To Say the Least

Isn't it ironic that we only tell someone to "keep in touch" when that person is too far to even see, much less make any sort of physical gesture. When talking rarely follows through, except for the occasional congratulatory facebook message or birthday wish by card, what makes us think that the ability to touch has better odds? And why is it that in the same moment new friends take their leave, old friends, more specifically, old boyfriends, come back.

As it turns out, I worked everything out with coffeeguy. Although I knew he was a genuine person and other, less notable characters, were in involved in scheming, I still expected an apology. And so I got one... along with my requested CD, which happens to be very good. Unfortunately, he's taken a turn North and another friend from caribou will soon be riding their tide out as well, needless to say, they will be missed. I've never considered that maybe it's strange we develop such close friendships with the people that work here. Normally, there's a line between barista and customer and it falls in the wooden slab called a counter. Usually, you walk in and despite any apparent signs of dejection or drowsiness, the barista will wear a smile and ask you how your day was and in turn, you answer "good" or on occasion, "tired". But as Caribou goes, it's beyond the Webster's definition of friend. Inappropriate jokes are exchanged, love lives swapped, lines are crossed, and still, we all come out alive. We have the nature of friends and Caribou as our rendezvous, everyday. So what I'm really missing is the conversation; that informal exchange of the public and private that releases the cloud of emotional tension, which mercilessly clogs my days. 

On caribouguy's last night I stopped in to say my farewells only to notice a group of regulars huddled at the end of the bar. I stepped up and listened in to the faithfully amusing conversation from a fellow Caribou junkie, Danny. A moment later, he leans in and tells me to look directly behind me at the guy in a turtleneck. I do so and turn back around announcing sarcastically that he's hot stuff (I was too distracted by the collar suffocating his neck to look upward to any facial features so no disrespect, nor to any other fans of the turtleneck vogue).

Danny: Do you want me to go and talk to him for you; she's single, she's looking!

Me: I'm not looking!

Danny: You have a heartbeat, don't you?

In translation, we're always looking, but for what? Although the physical components make for a fun time, we tend to rely on what can only resuscitate us for a short while, whereas conversation lets us breathe on our own. Despite all free-refills and the cozy woodland atmosphere, it's the conversation that acts as my gravity; always pulling me back to Caribou. Naturally, when someone leaves, my home is unsettled and a bit of Caribou dissolves, along with its cheeky remarks and unparalleled effect. The most unnatural thing of all is that soon that someone will be me. And while we vow to "keep in touch", our words grow less optimistic with time. We surround ourselves in a new environment, and spare moments don't seem worthy enough to fill with our oh-so-dear nostalgia. If only time didn't phase us then maybe we wouldn't have to fight so hard to assure ourselves that we can keep the past while still moving on with our futures. But it does and it will.

So keep in talk... to say the least.

Single is Never Single

Yesterday, I left this temporary hell hole to forgo further chaos and visit some friends in Chapel Hill. Amidst stuffing our faces with pizza, for lack of better wording, singing inharmoniously to movie soundtracks, and watching visualizers on our pseudo-druggy's television, I was hit with the epiphany that maybe single is never single. Technically, yes, we're alone, but we're always looking not to be. We're constantly looking to fill a gap that society tells us needs to be filled. We raise one eyebrow and think to ourselves, hmm can I see myself with him? We get dressed up, apply make-up to look our best, but 9 times out of 10 does it really count for anything?

After hours of sluggish activity the girls and I made our way to a fraternity house in search of the nearest party. I'd been warned multiple times by the protective sibling that this particular frat wasn't exactly the most respected of them all, i.e. it was sketch. However, I reassured said sibling that we were being accompanied by two male bouncers i.e. two skinny freshman boys. We finally arrive at the entrance in the hopes of slipping in without a school I.D. and sure enough are allowed in in exchange for a joke (jokes seem to be getting me a lot of places these days); it appeared as though security was not a top priority. As I stepped over the threshold, I was welcomed by black trash bags lining the walls, neon lights accentuating my hair, and some girl gyrating upon a nearby pelvis... A friend of mine and I squeeze through layers of sweaty limbs to occupy the minimal space left on the dance floor. Within a few minutes I'm interrupted by a tap on my shoulder and I turn around to find a guy mumbling incoherently in my direction. I lean closer and on the third try I hear, "would you like to dance?" We began to monotonously find our rhythm while one of his buddies (guy #1) began dancing with my friend. As respected as I felt in this moment, being asked to dance and not simply grinded upon, it was soon to be spoiled by the following conversation:

Guy #1: No fat girls tonight!

Friend: Do you usually dance with fat girls? (directed at the guy I was dancing with)

Guy #2: No no, but he does! (pointing at his friend, guy #1)

Friend: Do you usually dance with fat girls?

