But what of those not destined to cure cancer or touch a life or paint a Mona Lisa? Does he bother to help them? What of the people He simply created without planning, like a thoughtless batch of sugar cookies on a Sunday afternoon? Without the effort of, say, a soufflé, couldn’t he theoretically make easy desserts that serve no purpose out of boredom? Space-fillers?<br />
<br />
What an awful notion. Everyone wants desperately to believe that they were put on this Earth with a special plan in mind because we are force fed the idea that we are all special and different and wonderful in God’s eyes. But surely this can’t apply to everyone.<br />
<br />
When one of these space-fillers complains, space-fillers who don’t realize they’re space-fillers, and yearns for the same gentle shove, is his answer to consume them? I’m picturing a musing, androgynous mix of bearded grandfather figure and plump, motherly, kitchen-dwelling woman; Santa Claus meets Mrs.. Cleaver. I picture prayers floating around this figure like snowflakes. Some, he chooses to let dissolve on His tongue, yet others land, negligently absorbed, in the snow. A person who needs guidance to fulfill their life’s meaning will get help when asked. But does our creator care to council those who are just…here? That completely depressing thought (that maybe some people just aren’t worth saving or helping) washed over me. It was disgusting. No cavalry is sending me a “purpose” to trip over just when I think all hope is lost. Maybe God or Allah or whatever is up there or around HELPING those who need guidance, gets sick of hearing the complaints from the worthless people. So he just invented adult chicken pocks. Or accidental pianos falling on people in the street. All those goofy ways to die are just God’s way of sifting out the riff raff. And…am I the riff raff?<br />
<br />
The question remains, can we assign meaning to our own lives? Do we have the power? When we send up our prayers, mourning, and weeping is it all for naught against the grains of fate? How do you know if you’re a soufflé or a sugar cookie?Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-57753627023369403402010-09-30T09:03:00.000-07:002010-09-30T09:03:20.347-07:00Like Smelling Your Own Farts; In a Phrase... Please Hire Me?While I was in the bathroom this morning (the place and time where all truly inspired thinking occurs) I finally understood why I was not landing a job. It's all about the resume, but slightly about my inability to be liked by a person when they first meet me.<br />
<br />
In my Technical Writing/Communication class, my professor likened a resume to a blind date, which seems to be a standard comparison. It makes sense; you acquaint the other person with the basics: your name, interests, skills, alma mater, previous work experience. Now, the important part is to make your 8 by 11 sheet of card-stock stand out among the billions of other fish in the sea. You must pay attention to font and pleasing spacing throughout the page, much like one would pay more attention to their dry elbows and uni-brow when meeting for drinks at the Castle Pub. All the cardinal rules of resume writing line up with the small-talk chitter chatter that two people use when deciding whether or not to date. With a resume, you're simply trying to establish a relationship with the company. <br />
<br />
This sounds relatively easy. Well, the standing out part, maybe not so much, but most people are confident enough to go on a date thinking "They're definitely going to fall in love with my _____ (something) tonight!" At least on some unconscious level, most people believe that they've got one hook that they can offer that no one else can at the time. <br />
<br />
Herein lies the rub: first impressions are my complete downfall. I've always referred to myself as "an acquired taste" when dating. It takes a date or two to get used to my nervous obnoxious laughter and my moderately off-putting jokes about flatulence. If a man is just desperate enough (or that entranced by my double d's) to stick around, he will usually fall in love with me.<br />
<br />
Now, I'm not vain enough to suggest that every man I've ever spent time with that extended past dinner and a movie was proposing to me, but I seem to have a certain quality that keeps me busy with at least 2 or 3 obsessive suitors at a time. I just take some getting used to.<br />
<br />
This is why I haven't found a job. I haven't been allowed the courtesy of an interview or even a second interview, so my resume is failing miserably on that first date. Like sushi or learning to appreciate the smell of your own farts, I just haven't been given a decent shot! I never get the chance to run into a company at Wal*Mart and guilt it into a second try, another go-around at Applebees. <br />
<br />
Someday, I'm sure, some fortune five-hundred monstrosity of a company will be camped outside my house, begging for me to move into its cubicle and do data entry, or life as it knows it will simply not go on. the company will go on and on about my indispensable assets that it knows I'll bring to the relationship and say it can't live another moment without my charisma and charm. <br />
<br />
Or maybe its the boobs.Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-46083654382949312972010-09-26T20:05:00.000-07:002010-09-26T20:05:14.530-07:00My nasty, clever boyfriend.I recently decided that my boyfriend will only be allowed to refer to me by pet-names if they are seasonally appropriate. He just called me "blumpkin pie"...<br />
<br />
He can be a real pain in my ass, more so than horror stories of other boyfriend flaws I've heard, but my god do I love him.Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-71911708892873108422010-09-19T16:36:00.000-07:002010-09-19T16:36:42.548-07:00I Should Really Stop Letting 30 Rock Influence Me So Much..It seems irresponsible for me to blame my unemployment on my surroundings. Truth be told, I am not showcasing my "talent".<br />
<br />
Do I have any talent? What in god's name can I even do? I flip flop so much; one moment I project the I-can-do-anything-if-someone-would-just-give-me-a-chance mentality, yet the next second, I'm a blubbering pile of non-self esteem.<br />
<br />
<br />
Shape up, Beyer. This is no time for weaklings.Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-60557835646830218472010-09-14T21:07:00.000-07:002010-09-22T13:01:18.719-07:00Generation: WorthlessMy temporary employment is now over. While my fellow college grads spent their summers diligently job-searching, I was living in a state of delusion, convinced that water-cooler rumors and encouraging toothy smiles from fellow employees meant they'd be keeping me on permanently.<br />
