Do you suffer from feelings of hopelessness, a lack of drive and bouts of Depression? Are you consistently tired? Do you find yourself crying as a solution to the irrelevant of issues? Are your easily agitated and annoyed? Do you find yourself wanting to be alone all the time? Do you often feel sluggish? If you recognize these symptoms, you could be in your 20s...or suffering from PMDD.
When I was a kid, I used to calculate how many years it would be before I was twenty-one. That was my ideal age in the second grade. At twenty-one I would have a boyfriend, a big, pretty apartment, a fancy car and a really cool job. Now, at twenty-four, the only boyfriend I've ever had is gay, I live at home in a small room with no windows and I do not know how to drive. However, my job is kind of cool.
I don't know who to be mad at, society or myself; society for leading me to believe that my 20s would be the best years of my life or myself for buying into the hype.
On television shows, women in their twenties are CEOs and have wild romances; they wear Jimmy Choos and have front row seats during fashion week. There is no way that I can identify with this lifestyle. If I had to define being in my 20s, I would define it by this panging, constant feeling of urgency; by this deep need to "make it" already. I feel like the memories of my early 20s are dominated by searching for jobs and planning for graduate school more than having carefree fun in the sun. I do not know what the next half of my 20s has in store for me, but I have to say, this half sort of sucks.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
Untitled: The Untold Story
Yes, Miss Independent. Can we all just stand up and give her a round of applause? She is this generation's answer to the feminist. She pays her own bills. She has a good paying job. She will probably own her own home before she's thirty, and is making the type financial investments that her grandmother would have never imagined to ever do on her own. I mean I guess I'll just say it. She's the shit. Come on, I know that you were thinking it.
Yet Miss Independent's biggest accomplishment is the creation of the "titleless" relationship. You see, after a long day reading legal briefs, Miss Independent, or Indi as I like to call her, has no time for the strain of relationships to the point that dating has been boiled down to texting her regular for ass after work. And this is great. I mean, how many years were women not able to take control of their bodies and sex lives? I say here-here Indi. I mean, Indi has the put the ball in the female's court. The whole thing would be beautiful...if it weren't a disaster.
This whole idea of having relationships without calling it one is great if you never want to be in a committed relationship; if you never want to get married. Basically, these titleless jobs are screwing us all in the game. Without a title, without acknowledgment of being the girlfriend, there is no need for courtship. No dinner. No movies. Not even the ever-so-missed late night hour phone call to the soundtrack of a Pretty Ricky album. Everything revolves around no strings attached sex. And if you do go out, you are picking up the tab. You are Miss Independent after all.
Call me Madame Cleo because I can see ever so clearly into my crystal ball. By giving our milk away for free and sometimes at our own expense, we have flushed any responsibility of men to work for our 'ginas down the toilets. It has gotten to the point that if you try to hold out as grandma told us we should, we will get left behind, passed over for the next Indi who is ready and willing to pick up a booty relationship to fit into her schedule. We have created a trend of "no commitment needed" dating that men have fallen into quickly and comfortably that will take us more time to break than it did to begin. It's like we were just listening to our Jay-Jays for the here and now and not the long hall. What man will commit to us in our thirties when there is a younger woman with a tighter body that wants to have the fun that was once our rule of thumb?
This week I talked to two of my male friends that told me that they never want to get married. They want to be bachelors forever like Peter Pan, having all the childlike fun they want well into their 90s and picking up the occasional Indie to fulfill their needs. One of these friends, Hal, said that this is the route he's taking because he can't find a girl who wants things 50/50. This is a total example of the aftermath of Indi. Is it just me, or aren't men supposed to one day grow to be providers? I mean, isn't that the rule of the land? Well... maybe it was before pussy became easier to get than gas.
Of course, most of my single girlfriends play the Indi game. Well, at least they think that they are. They like the come and go routine until they realize that the relationship is not progressing. Notice I say relationship because, although we hate to admit it, girls are not programmed to stick it and quit it. Unless its a one-night stand type of thing, women, including Indies, are prone to label something when it includes an exchange of body fluids. So the Indi, even though she created the guidelines for the titleless relationship, finds herself alone at the end when the guy is scared off by her sudden need to label whatever it is they had where she was doing most of the emotional and physical giving.