Guy #1: No, I fuck fat girls! But none of that tonight, cause ya'll are skinny!

...are you kidding me. 

My experiences with the male species hit an all time low after this conversation. I know I cannot possibly stereotype every guy into the category of asshole but you are not attending Chapel Hill to comment that I happen to be of a certain body type. Furthermore, insinuating that I might actually consider letting you have sex with me. Are you mental?! So to sum up the evening, I put forth effort, I wore a sleek black top in 35 degree weather, I ignored all evident damage from everclear, only to find exactly what I was expecting; herein lies the problem. We find a momentary release in knowing that we are pretty enough or a good enough dancer to attract attention (or that they are too drunk to care). We don't simply stand in a circle of girls content with ourselves; we dance to have fun but more importantly, to find someone willing to dance alongside us. It's only that in those few seconds we have with a stranger that we are back to being a couple, moreover, we are back to being accepted. 

Single is never single. Single means to be in search. The closet I come to being completely single, completely dependent on me and me alone, is when I get out of a relationship and I know that I don't want to go back but I'm not looking to go forward either. However, even so, this phase only lasts so long and I can't stop "time from healing"; but is time really healing me if it's simply thrusting me back into another mock-single way of life? I want more than a few seconds of cheap banter with a guy who's clearly only interested in how well I can actualize his overrated fantasies.

So if we're never single and clearly not a couple then what are we? Sounds likes subconscious desperation but I wouldn't, nor would most people, like to place myself in this category. I think it means to be at peace with all that haunts our minds, poisons our hearts, and taints our actions; because it we let if get this far then everything we expect and hope for is crunched into a matter of seconds. Instead of rationing our happy moments, we act in haste as if life is running away from us. I might advise simple solutions such as yoga or sleeping but we all know such fixes are pointless when we wake up the next morning and it hits us in a wave that our wishes are as unattainable as ever. But then again, is it an equal worth to live life without expectations - we aren't asexual creatures roaming this earth with the few urges of food and sleep. We are innately wired with passion for others and a mind to guide us accordingly. Maybe it's healthier not to rid ourselves of this desire, maybe it's better to wear our hearts on our sleeves, maybe if we don't then we will never have room to breathe. Single has never meant to be satisfied but if we accept that satisfaction is an elusive quality, always teasing us, never resting, then maybe we can find satisfaction in this. 

So now I'm back in a not-so-hellish hole, revived, and happy. Let's hope it lasts.

Spilt Coffee

I should start by saying something like "'I've lost all faith in the male species" or "please, grow some balls" but instead I'm going to try to write calmly when I say it was all a joke and it's always best to stick with your first inclination. 

I was hit with the harsh reality today from another friend who works at Caribou that a majority of the Caribou staff plus bystanders have read my blog...o! and coffeeguy, of course. So while breaking out in red splotches, cussing feverishly, and suffering under 10 minutes of relentless embarrassment (make that 60 min.) I've come to terms with the obvious. As coffeegirl says, "you shouldn't have been stupid enough to post that anyway." I fully agree, because as naive as this sounds I wasn't under the impression that many wandering eyes actually read my completely public blog. So now I'm stuck at the question, why does it matter if everyone knows who I liked? As much as I would like to say it doesn't that's not how I feel. I guess it's that we are scared to be vulnerable because being open to rejection is a scary thing. I hate to think that people know when I'm flirting because at that point your heart is smack dab on the line and when the line is erased and there is no more potential for something to arise, you feel a deadened weight on your shoulders and I'd like to think that I'm a little tougher than to let that happen. I'll recover. It's just that I thought I was on the right track; I was focusing my attention on something that could do me no harm. Unfortunately, that's not exactly how it played out. 

So here's the awful truth; my first kiss was a drunken disaster but not much of a kiss to begin with and then hoping to redeem myself I fall for Billy who everyone tells me I'm too good for. Despite this apparent truth we continue for a year, announcing his love but never quite following through and might I add, a terrible conversationalist; and while I thought I loved him at the time it's hard to recall love once it's lost. Next comes the part where I make the biggest mistake of my life and kiss a willing friend's boyfriend and last but not least, another drunken hookup where I frantically resisted further contact once we made it back to his dorm room.... [the aforementioned slutty qualities have since been drastically reevaluated] So then I stumble upon coffee guy. It's weird because I'd never taken a moments glance at this kid before and then suddenly I found myself overwhelmingly confused. He hardly talks, he glances down every five seconds when he looks at me, but somewhere within I deemed him a professional flirt. It was only until I was caught up in a moment where I thought someone liked me that I started liking him. I found myself at ease that he was the complete opposite of my last boyfriend. He's an easy talker, from a Christian background, thus, has morals, and obviously devoted to something besides understanding the complexities of  female anatomy. As incestuous and creepy as this sounds, he reminds me a lot of my brother; present at Church on Sundays, honest as ever, and in general a nice guy. I can't say for a fact this is how coffeeguy behaves but that's the impression I got...then again, I got a lot of impressions...