<br />
But it just ain't in the budget.<br />
<br />
I didn't want to be "permanent" there, anyway. It wasn't my field, it wasn't any fun. It was decent work for great pay, which would be a nice <i>temporary</i> situation...but like a tattoo bearing that description, it rubbed off in the shower too quickly. <br />
<br />
My "professional" (I actually just laughed out loud at myself for writing that...even with quotation marks around it, that word is so improper to describe my chain-smoking, booger-flicking, feelings-eating, couch-farting life) career aside, I've got a plethora of other issues to deal with. Big Dave, my father, has taken to coming home to me on his lunch break and screaming at me for my unemployment (though I'm doing all that I can short of driving to various offices...which I would do, if I had a vehicle...), forbidding me from seeing my boyfriend (who lives 4 hours away), and generally insulting my fat gut, my laziness, and my stupidity for choosing such a worthless major.<br />
<br />
...at least it has given me the means to write a nice, public blog entry about his big old douchey ways. Take that! <br />
<br />
All appreciation for the zero readers I've got, who will certainly beam their good thoughts and intentions to me upon reading this sad-sack post, and will also certainly beam thoughts to my father, asking him to lay off me unless he wants to find me under a truck on a highway.<br />
<br />
It just wouldn't sound the same coming from me.Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-17978970312459642202010-06-29T18:56:00.000-07:002010-06-29T18:56:34.986-07:00An Unsent LetterDear you,<br />
Last year, I got a Valentine card about farts. Was that really a year ago already? It honestly hurts my<br />
head to think about all of the things that have happened this year. Never in a million years…<br />
<br />
I almost feel bad about <i>typing</i> this letter because I’m robbing you of my gorgeous left-handed<br />
penmanship. My sociology professor told me that a substantial percentage of left-handed people are confused about their sexuality and often lean both ways- just a fascinating little tidbit for you to chew<br />
on for a while. I usually hate separating useless fragments with –dashes- or :colons: but Microsoft Office sees fit to ignore my poetic license concerning fragment usage so-there it is. It’s really confused about all<br />
of the unnecessary punctuation I’ve just included.<br />
<br />
I just got a stack of posters to put up for the vagina monologues and I’m considering just wallpapering the computer lab with them. We get t-shirts next week! I hate wearing the button though; I think strangers confuse me for a show kid when I wear buttons, especially because of my newfound affinity for wearing slimming black clothing. Then opening night is Thursday. You called me on opening night last year. As I recall, you thought I was mad at you. Actually, I was just a completely nervous wreck and found it difficult to articulate...anything.<br />
<br />
Over the summer, someone asked me what I was thinking when I chose English as a major. I said “Eh, I used to think I wanted to be a writer and I’ll still write every day blah blah blah hopefully not from my<br />
parents basement! hahah” ( the usual recycled response I give to everyone who asks). They said, “Oh, cool. So where can I find your blog?” And I (completely befuddled by anything online that isn’t facebook)<br />
responded with my own question: “Normal people can have blogs?” Blonde moment. That was a really long paragraph that was basically a set up for this sentence: I’ve been blogging a lot recently. Haha. My<br />
fiction class makes me want to do everything and write some variation of it down.<br />
<br />
My new favorite song is Train- Hey Soul Sister. P.S. you did not make me love Jason Mraz; I’m simply able to stomach one of his songs now and even that has taken on a different meaning for me. I do admit that the man has a great talent for lyrics, he is just usually more annoying than not. Like you.<br />
<br />
First paying gig: February 7th, 2010. Hotel Super bowl Party. I am officially on the road to stardom and<br />
fame. Watch out! I’m really nervous, though. I spent all of yesterday (Wednesday) in bed. Caught a<br />
particularly nasty sickness but today I had a bagel from Starbucks and feel fine. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t<br />
real sickness though; my body most likely invented it to deal with my nerves. I miss the days of<br />
elementary school though, where you could afford to be sick for a day. Missing Wednesday has<br />
completely messed up my life.<br />
Well, I think that’s about it for me. Must prepare for class.Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-34987035546765053562010-05-03T07:29:00.000-07:002010-05-03T07:29:31.160-07:00Day of Zero Original Thought:Considering it's finals week, I'm giving my brain a rest and posting things I wish to remember:<br />
<br />
<b>Dear child, I only did to you what the sparrow<br />
did to you; I am old when it is fashionable to be<br />
young; I cry when it is fashionable to laugh.<br />
I hated you when it would have taken less courage<br />
to love. <br />
</b><br />
-Bukowski<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Perhaps not to be is to be without your being,<br />
without your going, that cuts noon light<br />
like a blue flower, without your passing<br />
later through fog and stones,<br />
without the torch you lift in your hand<br />
that others may not see as golden,<br />
that perhaps no one believed blossomed<br />
the glowing origin of the rose,<br />
without, in the end, your being, your coming<br />
suddenly, inspiringly, to know my life,<br />
blaze of the rose-tree, wheat of the breeze:<br />
and it follows that I am, because you are:<br />
it follows from ‘you are’, that I am, and we:<br />
and, because of love, you will, I will,<br />
We will, come to be. </i><br />
<br />
-pablo nerudaBeyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-26088288783283965432010-04-19T08:21:00.000-07:002010-04-19T09:30:10.144-07:00Telling PostsI can't believe I haven't blogged about this yet. Two thursdays ago, I blew off my mandatory field trip to D.C. with my acting class to spend time with Andrew for the first time in almost a year. It was the weekend before Easter, and while everyone else was going home to spend time with family, I was trying to see if I could ever make a family with this person who had hurt me so cavernously before. <br />