My friend Quinton says that I don't understand the whole titleless phenom because I don't have sex. If I did, according to Quinton, I'd understand the need to give up the "girlfriend" nameplate for the unlimited amount of sex that comes with being titleless. You can either demand a title and end up alone or don't demand one and at least get screwed.
Sadly, I feel that this is the mindset of a lot of sisters. You don't want to be alone, but you don't have the time for a relationship or can't find anyone suitable, so why not settle so you can at least be someones nothing sometimes? Again, our grandmothers called this giving the milk away for free. And sadly, if us Indies don't wake up and smell the coffee, we will find ourselves sad in our 30s and 40s with empty milk jugs, wishing that we would have asked a little bit more of men...and of ourselves.
Yet Miss Independent's biggest accomplishment is the creation of the "titleless" relationship. You see, after a long day reading legal briefs, Miss Independent, or Indi as I like to call her, has no time for the strain of relationships to the point that dating has been boiled down to texting her regular for ass after work. And this is great. I mean, how many years were women not able to take control of their bodies and sex lives? I say here-here Indi. I mean, Indi has the put the ball in the female's court. The whole thing would be beautiful...if it weren't a disaster.
This whole idea of having relationships without calling it one is great if you never want to be in a committed relationship; if you never want to get married. Basically, these titleless jobs are screwing us all in the game. Without a title, without acknowledgment of being the girlfriend, there is no need for courtship. No dinner. No movies. Not even the ever-so-missed late night hour phone call to the soundtrack of a Pretty Ricky album. Everything revolves around no strings attached sex. And if you do go out, you are picking up the tab. You are Miss Independent after all.
Call me Madame Cleo because I can see ever so clearly into my crystal ball. By giving our milk away for free and sometimes at our own expense, we have flushed any responsibility of men to work for our 'ginas down the toilets. It has gotten to the point that if you try to hold out as grandma told us we should, we will get left behind, passed over for the next Indi who is ready and willing to pick up a booty relationship to fit into her schedule. We have created a trend of "no commitment needed" dating that men have fallen into quickly and comfortably that will take us more time to break than it did to begin. It's like we were just listening to our Jay-Jays for the here and now and not the long hall. What man will commit to us in our thirties when there is a younger woman with a tighter body that wants to have the fun that was once our rule of thumb?
This week I talked to two of my male friends that told me that they never want to get married. They want to be bachelors forever like Peter Pan, having all the childlike fun they want well into their 90s and picking up the occasional Indie to fulfill their needs. One of these friends, Hal, said that this is the route he's taking because he can't find a girl who wants things 50/50. This is a total example of the aftermath of Indi. Is it just me, or aren't men supposed to one day grow to be providers? I mean, isn't that the rule of the land? Well... maybe it was before pussy became easier to get than gas.
Of course, most of my single girlfriends play the Indi game. Well, at least they think that they are. They like the come and go routine until they realize that the relationship is not progressing. Notice I say relationship because, although we hate to admit it, girls are not programmed to stick it and quit it. Unless its a one-night stand type of thing, women, including Indies, are prone to label something when it includes an exchange of body fluids. So the Indi, even though she created the guidelines for the titleless relationship, finds herself alone at the end when the guy is scared off by her sudden need to label whatever it is they had where she was doing most of the emotional and physical giving.
My friend Quinton says that I don't understand the whole titleless phenom because I don't have sex. If I did, according to Quinton, I'd understand the need to give up the "girlfriend" nameplate for the unlimited amount of sex that comes with being titleless. You can either demand a title and end up alone or don't demand one and at least get screwed.
Sadly, I feel that this is the mindset of a lot of sisters. You don't want to be alone, but you don't have the time for a relationship or can't find anyone suitable, so why not settle so you can at least be someones nothing sometimes? Again, our grandmothers called this giving the milk away for free. And sadly, if us Indies don't wake up and smell the coffee, we will find ourselves sad in our 30s and 40s with empty milk jugs, wishing that we would have asked a little bit more of men...and of ourselves.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Facebook and the Young Mother
It seems that I can not log on to Facebook these days without seeing some Sears portrait of another one of my friends pregnant or holding her newborn with her bejeweled, cornrowed baby-daddy.
