Dear You,
Recently, while attempting to provide a disclaimer to a friend (Hi, Joe !!) regarding this blog, I realized something. I have published a total of five letters on the internet. Of those five letters, only one could be construed as remotely positive. I feel as though this gives off the vibe that I am not an entirely happy, positive person. I feel as though I may have led you to the belief that I am not, in fact, a little ray of sunshine, but am instead, a storm cloud. I am not a storm cloud... or a prostitute.
So, I made a decision. In the interest of getting to know one another better, and in the interest of proving that I am not a depressed and jaded individual, I am going to use this particular letter to ramble off some things that make me particularly happy on a day-to-day basis.
1) Flowers. It doesn't have to be any specific kind of flower, I like most all of 'em. I even keep a few bouquets of faux-flora in vases in my bedroom, just because I like them so much. I think it must be the colours. I also keep faux-flowers because dead plants make me a little sad. (Note to all future suitors: please don't give me real flowers. They die, and that makes me sad. Making me sad will not look well on you as far as your... suiting.)
2) Sunshine. I think this is pretty self-explanatory. It's also science, and that makes me feel pretty darned smart. I'm told (by scientists, naturally) that sunshine provides us (humans) with Vitamin D. An increase of Vitamin D in your system will make you feel happier naturally. That's why we, as people, get the "Winter Blahs" -- not enough Vitamin D! (But we all know that we get these "Winter Blahs" because winter actually really sucks, right? So cold, and drab, and snowy... okay, no more thinking about winter. It's August. Let's enjoy August.)
3) The stupid shit people post on the internet literally every day. It seems I find some gem almost daily that has me in stitches laughing. Websites like HelloGiggles and my Facebook feed (which provides ever-so-hysterical links to outside sources (ie. YouTube) help immensely. (See This, This, and also This for reference.)
4) Music. Particularly up-beat, funky music. I'll listen to almost anything (for instance, I was recently introduced to the concept of Ska. I have never listened to Ska before this week. I fucking love Ska. Where have you been all my life, Ska!?), and I find that whatever I'm listening to really effects my mood. If I'm not having a good day, I will (please don't hate me) throw some Katy Perry on, and dance it off. There is also no better workout motivation than some really disgusting, almost-annoying top-40 Pop. Suffice it to say that through the last few weeks, Ms. Perry has been basically on loop. The approximately $20 I paid for her two albums has been well worth it!
5) Ridiculous pictures. I have a tendency to only keep family photos that make me laugh for some reason. Somebody pulls a stupid face, gets caught talking, looks like he/she is really not with it... whatever the case may be. If I look at it, and it strikes me as funny, it goes in a frame, and gets placed somewhere in my bedroom. I think my favourite is still the picture of my maternal grandparents where my Grandmother looks adorable, and super sweet (AKA like her normal self... Hi Gram!! <3), and my Grandfather looks a bit like Mr. Clean's evil twin... and there's a good chance he may bite my Grandmother. I love this picture.... so much. That said, not all of the pictures I've kept are funny ones. I did hang on to a lot of fairly un-funny and typical pictures as well.
6) Cliché Alert: My family and friends. If you're reading this, and I know you in my offline-life in some respect... I love you. Having people around me who genuinely care about me, and about my well-being means the world to me. Each of member of my family, and each one of my friends, make my life what it is. If you have been my friend, and we're no longer in contact for whatever reason, know that you've made an impact on my life as well. I am a firm believer that each person who enters and exits your life, whatever their reason for it, does so to teach you a lesson, or to show you something you may not have otherwise seen. I am fortunate to have you in my life, and am grateful every day that you've been my friend, or that you are my relative. Also, I am including my cat in this group. My cat is basically my child. Deal with it.
7) Instagram. It's interesting how one little application can impact your life. Instagram allows me to see what my friends and family are up to, and to capture the small moments in each day that make me happy. Whether that's a meal that turned out awesome, something stupid my cat did (there are a LOT of cat pictures on my Instagram... just a warning.), or whatever made me smile that particular day.
Okay... I feel like 7 is a good place to stop. Maybe I'll keep doing these. I feel like it's good for me to remind myself of the things that are really, truly positive in my life, and it also allows you to see a bit into my life, and my personality, which you may not see otherwise.
Anyway, it's time for bed. There is a cat in my lap, and it is high time that I was in bed! I shall speak to you again soon.
Happily Yours,
- A.
Saturday, 27 July 2013
Friday, 26 July 2013
Prostitute
Dear You,
I couldn't think of a better title for this particular letter than what I've written. I realize that brings up some pretty strong images and ideas, but I assure you that this is not a confessional. I am not a prostitute. It is, however, a waxing on about how frustrated I am over being treated like a prostitute by my city's police officers.
Let me start by reiterating to you that I am not a prostitute. I may currently be among the ranks of the unemployed whilst I wait for school to start in September, but I am not paying my rent by selling my sexuality to men... or women, for that matter. I am not a prostitute. I wouldn't even qualify myself as a "slut" of any description. I'm pretty conservative in that way, in general.
Tonight, after returning from a pretty lengthy excursion to a neighbouring, and smaller city for dinner and an explore with some other friends, I sent a text to a very close male friend of mine. I asked if, because we were supposed to hang out yesterday, he wanted to grab coffee and/or go for a drive. He agreed, and came to pick me up. We decided to skip the coffee, because it was pretty late (it's even later, as I type this), and just go for a drive instead. When my friend got tired of driving, we pulled off into a parking lot. We sat chatting (note the words "sat" and "chatting." These are important.) in the parking for well over an hour. I realize that sitting in a parking lot in a car to have a conversation is not normal. Most people would sit in a coffee shop, or in their houses. My friend and I simply have a tradition of sitting in his car instead. Nothing more to it than that.