<br />
I was drunk when he showed up at ten o'clock, which, in retrospect, was not a great idea. My friend had turned the 80 degree day into the perfect Day-keg day, justifying it with "will we be able to do this when we graduate?" I figured I would only knock back a few, then sober up before he got there. This is partially what happened. Unfortunatly, not entirely...but hey. My nerves probably would have gotten the best of me. For weeks before he showed up, I asked him on the phone what an appropriate greeting would be when he finally came: would we hug? kiss? shake hands? What if he went in for a hug and I mistook it for a kiss and we felt awkward for the rest of the weekend? How do you say "Hello, so sorry you went missing all that time, it's nice to see you again, now that I'm completely screwed up on the inside as a direct result of you." You can't. Now you see why the day-keg was a necessity...These scenarios plagued my mind until five to six natty lights eased the pain. <br />
<br />
When he knocked on my door, we hugged. We hugged for a long time, making up for lost hugs, hugs we could have had in the nine months he was gone. Neither of us knew what to expect from this visit and masked it as a simple tying of loose ends. We were both worried that the other would expect there to be feelings, but after nine months of limited communication including weekly letters and monthly phonecalls, how can one hope to retain feelings for another person?<br />
<br />
After ten minutes of temporary awkwardness, we found ourselves sprawled out (fully clothed) on my bed, talking. I had craved this moment for a long time and it was satisfying to finally get the explanations I needed. I studied him while he explained his absence, his feelings, his adventures, his pain. His face was skinnier: his entire body was skinnier, actually. Except for his love handles (which he mentions frequently that he'll never rid himself of...something about it running in the family, which is ironic..). <br />
<br />
He asked me to be his girlfriend again that night. "No," I said, point-blank. "Are you insane?"<br />
<br />
To be his girlfriend again three weeks after he got out of the slammer would make me appear to be everything that everyone thought i was: a complete and total pushover. A girl with a silly crush on a boy who manipulated and treated her like shit. Couldn't live with that.<br />
<br />
"At least wait until tomorrow night. I'll take you out on a date. Make your decision after you've seen how much I've changed."<br />
<br />
Ok. I never turn down free food.<br />
<br />
We had a great time. A perfect time, actually. I won't go into the details- it was your general opening doors, pulling out chairs, hand-holding good time. The only thing that separated us from a regular romantic date was the location: Ryan's, the fat-people buffet. Not your ideal intimate setting, but we had fun together which is what I loved about him. <br />
<br />
When we got home that night, we watched a movie, curled up together in my bed and shared Busch pounders. Again, the ideal textbook romance? Not in the slightest. But I was never happier. He asked me again and I was forced to say "no" yet again, but I knew I wanted him exclusively. The thought of his big square hands enveloping anyone else's fingers drove me half crazy.<br />
<br />
Since then, we've talked every night and made plans to rekindle our relationship, hopefully. He's trying to understand the line between funny and prick and I'm trying to stop drinking and making out with strangers. We've got a long, unconvential road ahead, but are willing to try.<br />
<br />
<br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
On a slightly unrelated note (hence the above squigglies), I found a blog post from a month ago from another social networking site (I Know!! What a traitor, I am!) This blog outlines my weightloss plan. Here is the entry.<br />
<br />
<b>after a rough day of playing therapist to everyone and their brother, my roommate and i decided to hit up WIBS, the bar we share a parking lot with, for vodka cranberries and a game or two of pool. while there, we chain-smoked cigarettes and got a teeny bit more drunk than we had anticipated. it doesn’t help that the bartender is a friend and makes all drinks incredibly strong.<br />
<br />
I left the bar around 11:30 to take a phone call from my ex-boyfriend who is supposed to visit me tonight to attempt to rekindle our relationship. Sidenote: this is a terrible idea because he was no Jim Halpert (though he sometimes gets mistaken for him in the looks department…) and treated me like crap. Lately, he’s been trying to control his asshole-tendencies but is failing miserably.<br />
<br />
WHAT, you may ask, does this have anything to do with dieting?<br />
<br />
WELL: during our conversation, which was supposed to be brief and include only travel plans for today, he told me that he was not sure about continuing our relationship BECAUSE our children would have to rely on his gene pool to avoid being FAT and PASTEY.<br />
<br />
<i>So, the drunken wheels began to turn in my head, and I pictured a daughter, my unborn daughter, playing on a little league team or jumping off a rope swing into a lake…and yeah, in my head, she’s a little chubby…but the thought of being with someone who wouldn’t love our daughter because of her physical appearance disgusted me and quite literally broke my heart. I would think that a valuable human being (who is supposed to be in love with me) would love our daughter EVEN MORE because she looked just like me.<br />
</i><br />
After this conversation, I ate two turkey sandwiches with disgusting amount of mayonnaise, passed out on my couch, and skipped my 11 o’clock existentialism class. I then went to the dining hall (which i never do) and ate a cheese steak (extra cheese, extra everything) a cup of strawberry shortcake, and spinach bruschetta. And fries. Also, two cups of Dr. Pepper.<br />
<br />
I now hate my life and my body and am not doing so hot on my second day.<br />
<br />
<br />
</b><br />
<br />
<br />
What do I do with that? I keep it close to my heart. I remember the italics and the pain I felt and I remember that if he ever says something like that to me again, that I'm out the door.<br />
<br />
I love him more than the world, but I love myself too. I won't sacrifice myself again. Hopefully he stays the way he is now and hopefully its not an act that I'm mesmerized by.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"I won't have fat ugly babies, will I, Abby?"<br />