When I was in middle school, I remember fearing getting my period because once you got a period, you could get pregnant, and once you got pregnant, your life would be over and you would receive a first-class ticket from the state to the community college, a bus pass, and some WIC vouchers which, since you could get real cheese and Juicy Juice, would make the whole thing feel worthwhile. And then of course, you would have the baby, your Aunty would throw you a shower in the back of her hair salon with you and twenty of your other pregnant, teen buddies, and then your boyfriend would disappear...either by choice or incarceration.
I say all this to say that I have been groomed from a young age to fear pregnancy; to loathe the idea of having a baby. So when I log on to Facebook for my daily chats and photo surfing, my stomach tightens to see that a large portion of my female friends, some of them up to five years younger than me, are having or have had a baby. The other day I had to stop myself from accidentally posting "I'm sorry girl:(" under one of the pics of her newborn.
Okay, I know what you are thinking and yes, I am aware that I am 24 and that is old enough to start a family. But if you mention the word baby to me, I might as well be twelve, waiting for my first period. I am also aware that if I want to start a family, the best of my baby-bearing years will be over is 6 years. Who wants to be the oldest mom at the PTA meeting, the one that they stick with making the bake sale cookies because all the young mothers have jobs and active social lives?
And guys with kids? Please, every guy I have liked that I met outside of the college dating pool has had kids. My mom had a boyfriend when I was growing up. A child doesn't have to tell me how much they hate the fill-in step parent.
Do I want kids? I don't know. I do know that once I felt that I was sooo in love that I wanted to have a boy's babies. Can you imagine? If that disaster would have come to pass, I would have a two-year-old right now! I would be the one with pics of myself at the birthday party with the Batman cake and the Bob the Builder birthday dunce caps; I would be a mother.
Mother. Christ, it feels like I just learned how to spell that word while I have friends that are living it. It's weird! One day, probably about six years from now, I will be complaining about wanting kids and not having any, hoping that I keep getting periods as long as possible until I can make it to the sperm bank. Six years from now my baby fear will be replaced by...by no-baby fear.
For now, I guess all I can do is be there for my new mommy homies, and wait with my chastity belt slightly ajar, in hopes of finding the bejeweled, cornrowed baby-daddy of my dreams.
When I was in middle school, I remember fearing getting my period because once you got a period, you could get pregnant, and once you got pregnant, your life would be over and you would receive a first-class ticket from the state to the community college, a bus pass, and some WIC vouchers which, since you could get real cheese and Juicy Juice, would make the whole thing feel worthwhile. And then of course, you would have the baby, your Aunty would throw you a shower in the back of her hair salon with you and twenty of your other pregnant, teen buddies, and then your boyfriend would disappear...either by choice or incarceration.
I say all this to say that I have been groomed from a young age to fear pregnancy; to loathe the idea of having a baby. So when I log on to Facebook for my daily chats and photo surfing, my stomach tightens to see that a large portion of my female friends, some of them up to five years younger than me, are having or have had a baby. The other day I had to stop myself from accidentally posting "I'm sorry girl:(" under one of the pics of her newborn.
Okay, I know what you are thinking and yes, I am aware that I am 24 and that is old enough to start a family. But if you mention the word baby to me, I might as well be twelve, waiting for my first period. I am also aware that if I want to start a family, the best of my baby-bearing years will be over is 6 years. Who wants to be the oldest mom at the PTA meeting, the one that they stick with making the bake sale cookies because all the young mothers have jobs and active social lives?
And guys with kids? Please, every guy I have liked that I met outside of the college dating pool has had kids. My mom had a boyfriend when I was growing up. A child doesn't have to tell me how much they hate the fill-in step parent.
Do I want kids? I don't know. I do know that once I felt that I was sooo in love that I wanted to have a boy's babies. Can you imagine? If that disaster would have come to pass, I would have a two-year-old right now! I would be the one with pics of myself at the birthday party with the Batman cake and the Bob the Builder birthday dunce caps; I would be a mother.
Mother. Christ, it feels like I just learned how to spell that word while I have friends that are living it. It's weird! One day, probably about six years from now, I will be complaining about wanting kids and not having any, hoping that I keep getting periods as long as possible until I can make it to the sperm bank. Six years from now my baby fear will be replaced by...by no-baby fear.