Anyway, like I said before, I'm a romantic so there's no doubt it hurts. I react when I find someone I like, I bask in my emotions, and I cry, but I can gladly say that I will not be crying about this one. In some screwed up manner I'm glad this happened? That's not to say I would like it to happen again but it's taught me a valuable blogging lesson; I'm proud that my blog gained some attention and that it was a fairly decent post that sparked so much emotion. In my hopes of being a writer, I figure this is good practice in exposing the truths of my heart. And when I'm writing for a prominent magazine in some high-fashion city he can take on his acting job...after all, he did a damn good job of convincing me he was someone else.

I still can't comprehend how asking a person out is so simply termed a joke; I feel very much in the high school setting and more than ever ready to leave for college to be with real people who can display real emotions. However, I hope he's learned a lesson because I've certainly learned mine. But I stand by all previous statements including, "He's three years older than me, very shy, and 100% sexy" And despite any doubts, I haven't turned into a cynical bitter girl however, maybe a little more protective of my emotions; I still love Valentines Day and in the light of things, I know I will have many more exceedingly, less cringeworthy, memories to come.

...and I'm still fully expecting my CD Adam.

"you're a dork" ...oh god.

Here it comes, the holiday that conjures up both anticipation and disgust, excites the coupled, summons worn feelings for past lovers, and mocks the lonely. Valentines Day. I feel like the typical standpoint for a single gal is to dismiss this coming Thursday as an event with zero value. However, no matter what my relationship status [and I can say this with confidence because I am single now] I've always loved this holiday. I blame my acute sense of romanticism. I love to love. One of my teachers, being the bitter and cynical woman she is, believes Valentines Day is pointless; no one should need a holiday to express their affection and love for another. But in all honesty, she'd probably feel differently if she got a little lovin', even if only for a night. Gustave Flaubert asked, "do you prefer to love or be loved?" Despite the various moments of excruciating heartache one can suffer from this feeling, I prefer to love. If someone loves you, you're the same person but if you love someone, it completely transforms you. Each spare moment is captured by the thought of them and you're stomach is occupied by butterflies with every decreasing inch between your hands. And I sometimes wonder who feels more, those that have pure love or those that find themselves tangled in an unrequited romance.

So this brings me to my own knot of emotions. I've recently found myself very much in like with the barista that works at the nearby coffee shop. He's three years older than me, very shy, and 100% sexy; that's all you need to know. And unfortunately, I might have made the slight mistake of interpreting his slight affection as a joke...

Coffee guy: Would you like to go out with me sometime?

Me: **nervous giggle** You're a dork...

Coffee guy: That's no way to treat someone that's trying to ask you out!

Me: **nervous giggle #2**

It's true that I am confident and flirty at certain moments but when it becomes real I crumble like a cookie. He hit me from behind without any fair warning and needless to say, the majority of my vocabulary was lost...o, except, "you're a dork." [!slqer!jfsdfl*kj3] I really need to work on better defense mechanisms. Although, I wouldn't have defended myself at all if I didn't think he was joking; all I wanted to do was save myself from an awkward minute of embarrassment if I had said yes and he was kidding. So in summary since, he asked me out again through text, the kid is shy beyond comparison, and I finally said yes. Here's the catch...that was two weeks ago (!!) and now I'm left pining for a guy that is standing just within reach but won't take a step forward. He flirts like no other but when it comes to getting the courage to carry through it's like memorizing Pi. I've tried, trust me, but all I can think of now is to hope that the obvious sentiment of Valentines Day has an impact on his actions. 

So for whatever reason, I hope everyone is looking forward to this holiday. Girls like gifts and if you can find a guy who's gonna cough up roses and heart shaped boxes of candy on a regular basis then fine, you're excused, but otherwise, enjoy Valentines Day! If that means watching sad movies and drowning in tears then so be it. St. Valentine never specified what kind of love to celebrate and if I've learned anything from my short track of life it's that there are many ways to love.  

a perpetual sting

I was sitting on the plane back from Chicago; we hadn't taken off yet but the plane was slowly rolling its way towards the take off strip, each minute of anticipation making my stomach curl in fear. I have the annoying habit of always getting a dull headache every time I'm placed in any type of moving transportation, except when I'm the driver. It's never enough to make me vomit however, just enough to make me lost in my own world, absent of all other thoughts.  This happens so often, these panic attacks, that I simply have learned to deal, I've given up all hope of recovery in this lifetime. Instead I try my hardest to take long breaths and imagine each speck of pain leaving my body through the hole of my mouth, and my toes and fingertips that spit out the hurt from their bald tips.