"No," she texted back. "Your babies will be beautiful and come out of the womb telling jokes. I love you."<br />
<br />
I'm just going to marry her.Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-15228231520633019492010-03-31T07:49:00.000-07:002010-03-31T07:49:57.570-07:00Old old old work. Weird and...psychologically revealing because (shocker!) it goes from fiction into straight journal.<b>My biggest issue as a writer is the inability to write about anything other than events directly from my life. Seems this is not a newly developed trend, as this "piece" is from almost four years ago.</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I lay silently next to Phillip thinking to myself. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him studying me, could feel his eyes looking me over from top to bottom. I felt naked even in my flannel pajama pants and my brother’s high school basketball shirt that often doubled as my nightgown. <br />
“Why aren’t you talking tonight?” The concern in his tone was unmistakable. That was the thing that attached me to Phil; his feelings for me were genuine and unhidden. The fact that someone could care so openly about me was endearing, and to be honest, I had never had it before. <br />
“I’m just thinking. Don’t even ask about what,” I interrupted his thought to respond as soon as I had seen his mouth open. I was in no mood to discuss “what was on my mind” tonight. <br />
“Okay, okay,” he said, relenting. “I guess I should be thankful for a moment of peace with you. But just so you know,” he quickly added, “if you need to talk about something I’m here for you.”<br />
“I know,” I muttered, cursing his availability. Some people have a hard time understanding the suffocation that comes with too much love. I guess coming from a family where “love” is the headline and kisses and hugs are mandatory makes you a little less needy when it comes to intimate relationships; Freud at his worst could tell you that. Whatever the case, Phil’s room was shrinking by the second, and his scratchy bedspread had begun to smother me more and more.<br />
I reached over the side of the bed and grabbed my bag, digging for a cigarette. I could feel the vibration of my cell phone at the bottom of my purse, but I ignored it in my pursuit of my Marlboro Lights. I didn’t feel the pull of nicotine…I didn’t like a thing about the actual cigarette; I only continued to smoke because it gave me an excuse to leave practically any situation. And now, I was using my deceitful “addiction” to escape my boyfriend. <br />
“I’m buying you the patch and duct taping it to your ass so you’ll freakin’ quit already,” Phil said as he caught notice of my unopened pack. He detested smokers, and only put up with it from me because he loved me, I guess. <br />
“They go on your arm, douche bag.” <br />
“I know,” he said with his goofy smirk that was used in his every response. “I just like to touch your ass.” His eastern Pennsylvania accent made “ass” sound like “ace” which made me flinch when he said it. “Class” was the same way.<br />
Using that indecorous comment as an all access pass, Phil became all smiles the way he always does and began to suck hard on my neck and reached under my t-shirt in a most unappealing way. A sensual lover he was not. Feeling violated, I pulled away from him.<br />
“You want to take this little love fest outside?” I asked, fully knowing that he would not. <br />
“God no, just make sure you brush your teeth before you come back to bed.”<br />
“I’ll see what I can do.” With every word that left my lips, I could feel my innermost thoughts making their way out of me in the form of a cold disposition. <br />
“Why are you taking your purse, it’s two feet outside.” He leaned on his elbow, studying me again as I made my way for the door.<br />
“My lighter. I’ve lost four this week so I’m not taking any chances.”<br />
Seemingly satisfied with my weak explanation, he fell back into his pillows and closed his eyes. <br />
I closed his door, breathing a small sigh of relief. I galloped down his steps and into the outside world. As soon as I hit the cool air I began to sprint, and I tell you, I have no idea why. I didn’t know what I would say to explain myself when he realized I’d taken a three hour smoke break and called my phone to check on me. I bolted across the street and out of view from his window. I ran, flip flops flapping, across campus, a destination swimming in my subconscious but hesitating to surface.<br />
Truly, I knew where I was headed. Kent’s apartment was five minutes away, and I was running right for it. As I reached into my purse in the middle of my 5k, I could feel more vibrations coming from the phone. The vibrate ring option served dual purposes; keeping Phil in the dark about my secret conversations and of course, the added perk of a sexual reminder. Just feeling the small phone vibrate in my lap or in my hand was enough to cue my senses and jogged my memory of my last sexual encounter with Kent. <br />
His text was simple: “Cumming over?” The sexual innuendo with this man was childish, but completely arousing. <br />
I arrived at the door of his apartment shortly after. As I looked up at his window, I texted that I was outside, and within the next thirty seconds his face appeared, scanning the area for me. I waved coyly, seductively exhaling my freshly lit cigarette. He smiled and opened the window.<br />
“That was quick.”<br />
“You’re gonna have to be too, I don’t have a lot of time.”<br />
“Well, that I can’t promise you…you know I like to enjoy you,” he said, smirking. Again, it was endearing. I don’t judge men based on their level of simplicity. “When you’re done with that cigarette, get up here. I’ve got something to show you.”<br />
Curiosity tugged at me. I took slow drags, postponing our encounter as much as I could. I thrived on the waiting game, <br />
<br />
<br />
I step into the bathroom and undress. I’ve felt a strong need all day long to wash away the memories of last night. I start the water, adjust the temperature and flip the switch to fill the tub. It’s broken of course, yet another reminder of my disappointing existence in this place. Nothing works. I contemplate putting my clothes back on seeing as how I was looking forward to soaking in water as opposed to allowing it to pelt me, but I change my mind. I’m already naked, anyway. I begin to sink into my brain, the shower washing me not only with water but thoughts of the night before. I flashback to that time, which was actually more of the morning than the night, and it saddens me. <br />