For now, I guess all I can do is be there for my new mommy homies, and wait with my chastity belt slightly ajar, in hopes of finding the bejeweled, cornrowed baby-daddy of my dreams.
Friday, May 8, 2009
3 is the new 2
Over the past month, about five of my friends have called me to tell me that they've just been in a threesome.
Apparently, these sexcapades are going on in my friends' lives while I'm at home in bed watching The Hills and eating Oreos with my hair wrapped wearing my old dependable holey nightgown.
I am the first to admit that I am sexually oblivious. I have been a graduate of Xavier University for two years and I am just now finding out who did who and when. But I thought the threeway was the last card in the deck for desperate married couples!
Yesterday I was watching Tyra with my grandma in the nursing home and this 19-year-old girl told her parents that she'd had a threesome in an elevator with some other girl and man that she didn't know on the family cruise.
So if I am correct, if the threeway is the last card in the deck and the Tyra girl was 19 and my friends are in their early 20s, then what will be doing to get off in ten years, fucking cats?
Okay. Let me slow my roll. Maybe I'm going overboard here.
A close girlfriend of mine told me that she and her two guy friends just met up one night and the threesome just kind of happened. Just kind of happened. You have to understand that I have always been a cautious person. I look both ways before I cross the street and keep a travel-sized Lysol in my purse just in case I have to pee at the mall. I have never just kind of ever did anything, especially not sucked a dick while taking it up my ass in a basement.
Am I being rude? I'm sorry, but I just want you to know how foreign this is to me. It was not until college that I became comfortable with hugging. And I have to say, this whole threesome thing is making me paranoid.
Kind of like when I was in the fifth grade and used to watch scribble porn at my uncle's house. After that, if I saw a female teacher talking to a male one, I just assumed it was to schedule sex. Or if the pizza man came to the door and didn't leave immediately, he wasn't waiting on his tip, he was waiting for me to strip. Now, when my favorite couple invites me to their apartment for our bi-weekly Scrabble games, I sit at the end of the couch drinking a Red Bull, afraid that if I doze off, they will try to get something poppin'.
But maybe that would not be a bad thing. Perhaps I am thinking of this all wrong. My friends don't have accelerated sex lives. I'm just behind. I have always sort of felt like I need to loosen up and get with the times and now that I think about it, what better time than in your 20s to explore? If anyone needs me I'll be in my basement...multitasking.
Apparently, these sexcapades are going on in my friends' lives while I'm at home in bed watching The Hills and eating Oreos with my hair wrapped wearing my old dependable holey nightgown.
I am the first to admit that I am sexually oblivious. I have been a graduate of Xavier University for two years and I am just now finding out who did who and when. But I thought the threeway was the last card in the deck for desperate married couples!
Yesterday I was watching Tyra with my grandma in the nursing home and this 19-year-old girl told her parents that she'd had a threesome in an elevator with some other girl and man that she didn't know on the family cruise.
So if I am correct, if the threeway is the last card in the deck and the Tyra girl was 19 and my friends are in their early 20s, then what will be doing to get off in ten years, fucking cats?
Okay. Let me slow my roll. Maybe I'm going overboard here.
A close girlfriend of mine told me that she and her two guy friends just met up one night and the threesome just kind of happened. Just kind of happened. You have to understand that I have always been a cautious person. I look both ways before I cross the street and keep a travel-sized Lysol in my purse just in case I have to pee at the mall. I have never just kind of ever did anything, especially not sucked a dick while taking it up my ass in a basement.
Am I being rude? I'm sorry, but I just want you to know how foreign this is to me. It was not until college that I became comfortable with hugging. And I have to say, this whole threesome thing is making me paranoid.
Kind of like when I was in the fifth grade and used to watch scribble porn at my uncle's house. After that, if I saw a female teacher talking to a male one, I just assumed it was to schedule sex. Or if the pizza man came to the door and didn't leave immediately, he wasn't waiting on his tip, he was waiting for me to strip. Now, when my favorite couple invites me to their apartment for our bi-weekly Scrabble games, I sit at the end of the couch drinking a Red Bull, afraid that if I doze off, they will try to get something poppin'.
