...I become what I might be."

For the most part, the same scrunched up faces in my 1995 yearbook are the same as those that will be making their final appearance in the 2008 edition; in other words, I've grown up with the same crowd of people for the majority of my life. Because of this tight knit community...the Lacoste alligator is forever embedded in my mind, I know the birthdays of people I've said a max. of 5 words to, and you know that rule, "whatever happens in ____, stays in _____". This mantra simply does not exist in my world. Gossip circulates like a pimp with his hos.

In a way I've molded to what high school has made of me (with the exception of Burberry stripes and Gucci sunglasses). I'd even go so far to say as sometimes I feel like I'm in the wrong world. That's not to say I'm some sort of misanthropic alien but... I don't have a desire for the typical college experience...."typical" meaning a closed campus, nightly frat parties, an inordinate dedication to college sports. I'll try not to sound so philosophical when I say, I want to figure out who I am. I might as well be sitting in Indian position, wearing a sari, and humming to myself mindlessly but what I really mean to say is... I want to figure out what I believe in, what are my passions, what kind of person I want to be. I have a set of morals but I want to make them solid so that I don't always have to make mistakes in order to learn what I really believe (i.e. cheating is bad.).

So here is my dilemma: 

I've essentially narrowed my choices down to Elon or Boston University with the slight possibility of Wake Forest, depending upon the outcome of the wait list. Boston is clearly the boldest move a.k.a. the scariest. Elon is close and the embodiment of much of what I just described that I'm not. But I also think that it's the safe choice and I could make a life for myself there. And yet, I don't feel like I would actually be living. I realize that biologically I started living when I exited the birth canal (although, I suppose this is debatable) but spiritually I feel like I've experienced zilch. And I need somewhere a bit more powerful than a concrete welcoming post and a nice lawn to help me rise from zilch. I need the movement, diversity, and spirit of a city like Boston to have a revival in myself; so I can breathe my own air instead of everyone else's! [side note: HOW AWESOME WOULD IT BE IF I LIVED IN BOSTON!?!?!]

...very awesome... very cold...but still, very awesome. 

Anyways, I've never been particularly keen on going to college. I've always wanted to rush through my college career and attain the "fashionista/writer in the city" persona as soon as possible. A large number of my friends are leaving our familiar state and traveling to broader surroundings. They seem to lack all worries... they're simply excited. This is how I should be, especially when I account for the insane number of times someone has told me, "college will be the best experience of your life". So this leaves me wondering... where did everyone find all of this gumption to impart their few last words and just up and go? I literally spent 3 hours the other night panicking in bed about my future endeavors. Every time my eyes began to close I started thinking about the extreme scenarios I might run into in Boston. A grungy roommate, tedious classes, a violent assault, frostbite!  Not to mention, my complete lack of a sense of direction doesn't help when placed in a big city all by one's self. If anything rates higher than my bad decision making skills, it's my predisposition to panic. After cold compresses and breathing exercises, I've come full circle. I have an amazing opportunity and as much as I hate to admit this, because it undermines any rankings I may have based my past decisions on, college is what you make of it. 

Friend: I've accepted lots of things this weekend. One of them being that I can't always get what I want, but that that's okay. And I know that it sounds simplistic to say, but it makes the world a whole lot easier. 

So thank you Lao Tzu and my sage of a friend. I'm ready to live, please!

Let me just go get my yoga mat...

"When I let go of what I am...

So here's my sentimental rant...bear with me + click on the title to get the soundtrack for said sentiment:

I'm trying to take note of how we got here. How suddenly, within the last few thick pages of this chapter, the truths that have always existed seem... more real. It's the last puddle of wine in your glass [more like vitamin water but wine sounds classier], it's the last paragraph of your favorite book, and it's that goodbye glance from a car window.

It's not fair how I feel like I'm just beginning to appreciate everything in these past couple of months but then again, it's never had more value than right now. I'm at the most monumental time in my life and yet, it sounds stupid to talk about it because millions of people already know what's going to happen to me. I'll finally pick a school, pick a major, pick a job, pick a husband. In this way, I've got it all figured out. Unfortunately, I'm not one to plan for the future. I'd like to think that I can be calm and rational but when it comes right down to it, I'm the worst decision maker that's ever placed foot on this earth and most of the time my decisions are based purely on whim rather than thoughtful meditation.