Josh was a decently attractive man, or so I thought while filled to the brim with a beer-induced stupor. I hang on him like he’s the last man I’ll ever sleep with and he takes me home. The same string of events seems to happen after the first conversation I have with men, that part that comes right before I go back to their houses. I decide after a few minutes if I find them intriguing or unworthy of my attention and I move from there. I’m usually wrong. Whatever initial attraction I have to them begins to fade slowly as I spend more time with them. They reveal their flaws over a span of an hour, or a week and I realize this and move on. I can’t decide what’s worse; the fact that all men lay far below my expectations, or my inability to move past minor snags and hold on to something that could be meaningful. If I can’t see a future, I find myself constantly looking for a point. Why am I here now, what am I getting out of this? Is it worth it? The answer is always, of course, no. So, I remove myself from the situation. My friends and family fail to see the logic in my actions. “How will you ever find a husband if you reject every man who shows any signs of interest in you?” they say. As if landing a husband should be a goal that consumes my every waking moment. I have no interest in finding a husband. Every attempt I have made in the past to pursue a man has ended in severe disappointment. So I wait. And if a man who has any hope of fulfilling my needs happens to come along and love me, then fine. I will not, however, waste any more valuable time trying to make pointless relationships work for the sake of grandchildren and taxes. I am fine in my current situation. Not that I have to convince you; I think that the fact that you’re reading this greatly reinforces your faith in my opinions. <br />
I don’t reveal this often, but I am terrified of myself. Constantly surrounded by women in love, and movies about it, and poems and greeting cards, I am forced to wonder whether or not I was skipped over when God handed out the ability to love. I have to feel incomplete when I am bombarded with it always. Sometimes I wonder if the fault doesn’t lie with the incapable men, but with me. In me, are there problems that I ignore?Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-66358321208124900602010-03-31T07:37:00.000-07:002010-03-31T07:37:18.173-07:00draft? did i write this in my sleep?"It seems the only bit of fiction my brain can conjure comes in a completely hypnagogic state...so then, i dream stories and forget them for the most part, except for the truly disturbing. Which, honest to god, turns me on."<br />
<br />
What does this even mean? Ever since Abby and I stayed up til 5am (chain smoking and watching old episodes of "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia"), my sleep schedule has been out of whack and taking a severe toll on every facet of my life.<br />
Writing.<br />
Exercising.<br />
Diet.<br />
Bad habits (smoke feind, booze hound...well, those were always bad, before the sleeping thing)<br />
Self.Es.Teem. It's hard to love yourself when the rings around your eyes look like busted tires from your old car.<br />
Grammar is suffering the most.<br />
<br />
Oh well. It's humpday and the morning sun tastes like runny eggs and fresh-squeezed beginnings.<br />
<br />
Does that resonate with anyone? Dr. Woelz, fiction professor extroadinaire (goddamn my spelling! no wonder i never won 'cherry pie' in elementary school...) has been encouraging our class to-get ready for this one-use imagry in our writing! Who'da thunk? <br />
Examples of my own piss poor work: <br />
1.The music sounded heavy as the good-bye cardboard box after the break-up. <br />
2.The color green feels like an awkward confession.<br />
3.The inside of the kiwi smells like watery eyes and getaways. <br />
<br />
Oh well. I recently had a poem published in the monthly ship 'zine "Spawning Pool". I kind of like that my POETRY is sometimes appreciated...I don't consider myself a poet by any means, but then again, I can't seem to write anything else, so perhaps the piteous life of poet it is for me!<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Agony of the Twin Bed:</b><br />
<br />
<i>"It takes a spasm of love to write a poem."<br />
-Erica Jong</i><br />
<br />
I sleep so soundly<br />
when you don’t spend the night.<br />
sleep in your bed so <br />
I can let my guard down,<br />
Let limbs drape, sheets tangle.<br />
spend the night and<br />
I stare at the ceiling,<br />
Restlessly aware of my every uneasy <br />
twitch.<br />
Your arm’s asleep and I’m wide awake.<br />
Contricted, we spoon to fit.<br />
Not to be close, but comfortable.<br />
I sleep so soundly when you stay at home,<br />
But I prefer the twin;<br />
The toss and the turn. <br />
<br />
<i>"They all cheat sooner or later. You might as well have one who isn't a bore the rest of the time."<br />
-Jong<br />
</i><br />
<br />
^^Inspired by a certain ex-lover about a year ago. Jong speaks to me directly, I feel. Everything she says hits me like a foul ball to the teeth.<br />
<br />
The next, also inspired by the same guy. Whether or not these poems mean anything, I couldn't tell ya. But...you know. I dig them, cause I did them. Recently painted the following poem on a black vase in my house in white puff paint. Delightfully theraputic. It feels nice to make things.<br />
<br />
<b>Not Dreams</b><br />
they aren't nightmares<br />
but dreams are filled with fairies,<br />
romance,<br />
<br />
mermaids with pink scaly tails<br />
and pouty lips.<br />
Seashell bras. Not ripped off,<br />
littering the sea floor<br />
but on, <br />
keeping the ocean a decent place<br />
for the fish race. <br />
<br />
Can I call it "dream" when you appear?<br />
You suck the magic out of rooms <br />
when you're here, you make it mean. <br />
Not scary, not always. Not nightmares.<br />