But maybe that would not be a bad thing. Perhaps I am thinking of this all wrong. My friends don't have accelerated sex lives. I'm just behind. I have always sort of felt like I need to loosen up and get with the times and now that I think about it, what better time than in your 20s to explore? If anyone needs me I'll be in my basement...multitasking.
Getting Physical
The other day I think that I lost my virginity to the bicycle seat in my spin class.
Recently, I joined a gym. It just kind of happened. I went to the gym office to receive a free two week pass that I didn't plan on using when I was sweet-talked into buying a membership. What can I say? The skinny white teenagers in bikinis looked like they were having so much fun in the pool in the orientation video.
Fast forward to Tuesday. I decided to go with my Aunt Lara to a spin class. For those of you who do not know, a spin class in this super intense group bicycling class. I had first heard about it on some show about celebrity work out trends. I don't know why I, at over 400lbs, though I could take the same work-out class that Halle Berry takes six times a week but what the hell? On the show, it looked fun.
So I got to the class early because I was excited, which was good, because it took 20 minutes for the instructor, who was as big as I was in the third grade, to strap me on to the bike,
"There," she said, stepping back and smiling at me on the bike, "doesn't that feel good?"
"Yes," I lied.
I assume that she could tell I did not feel good, but walked away anyway. My feet were strapped onto the peddles with leather straps. The seat was so high that I was hunched over the bike, and the sharp tip of the seat felt like it was actually in my vagina. Just maintaining that God-awful position was a workout. I was sweating profusely, and those who know me know that I never sweat.
Literally three minutes into the class, I left. I unhooked myself from the bike and walked out. It was just too hard, and I felt pathetic because I hate giving up on something. But I had to force myself to come to terms with the fact that I couldn't do it before I started screaming in the middle of the gym.
As I started walking back to the locker room, I became very angry that I even joined the gym in the first place. Everyone was sexy and skinny and cute and young and flirting with each other over blueberry soy smoothies. I clearly didn't belong there. I have never felt out of place waiting for my order at McDonald's or shopping at Lane Bryant. How was I supposed to want to work out next to tall, brown, super muscular topless men in small shorts? The idea made me want to cry.
And cry I did next to a naked lady in the steam room. I guess some things, unlike placing my order for a Number 1 with an ice cream cone and three cookies for a dollar, are difficult to do.
Recently, I joined a gym. It just kind of happened. I went to the gym office to receive a free two week pass that I didn't plan on using when I was sweet-talked into buying a membership. What can I say? The skinny white teenagers in bikinis looked like they were having so much fun in the pool in the orientation video.
Fast forward to Tuesday. I decided to go with my Aunt Lara to a spin class. For those of you who do not know, a spin class in this super intense group bicycling class. I had first heard about it on some show about celebrity work out trends. I don't know why I, at over 400lbs, though I could take the same work-out class that Halle Berry takes six times a week but what the hell? On the show, it looked fun.
So I got to the class early because I was excited, which was good, because it took 20 minutes for the instructor, who was as big as I was in the third grade, to strap me on to the bike,
"There," she said, stepping back and smiling at me on the bike, "doesn't that feel good?"
"Yes," I lied.
I assume that she could tell I did not feel good, but walked away anyway. My feet were strapped onto the peddles with leather straps. The seat was so high that I was hunched over the bike, and the sharp tip of the seat felt like it was actually in my vagina. Just maintaining that God-awful position was a workout. I was sweating profusely, and those who know me know that I never sweat.
Literally three minutes into the class, I left. I unhooked myself from the bike and walked out. It was just too hard, and I felt pathetic because I hate giving up on something. But I had to force myself to come to terms with the fact that I couldn't do it before I started screaming in the middle of the gym.
As I started walking back to the locker room, I became very angry that I even joined the gym in the first place. Everyone was sexy and skinny and cute and young and flirting with each other over blueberry soy smoothies. I clearly didn't belong there. I have never felt out of place waiting for my order at McDonald's or shopping at Lane Bryant. How was I supposed to want to work out next to tall, brown, super muscular topless men in small shorts? The idea made me want to cry.
And cry I did next to a naked lady in the steam room. I guess some things, unlike placing my order for a Number 1 with an ice cream cone and three cookies for a dollar, are difficult to do.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
...And the point is?
