Life Worth Living

When he looked at me and said, “So…do you wanna maybe get coffee or something sometime?” I had already started chanting in my head, Please don’t ask me please don’t ask me please don’t ask me.

It’s not that I don’t like him. It’s not that I don’t get along with him. I just don’t want him. I’d suspected he’d be making overtures since last Tuesday, when he’d started a conversation with me as we were walking out of class. When I scurried into class today, he had smiled bashfully, and then striked (stroke?) up another chat while we were both packing to leave. We’d sat in front of the building both our next classes were in and continued our conversation in the biting wind.

I don’t want to have coffee with him because even though it wouldn’t explicitly be a date, it would certainly feel a little like one, and I wouldn’t want to lead a guy on. If I could have coffee with him while making it clear I’m not looking for anything more than friendship I would, but I feel like if in that case I would have to say it outright. Just what could I have said but yes, anyway?

“Sorry, but I kind of have a thing with another guy. No, he’s not my boyfriend. No, I’m not even sure he will be, but I’m pretty sure. That counts for something right? I’m very smitten with him, that I can say, and he with me (knock on wood). He showed me his hometown once. I got to ride on his motorcycle—Twice! I’m having dinner with him tomorrow. Yes I know you never said this was a date, or even anything vaguely resembling one; no I don’t think I’m making something out of nothing…Hey, come back, where are you going?”

Or, “Hey sorry but I’m not all that attracted to you. Why? Well, you’re wearing pointed dress shoes and your shirt has weird embroidery on it and your hair is longer than mine and I’m not saying that’s bad! I’m just saying that that’s not what I go for in a guy. It’s not that I’m closed-minded or that I have a ‘only the best for special little me’ mentality…No, I don’t know that I wouldn’t like you if I gave it a chance. Yes, I am turning you down for a simple coffee date because I don’t like your hair, I don’t think that’s going a little too far at all.”

People get coffee together all the time, and most of the time it’s just as friends, and even when one or both sides are hoping for more it usually doesn’t happen. I should be happy a nice guy with whom I can easily talk wants to have coffee with me and not be feeling like I want to go hide in a hole somewhere.

Really, Amaretto, you just ruined men for me forever, I hope you know that. Really, Amaretto, if you didn’t want a blowjob—which, wtf? are you a even a man?—you should’ve just told me no. You didn’t have to promise you’d call, promise you’d meet me at 9, promise me you’d text…then not call, meet me, or text. You didn’t have to stand me up. If you were afraid that I wanted something from you, you shouldn’t have pretended you wanted to meet me. If you were afraid that I wanted something from you, you should’ve stopped being such a pussy and just told me no. By the way, I didn’t want anything from you but your cock, genius, jackass, bastard, douchebag. By the way, grow a spine. And some balls.

(/dramatic version)

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Look, I made it back in one piece! (Except for my pride and dignity, but who really needs those? Pffft.)

I’m still a little surprised I went. I kept thinking I’d chicken out, but after I’d made such a big deal of it to everyone, I couldn’t not go. So at 8:30 I texted Crew Guy to ask him the time. 10:30. That meant I’d aim to show up at 11, because I figured if everyone was drunk and dancing, no one would notice a girl standing there by herself. I dont mind being the only sober one in a room (not that it’s happened yet), because then I’m the one laughing at everyone, and not the other way around. So I loitered around the apartment until just past 11, calming my nerves: “Wtf is wrong with you, stupid girl? You’re going to a party, not jumping out of a plane. Pussy.” And just like how every intimidating thing is easier done without thinking about it, in one swift movement, with one deep breath, I grabbed my things and stepped out the door.

Walking up the street to Crew Guy’s place, I had to tell myself twice, “Keep going, girl.” Could I have just turned back? What, and have to explain to Rosemary that I’m a coward? I kind of dont want to admit it, but out of everyone I know, Rosemary’s opinion is one of the ones in which I hold the highest esteem (was that sentence grammatically correct?). I think it’s because most of my friends, myself included, dont have the best moral compasses, and we know it, and we dont care much. But Rosemary, she’s a bit of a prude, and I’ll let you on in the secret that sometimes we bitch about it behind her back (nothing personal, we bitch about everyone behind their backs). But, if someone who’s prudish thinks highly of me, doesn’t that say something good about me?

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Rosemary and I are waiting for the crosswalk to let us go. A bunch of skater-looking teens were standing on the same corner waiting to cross the perpendicular street. Their light turns green. One of them hangs back. A guy; taller than me; he looks about sixteen, but may have been older. He’s got green hair, a billion facial piercings, the works.

He says to me, “Hey, do you think you could take me home and beat me?”

“Yeah, sure, let’s go.” I reply swiftly and casually. He’s already stepped off the curb, but comes bounding back at this to stand by my side. He looks at me sideways, surprised.

“Really? What’s your name?”

It’s at this point that I tell him that I was just kidding, and he goes “aww!” and runs off before the light turns red, calling over his shoulder “have a nice day!”

What I really should have said next, but didn’t think of until 2 minutes later: “I’m just kidding. Sorry, but I already beat up someone this morning.”

It should be mentioned before I begin this post, in the interest of not giving anyone false hopes that what I write will be of some substance or importance or meaning, that this is coming purely from the Feel Sorry For the Author school of thought. It should also be noted that this isn’t something I make a habit of doing. Usually self-pity is enough for me. Now that that’s been cleared up.