Not dreams. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Hopefully this weekend, some questions in my life will be answered. I'm a little scared that I've already answered them and that allowing what I'm allowing to happen will prove to be an exercise in futility, but ah. Isn't that life?Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-17599948817294526752010-03-23T11:55:00.000-07:002010-03-23T11:55:05.437-07:00The Case of the Warmed Up Toilet SeatJim Edwards, existentialism expert and associate professor at Shippensburg University, loves to talk creep. It is, before English, his native tongue. His topics of choice in past classes have included "incestual relationships with one's brother", "the disgust that subconsciously accompanies the fear and sadness of seeing one's own dying mother", and 'all the "failed left-fielders" in the world' (i.e. those who dreamt of playing professional baseball as a child [or who had any dreams at all] only to discover that they sucked at the game). These are gloomy and disturbing topics, which most brains approach with "wooley mindedness" or a conscious effort to keep these socially unacceptable and sometimes sad thoughts in an area of the brain that lies below the surface.<br />
<br />
Last week, he tried to make the class uncomfortable by lying down on the desk in a seductive way, but because I spend 50% of the class fantasizing about all the dirty, educated things he could do to me, I was only aroused. Everybody wins.<br />
<br />
Much of our focus revolves around the thoughts that we ignore for socially fashioned reasons; in some instances, the thoughts we think are too uncomfortable to voice not only in public, but in the sanctity of our own brains. <br />
<br />
I was watching porn the other night (one of those random attacks of arousal around three in the morning) and a small twinge in my brain made me hesitate as my mouse scrolled over a clip which included lesbians.<br />
Now, because I do not include "women" under "interested in" on my facebook page, I do not consider myself a lesbian. In the deep recesses of my mind, however, I have natural curious thoughts about experimenting and learning more about this way of life annnnnnnd my first instinct is to SUPPRESS IT!<br />
<br />
WHY?! <br />
At three in the morning, when no one will ever know what kind of pornography I choose to peruse, why in GOD'S name would I have to hide from myself?<br />
<br />
And, why, for that matter, do we get uncomfortable with unnecessary or unexplainable nice-ness? Why, when we meet someone who is sugary and has an overly sunny dispostion, do we want to immediately blow their brains out? This niceness evokes, in most people, a bit of hatred. Can we explain or deny this? I know I can't deny it. A random, unwarranted hug can oftentimes be my tipping point into complete and utter crazytown. Is it because I question the motivation for the hug? <br />
WHY OH WHY would random people stand on a corner offering hugs? In 99 out of 100 cases a random hug is NOT the answer to a shitty day, but the CAUSE. Invasions of personal space suck. They are oogy and unwanted. Not this, you free-hug-wielding mother fuckers. Nobody is buying it. If you get off to hugging strangers all day, you need to take a deep look inside of yourself and find another way to fill the void. Heroin. Dangerous stunts. Just don't fucking hug me.<br />
<br />
Edwards suggested that we think about the "oogy" feeling we get when we sit down in a public restroom and the toilet seat is still warm. Blegh.<br />
Why does this upset us so? It should not be surprising that someone had used the restroom in the recent past; no one walks into a public bathroom and thinks that they're christening a virgin toilet. So why the willies when we sit there? Is it the absence of humanity that bothers us? Is it a lonlieness brought on by the mere TRACE of a person who is now gone? A reminder that our time here is short, and our traces will fade with time?<br />
<br />
Who fucking knows. The only thing I'm sure of in life at the moment is that, given the opportunity, I would bang Jim Edwards into next month.Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-26998354483595389092010-03-16T23:50:00.000-07:002010-03-18T10:20:19.140-07:00the toothbrush storySo...my friends and i decide one night that our troubles are so terrible that we truly need to go to the bar on a tuesday night. we buy drinks. we get a little drunk and a little lazy...basically, abby and i crawl into bed togehter (me in my underwear, she with her nose ring askew)and our lazyness overcame us. katie, my roommate, was brushing her teeth and i called to her, i called her name: "KATIE! KATIE PLEASE DO ME A SMALL FAVOR, IT WON'T TAKE ANY EFFORT ON YOUR PART!" When she complied, i told her my request: Bring me my toothbrush, complete with toothpaste and a cup for spitting, so i may brush my teeth without getting up again. Katie, much to our surprise, brought my scum-covered tooth brush for me to brush my teeth. we then discovered that abby had not brushed her teeth in days. Days, i tell you. So, being the friendly sharing girl that i am, shared my toothbrush with her. We alternated: her, then me, her, then me...brushing our teeth with the same toothbrush in my bed. we then decided that, to make best use of our cup of water, we would each take a swig of liquid, gargle, then spit at once......the best laid plans, eh? <br />
<br />
when we both went to spit, half of the gargley, shared toothpaste water, came out of abbys mouth, covering my laptop screen. i began to laugh, completely unaware of the dire consequences it could cause for my lap top, and upon hearing my laughter, abby released te rest of the shitty liquid (shiquid) from her mouth all over my bed. we are now laying in it. <br />
<br />
<br />
the end.Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-46239164714359500442010-02-04T10:42:00.000-08:002010-02-04T10:43:13.327-08:00LabI just had Beyer-iah and Abby's Key-ster is about to explode.Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-81849239666492544902010-02-02T12:36:00.000-08:002010-02-02T12:37:03.439-08:00I want...an avacado tree. Guacamole all day, every day!Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-48375147180532934962010-02-02T10:40:00.000-08:002010-02-02T11:16:43.124-08:00Ex-lovers Ruin the Best Things, Should We Choose to Share Them"I smell you in my secret pack of cigarettes. You were in the whiff of Spring I caught last weekend in the melting January snow. You are mixed with the detergent in my bed sheets. Get out of my nose, please."