If you live your life the way you are supposed to, if you fear God and put all your energy into being good to others and fulfilling your dreams, if you don't litter, if you grow up and get married and pay taxes and shit three times a day, if you make your children your world and teach them how to sit with their ankles crossed and say 'please' and 'thank you', if you don't lie and if you brush and floss before and after meals, you still are not safe because you are working towards an end and then in the end, nothing is in your hands and you do not get to bask in the goodness that you worked toward your whole life to claim. If this is not just my observation and really the way that it is, then ladies and gentlemen, I am happy to tell you that WE ARE ALL ROYALLY FUCKED!
Why the starry-eyed optimism you may be asking? My grandmother was recently moved into a nursing home after being released from the hospital. She has Alzheimer's Disease. She has only been in the home for about three days, and she does not leave her bedroom, which she shares with a wheelchair-bound woman who can't hear worth a damn. I am glad that she can not leave the room because I feel that even in her state of mind she would recognize that the home, much like other homes across the nation, is just a rest stop before you pack your bags for the pearly gates. It's not that bad I guess, but it is impersonal. Grandma has like 4 doctors and numerous nurses, sometimes different ones depending on shift changes. They have a habit of talking about her in the third person as if she is not there when her hearing is A+. Old people sit in wheelchairs in the halls with wide, 'my mind is in la-la land' smiles, and the nurses and orderlies smile their 'if you only knew you were about to croak' smiles back.
This is my grandmother's end. This is why she lived day to day trying to live the best life that she could. Shitty, huh?
To make things better, meaning worst, I recently talked to my father about my grandfather's death. In high school, I was told that he died but not really told how. Apparently, he suffered from alcoholism and substance abuse and had a stroke, just to starve himself to death in the nursing home.
When you live long enough to see someone you love suffer from a deteriorating illness, your emotions are at a crossroads. Do you live your life to the fullest because it will one day be snatched away or tip-toe cautiously through life hoping that you will be rewarded in the end? I am related by blood to two people who chose one of each path, and ended up in the same place in the end. I am not at all sure what this is supposed to say to me, but I find myself wondering what the point is.
Why the starry-eyed optimism you may be asking? My grandmother was recently moved into a nursing home after being released from the hospital. She has Alzheimer's Disease. She has only been in the home for about three days, and she does not leave her bedroom, which she shares with a wheelchair-bound woman who can't hear worth a damn. I am glad that she can not leave the room because I feel that even in her state of mind she would recognize that the home, much like other homes across the nation, is just a rest stop before you pack your bags for the pearly gates. It's not that bad I guess, but it is impersonal. Grandma has like 4 doctors and numerous nurses, sometimes different ones depending on shift changes. They have a habit of talking about her in the third person as if she is not there when her hearing is A+. Old people sit in wheelchairs in the halls with wide, 'my mind is in la-la land' smiles, and the nurses and orderlies smile their 'if you only knew you were about to croak' smiles back.
This is my grandmother's end. This is why she lived day to day trying to live the best life that she could. Shitty, huh?
To make things better, meaning worst, I recently talked to my father about my grandfather's death. In high school, I was told that he died but not really told how. Apparently, he suffered from alcoholism and substance abuse and had a stroke, just to starve himself to death in the nursing home.
When you live long enough to see someone you love suffer from a deteriorating illness, your emotions are at a crossroads. Do you live your life to the fullest because it will one day be snatched away or tip-toe cautiously through life hoping that you will be rewarded in the end? I am related by blood to two people who chose one of each path, and ended up in the same place in the end. I am not at all sure what this is supposed to say to me, but I find myself wondering what the point is.
Friday, February 6, 2009
It's Not Easy Being Clean
When I was a child, I was a teacher's pet. I was that girl that always got to take the attendance sheet to the front office, even when I didn't ask to do so. I was also the kid that got to be the "class leader" while the teacher went to pee or smoke cigs in the bathroom. And no one ever said a peep on my watch because they knew I would snitch. Now at the age of 24, I am that girl that, if I hit your car, I would leave a note on the windshield. I don't litter. It's disrespectful to the Earth. I don't even burn CDs or buy bootlegged movies. And I have to tell you, being so good...sucks ass.