I don't do well with change. I become flustered, an overload of questions spit from my mouth, and nausea takes a permanent residence in the back of my throat. With a reaction like this who wouldn't be cautious when adopting something different than the mainstream. (Note: to make matters worse, there's a new caribou girl...WAY too cheery. I thought Caribou was about being collectively morose and sharing our woes. She's just making me pissed off).

But after much reflection on the topic...I don't want to know in advance what's going to happen; I can't know as long as I have a body that so harshly rejects any sign of change. It's the realization that at this point, it doesn't matter how we got here. At this point, it's savoring every taste until here is gone. 

Penis Colada? No, thank you.

I let my fingers fold into the cup of his hand as he guided me into the bar, the potent wave of smoke clouding my vision and, quite possibly, my reason. I sank forward willingly at a glance of his drunken smile and he pulled the small of my back closer towards his avid stare, glistening from underneath his eyelashes. We rocked back and forth as the music escaped my mind and our emotions bled into the air. He teased me wittingly until, with arched back, I felt the slide of his tongue and a more fervid grip on the curve of my neck. In the break of the song my thoughts crept wildly into an all too familiar place and I mumbled a few words into this strange ear before breaking for the crisp air, my ever faithful buzz kill. Despite the drink in my hand, I was not looking for sex on the beach. 

Spring break has always meant foreign places, but foreign men? Teeth knocked out, vomit stained sidewalks, drunken mistakes, public promiscuity, skinny dipping, tears of mascara, inevitable altercations? Not so much. Let me make clear before any misconceptions arise: the depth of my fun reached to one dance, one kiss, with one stranger. I was either too shy, too sober, or too indifferent to make any other lasting memories. I may have mooched many a free drink but it didn't go much farther than that. 

The thing is... I've developed a slight crush and as faint as it may be, it can seem quite overwhelmingly when an intoxicated mind craves to feel more. However, as I mentioned before I was never inordinately drunk and with the encroaching butterflies in my stomach, the extent of my flirting abilities did not reach much farther than a few forgotten words and a touch on the shoulder. Admittedly, with or without alcohol, I failed to make much of an impact. Despite my past, I wasn't interested in draping a dead arm over a strong shoulder to be casted as the willing drunken female. Because as willing as I was to be on the receiving end of such a wanting desire, I wasn't intent on blatantly competing with the 10 other girls who had recently acquired a rush of gustiness due to excessive amounts of vodka. Unfortunately, two shy people can rarely grasp at anything that is even slightly there unless there is alcohol or a third person involved. And as it seems, I'm attracted to the irrevocably innocent men who, with all intents and purposes, continually fail to find the right words to say... and yet, no words seem to say a lot.

At the end of the night I sat defeated but still content next to one of my best friends who had called me over with his lonely gaze across the bar. As the hour of night increased, the amount of alcohol in my system was on the wane. Neither a 'sex on the beach', 'buttery nipple', nor a 'screaming orgasm' stayed true to their names and of the few times in my life, I was very glad for that. I followed my friend back to his room, solidifying our friendship, void of all suspected attraction. As I slipped under the sheets and into the cocoon of his arms, his hand glided across mine, erasing my goose bumps until my heavy eyes, the same yearning eyes from a few hours before, blinded me from the night. 

"Hit Me Baby One More Time"

I'm usually not one to get my nails painted but it's spring break and I felt like being excessively girly. So, a friend and I opened the door to a salon and were immediately greeted by a woman's voice, her head wedged between another woman's feet. She had a short bob cut and rosy lips that complemented her cream skin. We made an appointment and sat down near the magazine rack where I preceded to sift through the Home and Garden shit in an effort to find the good stuff..ah.. good ol' cosmopolitan. In the middle of being throroughly engulfed in an article about worst sex experiences I was told (rather, gestured), to sit in a chair near the back. 

If you've you never been to a nail salon you should know it's comprised of a little piece of heaven. The soft leather chairs curve evenly around your body with a pair of hands embedded in the chair that rise up and down, kneeding out each crevice in your back, and your feet are soaked in hot bubbling water (and this isn't even the best part). Everyone needs to have this experience, atleast once, and that includes men. Emasculation is a small price to pay for an hour in heaven. 