<br /><br />The worst thing about dating another person is the pieces of you they take with them when they leave. When with romantically involved with someone, people tend to expose them to the little things in life which make them unique: favorite movies, music; secrets; birthmarks. Naturally. We like to expose our boyfriends/girlfriends to things we love (or hate) so that they can know us on deep personal levels. Sadly, these are things shared when the relationship is running smoothly with little or no regard to what happens when the inevitable (in most cases) break-up presents itself. We can easily give back materials: the terrifying cardboard box routine, complete with tshirts, CDs (or mp3 players as technology progresses?), hairbrushes or anything else left at your boyfriend's place to facilitate spending nights there. That is the easy part. The difficulty arises when you go to watch "The Princess Bride", your favorite childhood movie that once got you through the rough times, but now presents rough times of its own. You watched that with him. It was to reconcile a fight, you cuddled on the uncomfortable couch in your old apartment sophomore year. You ate poorly made pancakes and pointed out the boom mic that appears 20 minutes into the movie, due to poorly trained sound tecs, or so you presume. He hated it. You made up.<br /><br />The movie is now tainted by the ever present memory of your relationship. <br /><br />Then you start working out, tanning, making yourself more desirable to the opposite sex, because, let's face it, you really let the fat accumulate when you were dating someone who already accepted you for you. Plus, the consoling break-up cookies and ice cream didn't do much for your newly single figure either.<br />You check yourself out in the mirror one night-naked, of course, for the first time, just to see if you've still got it. You're sweaty and toned and oh god, that's right. "My birthmark, the one on the back of my thigh!" You think to yourself, realizing that he was the only one who knew about it because he was the only one who could have seen the back of your thigh. Then it becomes partially his thigh and his birthmark. His knowledge of its presence gives him a sort of entitlement to your body and then nothing, nothing!, is yours!<br /><br />You now realize that they have imprinted themselves on you. <br /><br />Now that you don't have him, but he still has you, what have you got?Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-50519627443976736722010-02-01T07:51:00.001-08:002010-02-01T07:51:48.020-08:00Life Storyby Tennessee Williams <br /><br />After you've been to bed together for the first time, <br />without the advantage or disadvantage of any prior acquaintance, <br />the other party very often says to you, <br />Tell me about yourself, I want to know all about you, <br />what's your story? And you think maybe they really and truly do <br /><br /><br />sincerely want to know your life story, and so you light up <br />a cigarette and begin to tell it to them, the two of you <br />lying together in completely relaxed positions <br />like a pair of rag dolls a bored child dropped on a bed. <br /><br /><br />You tell them your story, or as much of your story <br />as time or a fair degree of prudence allows, and they say, <br /> Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, <br />each time a little more faintly, until the oh <br />is just an audible breath, and then of course <br /><br /><br />there's some interruption. Slow room service comes up <br />with a bowl of melting ice cubes, or one of you rises to pee <br />and gaze at himself with the mild astonishment in the bathroom mirror. <br />And then, the first thing you know, before you've had time <br />to pick up where you left off with your enthralling life story, <br />they're telling you their life story, exactly as they'd intended to all along, <br /><br /><br />and you're saying, Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, <br />each time a little more faintly, the vowel at last becoming <br />no more than an audible sigh, <br />as the elevator, halfway down the corridor and a turn to the left, <br />draws one last, long, deep breath of exhaustion <br />and stops breathing forever. Then? <br /><br /><br />Well, one of you falls asleep <br />and the other one does likewise with a lighted cigarette in his mouth, <br />and that's how people burn to death in hotel rooms.Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-8359766109330007032010-01-25T08:16:00.001-08:002010-01-25T08:17:32.765-08:00The Computer LabMy job consists of refilling paper trays and saying "God bless you" when students sneeze. If I don't do it, who will?Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-25607670492287219692010-01-25T07:58:00.000-08:002010-01-25T08:15:41.757-08:00Lists.Fiction I'd Die Without:<br /><br />"Fear of Flying" by Erica Jong. <br />Refreshingly honest and blunt. If ever I feel afraid to embrace my woman hood, I read Jong and renew my confidence in myself and my vagina.<br /><br />"God-Shaped Hole", by Tiffany DeBartolo. <br />Guilty pleasure love story.<br />"If your intentions are pure, <br />I'm seeking a friend<br />for the end<br />of the world."<br /><br />"Fight Club", Chuck Palahniuk.<br />Reminds me that I'm alive. Gets me fiesty and philosophical.<br /><br />"The Stranger", Albert Camus. <br />"In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me, there lay an invincible summer."<br /><br />"The Awakening", by Kate Chopin.<br />"Courageous, ma foi! The brave soul. The soul the DARES and DEFIES!"<br /><br />"Harry Potter" 3, 4, 5, 6 and 7.<br />I have developed such a strong connection to these characters, that I feel it necessary to revisit them, in book or another, at least twice a year. The movies can blow me.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Music of my "right now":<br /><br />Bruised (acoustic) by Jack's Mannequin<br /><br />Somebody to Love by Queen<br /><br />Add It Up by the Violent Femmes. All hail Gordon Gayno.<br /><br />New Age Girl by Dead Eye Dick<br /><br />Better Man by Pearl Jam<br /><br />Hey, Soul Sister by Train<br /><br />Breakin' Up by Rilo Kiley<br /><br />500 Dollars by T. Pain or something money.<br /><br />You Don't Know Me At All by Ben Folds w. Regina Spektor<br /><br /><br /><br />2010 Goals:<br /><br />Write a fabulous short story in my fiction class.<br /><br />Study for LSATs.<br /><br />Get into good law school.<br /><br />Tone up.<br /><br />Get ahold of myself.<br /><br />Drink way, way less.<br /><br />Hone myself.<br /><br />Learn to leprechaun heel-click.<br /><br />Wear the nice clothes I have.<br /><br />Organize my life. <br /><br />Write a lot lot lot more.Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-89610856676287144742010-01-20T07:05:00.000-08:002010-01-20T09:07:34.322-08:00Which Cheesey 80's Sitcom is My Life Again?Parking-lot Zack and Rapes-a-lot Mike are in my Social Sexuality class.<br /><br />I'm surprised I didn't look down and realize I was naked and wearing bunny slippers with no number 2 pencil for a big test.Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-27316219402952683322009-11-03T12:41:00.000-08:002010-01-21T11:49:56.322-08:00Nightmare...thank you, chubby Catwoman.It's Halloween. As far as Halloweens go, it wasn't terribly spooky(commercialized, yadda yadda)but despite the ridiculous nature it's acquired, (what with peeling cartoonish ghosts and goblins and blow up spiders in yards)I still managed to feel pure fear that night. I was busying myself, as usual, with my costume, applying my red lipstick and nosebleed from my overdose. My costume: mia wallace of the pulp fiction fame, post overdose, but before the adrenaline shot. No needles sticking out of my chest; i threw the costume together too quickly to figure out how to attach a needle to my breast for the night without actually stabbing myself.<br /><br />Like I was saying: no full moon, no black cats...Just an excellent party thrown in my apartment. Everything fell into place exactly. I even controlled my drinking to the point that I did NOT black out. Overall, a success.<br /><br />And then, she creaked up my steps. Slinked, really.She was wearing a home-made cat woman suit constructed of black electrical tape and a bra. The she? My exboyfriend's exgirlfriend. She was the girl he left me for. The guy, I was in love with. The girl, he fucked for a few weeks in October one year ago. He then broke up with her for me, completely the cycle. She's a nice girl, a great girl, actually. And I don't blame or hate her for her actions, as he was the scumbag in the situation. That being said, the sight of her makes me vomit in my mouth; the slew of memories that accompanies her presence is sometimes too much to bear. Especially considering the events that followed in the months after their...fling. <br /><br />Her nightmare inspiring visit to my apartment, in fact, did inspire nightmares. That morning I awoke in a cold sweat and violent tears when I dreamt, or nightmared, that Andy came back. He showed up in my apartment (the place we'd spent the night when he came home from the military) and begged my forgiveness for leaving, for causing me to worry...yet acted completely nonchalant about the fact that he was a wanted criminal. <br /><br />"What's the big deal?" dream-Andy asked, wearing nothing but boxer shorts, bottom of his barefeet sticking to my kitchen floor. His hand was deep in a box of fruit loops, a remarkable detail, as that is the only cereal I allow in my house, which made the dream seem completely real. I'm sure my body responded in real life as it did in the dream: I panicked, my heartbeat exploded into hyperspeed and I realized two things<br /><br /> 1. that I would finally have the answers to questions I'd been asking for months and <br /> 2. that I was now an accomplice to his crimes by not immediately calling the cops.<br /><br />As I rushed around in a frantic attempt to solve the problems, my family (including such obscure relatives as Aunt Susie, Uncle Mike and Uncle Charlie...not immediate members) stopped by (three hours from home) for a visit, gestapo-like and unaware of the wanted person above them. "Hey!" they said, "why don't we take Steph to the family reunion down the road?!" Dream-me was smart enough to shove Andy into the annex that was my attic in the knick of time, but I whimpered, knowing that my questions would have to wait. <br /><br />We drove to our destination, but the scene laid did not suggest that this reunion would be full of family love and reuniting. No, the seemingly innocent Halloween that had past hours before set the stage for a frightening and dark dream. Uncle Mike drove a fictional red van down a dirt road that I've never seen before, in no place in my mind or otherwise. Over every bump of the road, we could see that it was lined with dozens of beaten tin trailers. In front of each stood a family, and someone in the back of my mind whispered to me that they were all starving.<br />"Give them some food!" I screamed, but it was not truly for concern of the starving children, their bellies bulging with starvation and flies circling their heads. I only cared about returning home to Andy. What if he left before I got back? I projected my anxiety at the suffering individuals before me, but inside cared for nothing but to quench my curiosity about him. <br /><br />The farmhouse finally presented itself, the location for our reunion, and I was led to a basement where food that looked like it had been salvaged from a dumpster lined a poker table. I picked up a ravioli with my fingers and popped into my mouth, only to find that it tasted like dirt. I spit it out and turned around to ask where the good stuff was, when I realized that I was alone in the basement with a single, swinging lightbulb behind a backdrop of crusty cinder blocks. <br />Lost, confused, alone, I began to run but the house transformed into a maze, designed to trip me up at every turn. <br /><br />When I finally emerged, I ended up at a random friend's parent's house. She was random because I had met her long after Andy and only knew her from a trip we took together to Amsterdam. It was odd, then to find him in their kitchen; the scene was the same, fruitloops, boxers. Nonchalant attitude. It was early morning, around 7am and as the sun rose, I knew I had to get him out of there and somewhere safe so we could talk. We opened the sliding glass doors and their curly white, fictional dog ran outside. My friend's faceless dream-mother came out screaming that we had lost her dog, but then, the unthinkable happened. She recognized Andy's face. "You're that kid that ran away from the military!" As she made this connection, she grabbed a cell phone from her robe pocket and began to call the cops.<br /><br />I frantically grabbed his hand, could feel the roughness of it vividly, and began to run barefoot through the wet grass that I hoped would bring us safely to somewhere together.<br /><br /><br /><br />When I woke up, I cried for a very long time.<br /><br />Because of this, our real lives can never be spent together...Only in dreams.Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-509762253092732338.post-65947432968490471392009-10-23T12:08:00.000-07:002009-10-23T12:57:39.589-07:00Either profound genius or hilarious nutjob...Will my future unborn sons grow beards?<br /><br />Will my daughters embrace the now popular hairless pussy fad or bear their pubic hair with pride? <br /><br />Will my hermaphrodites wear cartoon homer simpson boxers or black lacy thongs?Beyerselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02001453722620369142noreply@blogger.com0