This was the workload facing me when I woke up this morning (grumpy, as you can imagine):

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Oh yeah (I think at 3:56 AM).

There was something else I wanted to share (with my non-existent readers) today. Don’t worry, I’ll be fast.

Sitting in the dentist’s chair this afternoon, feeling my jaw permanently locking into the “wide open” position, feeling my lips go dry and chapped, feeling the drilly cleany thing whir against my teeth, I realised that the last time I’d had my mouth open for such a long time I’d had a penis in it. One can guess which I enjoyed more. And don’t tell me fifty gallons of your own saliva and fancy dentists’ toothpaste is tastier than cum, because I wont believe you.

Also, happy birthday to the USA. I hate to lump that sentiment together with the above one, but just in case I dont get around to Yay-4th-of-July-ing tomorrow. I love America; I really do.

Ate most of it before thinking to snap a pic

For those of you who dont know what it’s like to have someone throw rocks at your window in the middle of the night, it did not play out like that scene in HSM 3 where Vanessa Hudgens is lolling around her room in A FREAKING PARTY DRESS AND HEALS WITH HER HAIR DONE UP AND MAKEUP BEAUTIFUL so that when her sweet Zac Efron showed up she looked perfect (Yes; I did watch that movie, and I’ll never admit it again. Here’s my defense: Rosemary made me.)  Real girls dont hang around the house looking like they’re ready to go to a party, at least this one doesn’t. Here’s what went down for me:

Female lead sits in her room playing a game on her ipod touch. She hasn’t looked in a mirror in 3 hours and is worse off for it. She’s just had a huge meal and is nursing her full belly in a 2-sizes-too-big t-shirt and baggy sweat pants.

TWACK.

FL: What was that, a stupid bird? Fuck, spiders come in through that window. Dont freak, dont freak…It can’t be a spider, they dont grow to that size, thank god.

TWACK.

FL: DAMN SPIDER. No—calm down; we’ve already established that’s not a spider. Which doesn’t mean it’s not a monster. BACK OFF, I HAVE MOUSSE. That stuff hurts when it gets in the eyes.

TWACK.

FL: WTF? That better not be my brother doing something stupid. The brat’s gonna get it tomorrow

Cut to the scene when I peered out my window and saw a car parked on my driveway. I was halfway out my bedroom door before I realised what I was wearing and how I must’ve look. Good thing it was dark outside. Turned out to be JT and Jack Dawson come to bring me a slice of the cake they had baked and to bid me goodbye before I boarded the plane on my way to Alaska and a 10-day cruise tomorrow.

I’m a girl; we’re easily swayed by pink, sugary sweets delivered to our door by two cute boys (and you’ll never hear me refer to them as cute again, so dont get used to it). And I sit here now eating my princessy cake that’s frosted even down the sides and thinking that those boys are damn good at following directions on the side of a cake mix box.

Whatever I’ll say about JT and Jack Dawson, it’s true that they’re not always sweet to only each other. Unless they’re just trying to get me to gain five pounds before I have to shrug in my bikini—in which case, it’s working!

(Note: When I say ‘I got my ovaries’, I mean I got that part of me that makes me a stereotypical girl (and a part of me knew that was going to happen, no matter my protests). This is referring to how I said I refused to be that girl waiting by the phone for a guy to call. I know its neither a tactful or biologically correct way to put…but I was never known for my tact.)

This is a blogging style borrowed from Vix, the OEN (who is ten times more brilliant than me, although you’ll never hear me admit it…Oh, wait), who borrowed it from Bridget Jones’ Diary, apparently, which I’ve never seen

FRIDAY NIGHT, MAY 1

4:38 AM; Stumble into room, sit down by computer, type up post. Still a little numb.

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Did I forget to mention this yesterday? Why didn’t I mention yesterday that my shoulder/triceps/entiregoddamnupperarm muscles hurt like I’ve been…I dont even know (that was anticlimactic). Especially my right arm. Maybe I didn’t mention it because yesterday it was just a little ache, except the whole time it was whispering “You think it hurts now? Just wait until tomorrow” and I just chose not to listen. Which—I’m not suprised; the lactic acid usually takes about 24 hours to develop from “ow…” to “WHO THE HECK STEAMROLLERED OVER MY ARM?”

Oh, and did I not mention why my arms hurt? It wasn’t exactly hard to figure out; just embarrassing to admit. (It’s less embarrassing to admit that my nipples are still sore, too). I really am pathetic, aren’t I?

(Although it must be noted that I dont mind the ache. I’ve always liked it when my muscles ache after I (attempt to) work out. It’s like battle scars. (Except that this time it’s more like this-is-how-much-of-a-slut-not-to-mention-a-freaking-weak-slut-I-was scars. But I’ll take what I can get.))

(c) elements4health.com

Yes I am.

(Not Really)

But just what else is a girl supposed to think when she’s innocently washing the dishes in workout shorts and she hears her roommate go “woah that’s some bruise” and turns around to see a purple monstrosity on the top of her right calf just lurking there as if to say “here I am, and here I’ve been for days, right under your nose.”

Bigger around than a golf ball, smaller than a tennis ball, and deep plum purple. I’m not kidding; exactly the color of a plum, with sickly green fading in at the edges. It’s not all that uncommon for me, with my ITP and all, to have a bruise so capable of DESTROYING THE WORLD, but it’s been a while since I’ve been so frightened to look at a part of my own body. Not fun at all.

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