Anyway, as we sat down with sex magazine clutched in hand I started telling my friend about how I think I'm hooked on caffeine because it's a rarity that I don't get headaches every other day without it. In an effort either motivated by her workpay or her inherent generosity, rosy lips sat down on the stool in front of my feet and spoke in what seemed like incoherent syllables. Here is the one downside to the ultimate pampering. I don't know what they're saying. "They" as in the Asian population that manages every single nail salon I've ever been to. I don't know if it is that they are all blessed with really great hand-eye coordination and decided that painting nails would accentuate this skill or maybe it's more simple than that, the Vietnamese may have a broader appreciation for nail art. Whatever it may be, despite their individual cultures, I can't understand a damn word. By this point you should be thinking, my god, this girl is the spawn of Russell Crowe. The thing is, I'm so used to hearing one type of accent that it takes a minute to adjust to another, same with heavy northern accents. But I digress; rosy lips asked me something. She said it again and finally I recognized that she was wondering if I wanted a soda because I was just talking about how I needed caffeine in my system. I made the mistake of politely declining her offer before putting two and two together.

Now here's the best part. After a slightly awkward moment, she cut, trimmed, and polished with impecable detail, hence my hand-eye theory. At this point, I wanted very much to go to sleep. She rubbed a glaze over my legs and slid her fingers from my knee to my ankle, sinking into each crevice of my calf on its way. One of my eyes was subtly ajar with the other one in quick accordance. I was mumbling something to my friend when I felt a sharp spasm on the bottom of my foot. I turned my head and my rosy lipped friend was slapping my feet. Yes, slapping. She was apparently practicing some technique with my feet as her guinea pig, one that was rather loud and kind of hurt...

Soon after recovering from this eye-opening experience, rosy lips slid a bowl of hot orange wax next to my chair. She directed my feet towards the small bowl and said, "two at a time". I dipped both feet into the scalding wax as she walked away. After a few seconds it began to be too much. I wasn't sure whether or not to leave my feet in the burning wax and risk having them turn an unnatural shade of red or disobey her strict orders. Turns out the latter was not a good idea; when she finally came back and found that my feet were lingering just above the surface of the liquid she chastised me with her mean glare before sticking my feet in two paper bags and walking into the 'Employees Only' room. 

I sat patiently for about 10 minutes while she ate her lunch. When she sat down once again, she began to peel off the wax that had molded to the shape of my foot. Just as I was finishing up a stimulating article on "5 things to never tell your guy" I heard her say something to me. Once again, I had no earthly idea. She asked again. Still not comprehending  I began to scan my brain for what questions she could possibly be posing to me..."What color would you like your nails"..."How was your day?". I chose the former thinking that she wasn't fond enough of me to pass pleasantries. When she repeated her question again I didn't know what else to do. I tried to pass off a face as if I was thinking about my answer but her knowing smile made me nervous. I blurted out the first thing that came to mind, "This is fine." Apparently that did it.  

I've realized by the end of this post it may sound like I had a fetish with the woman's lips but I assure you this is false. Although if it helps reduce the political incorrectness that I've so blatantly displayed, then be my guest, I'm a lesbian for the sake of this post. 

But apart from the somewhat sadistic practices and the language barrier, I would highly recommend a spa pedicure. I know many men who have loved getting pampered. For instance, when one of my guy friends visited China on a class trip they stopped to get a Chinese massage. He was antsy while he waited for his turn and he had the right to be because when he turned his head it seemed that the chaperone, his math teacher, was having a very (I'm trying to choose a good word to describe this)... enjoyable time. So, add some potpourri and a pair of warm hands and you've got yourself a softcore porno! Granted this was a more traditional chinese massage so hands typically trailed all the way up the leg...but that's beside the point. 

The point being?...