I have friends my age who smoke weed, who have threesomes, who go to swinger's clubs, who have relationship problems, who...I don't know...are actually living life and enjoying their twenties. And somehow, being this type of girl has taken a blow to my confidence. I am beginning to lose my desire to do anything because I don't have the guts to do what I want to.
I have a friend named P. One day, when I'm mentally ready, I will share with you our little story. Anywho, when we were freshmen, P was a complete and total sexist nightmare. He and his little crew of sexist nightmares were the life of the campus. When they were not getting high while the rest of us studied our asses off just to barely make Cs, P and company video tapped girl's booties, had serial sex, danced their nights away at shit hole clubs, and made it a habit to rate women as they walked by. They were terrors and went on to sophomore year with 3.0s. Anyway, one day I decided to share my warm memories of P's freshman year with him and he said, "Fuck it. I had fun. You are one of those people who talks about people at the club on the wall while everyone else dances."
That's me in fact, the wallflower shit talker.
I mean, I have done things in my life that I consider worthwhile, but I don't think that it's enough. I want to do more.
I made the mistake of sharing this with Cali, my super blunt newly gay homegirl, and she was disappointed in me. She get's all Maya Angelou on me and goes on and on about how great I am.
"Why do you let other people's perception of you stop you from doing what you want?"
I laughed to myself. I have never cared about other people's perception of me. It is my perception of me that is stopping my progression.
Secret time: I don't really like myself. I never really have, but didn't care because I don't think anyone likes themselves. If we did, we wouldn't die our hair and read self-help books by other losers who don't like themselves. We wouldn't get depressed. We wouldn't sleep around. We wouldn't get addicted to dope. We wouldn't care so fucking much! But now, the only problem is that my little disliking of myself if preventing me from moving forward in my life.
And, on top of that, I feel like a goody-goody. I am at home typing away on my blog while I feel like everyone else doesn't have the time to even read it. They are too busy taking risks and living.
And I would too...if I wasn't so damn clean and scary.
Hmmm, pho-phum, whoa is me.
Well, I would chat longer, but I have to get to isolating myself from excitement.
I have friends my age who smoke weed, who have threesomes, who go to swinger's clubs, who have relationship problems, who...I don't know...are actually living life and enjoying their twenties. And somehow, being this type of girl has taken a blow to my confidence. I am beginning to lose my desire to do anything because I don't have the guts to do what I want to.
I have a friend named P. One day, when I'm mentally ready, I will share with you our little story. Anywho, when we were freshmen, P was a complete and total sexist nightmare. He and his little crew of sexist nightmares were the life of the campus. When they were not getting high while the rest of us studied our asses off just to barely make Cs, P and company video tapped girl's booties, had serial sex, danced their nights away at shit hole clubs, and made it a habit to rate women as they walked by. They were terrors and went on to sophomore year with 3.0s. Anyway, one day I decided to share my warm memories of P's freshman year with him and he said, "Fuck it. I had fun. You are one of those people who talks about people at the club on the wall while everyone else dances."
That's me in fact, the wallflower shit talker.
I mean, I have done things in my life that I consider worthwhile, but I don't think that it's enough. I want to do more.
I made the mistake of sharing this with Cali, my super blunt newly gay homegirl, and she was disappointed in me. She get's all Maya Angelou on me and goes on and on about how great I am.
"Why do you let other people's perception of you stop you from doing what you want?"
I laughed to myself. I have never cared about other people's perception of me. It is my perception of me that is stopping my progression.
Secret time: I don't really like myself. I never really have, but didn't care because I don't think anyone likes themselves. If we did, we wouldn't die our hair and read self-help books by other losers who don't like themselves. We wouldn't get depressed. We wouldn't sleep around. We wouldn't get addicted to dope. We wouldn't care so fucking much! But now, the only problem is that my little disliking of myself if preventing me from moving forward in my life.
And, on top of that, I feel like a goody-goody. I am at home typing away on my blog while I feel like everyone else doesn't have the time to even read it. They are too busy taking risks and living.
And I would too...if I wasn't so damn clean and scary.
Hmmm, pho-phum, whoa is me.
Well, I would chat longer, but I have to get to isolating myself from excitement.
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