As the plane hummed beneath my seat I knew it was time for take-off. I watched as the blades of grass turned into seas of green and the buildings molded into squares of land. Trying my hardest to ignore the ache rising behind my eyes, I pressed my knees into the crevice in the seat in front of me and felt another sense of pain digging into my skin...but I didn't mind. All of sudden a blog topic popped into my head, as they often do these days,... 

why is it always the bad things that take the pain away?

Instead of distracting myself with conversation amongst friends sitting in the seats next to me or listening to my ipod lying softly in my lap, I chose to inflict another sort of pain on myself because I knew that the only thing to overcome what I was feeling at the moment was something that hurt more; nothing good was good enough. The bad things make an initial impact on us and although good memories may have long term effects, it is the bad things that guide us through a temporary moment of torture. It's easier to believe the bad things, feel the hurt, and let all that isn't good take over you, slowly gnawing your soul down to its core. It's hard to explain but whenever these episodes pop up I feel the need to be by myself. I don't want to be reliant on anyone else; it's a battle that strikes me and demands my attention with it's numbing discomfort. And as horrible as I feel I don't think anyone can notice; as long as I wait it out calmly in my seat, the mental turmoil that clouds my mind is an inconspicuous flaw to the untrained eye. And if they can't tell then why bring attention to it, their words, whatever they may be, will only make it worse and any attention I receive only increases the already racing pace of my heart. But when does it go too far? What happens when everything we feel that's bad becomes the only thing we feel and all of our thoughts succumb to that one desire that we can't have? Do we fight and break through to the other side or take a step backwards before any of this happened... or do we do nothing at all?

good question. 

The Art of Model United Nations

Shame on me. I know I haven't written in a while but I fully intend to make it up! This past weekend I went to Chicago for a Model United Nations conference. Before any misconceptions arise let me clarify. The way it works is that each student is assigned a country and a committee to represent. I acted as a delegate of Chad for UNESCO (United Nations Education, Scientific, and Cultural Organization). Each committee meets in separate rooms where they begin a tedious debating session between two topics lasting approximately 22 hours divided up between the weekend. The chair guides the debate from the front while each delegate sits amongst a sea of countries, raising their placards bearing their country's name when they wish to speak.

 Okay...now let me tell you how it really works.

MUN redefines the male-female relationship. The majority of the male population at these conferences have limited charm and thus, minimal experience in talking to the opposite sex; they are dorks, for lack of a better word. Although the competition is partly about finding peaceful solutions to today's problems, I can't help but feel that a majority of the participants that come to these meetings are desperate to fish in a pool where they are certain of at least one decent pick up line. They are in a place where their inadequacies as a person are masked by their countries problems therefore enabling them to not introduce themselves as say John but instead, "Hi, I'm Palestine, what's your name!?!" For those who aren't sufficiently trained in the art of flirting, committees are spent sexually assaulting female delegates wearing slutty business attire through anonymous notes. The gutsy and slightly more attractive representatives may end up stealing a kiss or two by the end of the weekend while the others take their opportunity at the delegate dance. This is the clan of desperate pre-mature boys who bounce happily behind a woman's derriere at the hopes of creating the allusion that they have mediocre social skills. They jump at the chance to have the opportunity to find  themselves with only a thin layer of cotton sheath separating their bodies from a person of the opposite sex. If they're lucky they will find a group of girls forming a circle and take their turn by each one praying that their bouncing becomes in sync and therefore, proving that they haven't been completely emotionally castrated by their female peers throughout the years. When all else fails, they turn worldwide issues such as adult illiteracy into sexual innuendo. [Note: this will never work.] 

However, I know it's not fair to only criticize the guys. There are, without a doubt, girls that attend these conferences with no prior experience into the world of male anatomy. I actually witnessed the epitome of the female outcast; purple ruffled blouse with red lipstick stained on her snaggle tooth, not to mention the  slight line of black fuzz flourishing above her upper lip... and yet she seemed relatively confident and spoke many times before a group of around 150 people. But this is the thing, her confidence didn't lie in her sense of fashion or her body type but rather in her knowledge of the country she happened to be representing. Now of course I wasn't listening to any of what she had to say being too distracted by the aforementioned qualities, but that's beside the point. Model United Nations really does embody a completely different crowd of people that the students from my school are accustomed to but I can respect that. Some of my peers swim in money and take full advantage of their sexual natures but it was an enlightening experience all the same. If MUN has taught me anything it's not that it takes 2o hours to find a solution for adult illiteracy or that peace is attainable if we only just try but that there is hope for everyone...

I think there was a pregnant girl there too.