... my toe's look awfully pretty.

the non-existent "good" breakup speech

Friend: "You know the inherent problem with the 'it's not you, it's me' line is that they always know it's them, not me!"

the malignant clock

How is it that I can be so good at feeling hurt but not helping others who hurt? I should know how to use the right tone of voice, give hugs, offer food in the least, but instead all I can lend is a pitiful "I'm so sorry". The worst part is that this "sorry" changes nothing; it just kind of lingers in nothingness. And I'm not talking about a mistake of a week long relationship or being fired from a job because eventually we can get that feeling back from someone or something else. I'm talking about the morbid, unspoken, 'be wary' topics. The events that make us feel like time is spinning on a different clock; that this moment cannot be reality because if that's so, than there's nothing better but for the minute hand to just stop. As dismal as that last sentence sounded, don't worry, I hope my clock runs for a long time. My whole point is that when something horrible happens to a friend, we can impart our soulful proverbs but what it comes down to is that there are some things that really "are" out of our control. 

I've always believed that while fate plays its course, I have a bit of power to influence the happenings in other's future, moreover, in my own life. I walk the line of determinism willing me on one side and my own free resolution hoping to change the inevitable. But eventually we all have to face a point in our lives when something drastic will happen and when it does we can never go back to the way it was. I know that when my mom had breast cancer I acted completely normal. I didn't tell any of my friends and only waited until they found out by noticing my mom's wig looked a lot better than her actual hair... or lack thereof. I found no solace in opening up to friends because what could they really do? Ironically, I feel like I have no experience in these matters when suddenly the tables are turned and I am the one with a friend in need. But the only thing they are in 'need' of is for this inexplicable event to erase itself; something that no one can possibly give to them.

Time suddenly feels like poisonous quicksilver with no antidote. I guess it has always acted as a force that slows down or speeds up depending upon the events in our lives. But when in a single moment it pulses in overdrive it feels more like an impending doom than an opportunity for atonement. In a way it's not death that kills us; death can physically attack our bodies or force us to close our eyes to the world in a nights' sleep, but this wouldn't be so bad if we felt like we had accomplished everything in time. 

"The only conceivable solution would be for the past never to have happened. If he didn't come back... She longed to have someone else's past, to be someone else, like hearty Fiona with her unstained life stretching ahead, and her affectionate, sprawling family, whose dogs and cats had Latin names, whose home was a famous venue for artistic Chelsea people. All Fiona had to do was live her life, follow the road ahead and discover what was to happen. To Briony, it appeared that her life was going to be lived in one room, without a door."

- Ian McEwan (Atonement)

the illusion of love

How can we be so sure that everything is right with a person, that the euphoria isn't just a high, if after all the ear-numbing screams and waterworks beckoning the onset of a breakup, we are clued in to how everything was just so utterly wrong. More than ever, we are hit with the realization that love has stabbed out our eyes with little to no chance of resurrection, no patch to heal our open sockets.  

I want to feel the kiss of life on the bottom of my feet when walking on tip-toe. I want to taste the sun on my skin without feeling the burn of my mistake. I want to drown all the validation that I can't find to bring to the surface. I want to run on an endless sidewalk with no speed limit of happiness, no roundabouts making me step in the same place twice. I want to grip anger by it's throat and make it vomit all of my suffering. I want back the whispers only I can hear. I want the quick glances that clutch my breaths with their near to palpable coolness. I want steaming tea that never cools and the paradoxical love of a strong arm acting as my soft pillow. I want a hand reaching to curl the hair behind my ear and a palm to cradle my cheek. I want the chase found in the rainbow of a stoplight at every corner. I want to guess your thoughts and let you know by my smile. I want to know after all is said and done that it was worth not feeling like this in every moment. But most of all I want to stare down my cake with all the yearning left in my eyes and taste its sweet comfort at the same time, without this sinking of my stomach and the violent regret of butterflies begging for a drip of water.

love is beyond blind. 

Unfortunately, we only realize this after we find out that this so called line is a square, that this strong arm has wilted, that the taste of the sun is sour and the brush of life sharp, that anger can fight back and those whispers can be heard from across the room. And even after my tea has cooled I can still feel its burn on my tongue. By the time our eyes find some insight they have been bled through from memories and cataracts has clouded all perception. 

It's hard not to question love when you felt like it was everything at one point, and if it was then what is there to do when everything is gone? If we're still standing at the end of the day then maybe it wasn't that strong to begin with. 

Maybe... but I don't think so.

 I don't think I could have let something that powerful slip from sight.