After a little while, a car pulled in behind us. The ridiculous brightness of the headlights let both my friend and myself know that this was not just any other car. This was a police cruiser.
Now, a little background information, because I presume that we are likely from different cities. Where I live, there is usually only one officer to a police cruiser, not two. Tonight, there were two officers in the car. The first, a male, went to my friend's side of the vehicle. They began talking, and while I was paying attention to what was going on on my friend's side of the car, the second officer, a female, snuck up on my side of the car. I say snuck up, because not only did I not expect to see a second officer, she also walks like some kind of ninja. She was at my window and asking if I had any ID before I could even so much as notice that she was there. I only had my provincial health card on me, which has no picture on it, but she took it anyway. As she took it, she asked me several pretty pointed questions. Where was I from? Where do I live? Who do I live with? What is my friend doing in this city? (He has out-of-Province license plates) How do I know him? I felt as though she was accusing me of being... you guessed it... a prostitute. I am not a prostitute. I don't feel as though I look like a prostitute, even. The whole situation was just silly.
After a reasonably long wait for our ID to be returned to us, my friend and I were allowed to go on with our conversation. We decided to leave the parking lot, because the sudden accusations had ruined a good talk.
When I got home, the attitude from the officers, and the questions from the female officer in particular were still really bothering me. I made a phone call to the non-emergency police line, and asked if this was normal. I was shocked to hear the officer on the other end of the line sounding proud of "his officers" and telling me that they had followed protocol exactly. I thanked the officer for the information and hung up. He obviously wasn't getting my point, and I was, and am, not in the mood to argue.
So, here's my question for you... what ever happened to "Innocent until proven guilty?" Why are police officers allowed to go around accusing people and giving negative attitude when there isn't any real cause for it? Why am I living in a world where I can't sit in a parked car without being accused of being a hooker?
In other words... what the hell happened to the world? And what the hell happened to people? And to trust?
Confusedly Yours,
- A.
I couldn't think of a better title for this particular letter than what I've written. I realize that brings up some pretty strong images and ideas, but I assure you that this is not a confessional. I am not a prostitute. It is, however, a waxing on about how frustrated I am over being treated like a prostitute by my city's police officers.
Let me start by reiterating to you that I am not a prostitute. I may currently be among the ranks of the unemployed whilst I wait for school to start in September, but I am not paying my rent by selling my sexuality to men... or women, for that matter. I am not a prostitute. I wouldn't even qualify myself as a "slut" of any description. I'm pretty conservative in that way, in general.
Tonight, after returning from a pretty lengthy excursion to a neighbouring, and smaller city for dinner and an explore with some other friends, I sent a text to a very close male friend of mine. I asked if, because we were supposed to hang out yesterday, he wanted to grab coffee and/or go for a drive. He agreed, and came to pick me up. We decided to skip the coffee, because it was pretty late (it's even later, as I type this), and just go for a drive instead. When my friend got tired of driving, we pulled off into a parking lot. We sat chatting (note the words "sat" and "chatting." These are important.) in the parking for well over an hour. I realize that sitting in a parking lot in a car to have a conversation is not normal. Most people would sit in a coffee shop, or in their houses. My friend and I simply have a tradition of sitting in his car instead. Nothing more to it than that.
After a little while, a car pulled in behind us. The ridiculous brightness of the headlights let both my friend and myself know that this was not just any other car. This was a police cruiser.
Now, a little background information, because I presume that we are likely from different cities. Where I live, there is usually only one officer to a police cruiser, not two. Tonight, there were two officers in the car. The first, a male, went to my friend's side of the vehicle. They began talking, and while I was paying attention to what was going on on my friend's side of the car, the second officer, a female, snuck up on my side of the car. I say snuck up, because not only did I not expect to see a second officer, she also walks like some kind of ninja. She was at my window and asking if I had any ID before I could even so much as notice that she was there. I only had my provincial health card on me, which has no picture on it, but she took it anyway. As she took it, she asked me several pretty pointed questions. Where was I from? Where do I live? Who do I live with? What is my friend doing in this city? (He has out-of-Province license plates) How do I know him? I felt as though she was accusing me of being... you guessed it... a prostitute. I am not a prostitute. I don't feel as though I look like a prostitute, even. The whole situation was just silly.
After a reasonably long wait for our ID to be returned to us, my friend and I were allowed to go on with our conversation. We decided to leave the parking lot, because the sudden accusations had ruined a good talk.
When I got home, the attitude from the officers, and the questions from the female officer in particular were still really bothering me. I made a phone call to the non-emergency police line, and asked if this was normal. I was shocked to hear the officer on the other end of the line sounding proud of "his officers" and telling me that they had followed protocol exactly. I thanked the officer for the information and hung up. He obviously wasn't getting my point, and I was, and am, not in the mood to argue.
So, here's my question for you... what ever happened to "Innocent until proven guilty?" Why are police officers allowed to go around accusing people and giving negative attitude when there isn't any real cause for it? Why am I living in a world where I can't sit in a parked car without being accused of being a hooker?
In other words... what the hell happened to the world? And what the hell happened to people? And to trust?
Confusedly Yours,
- A.
Tuesday, 16 July 2013
Fight or Flight
Dear You,
I am sitting on my bed, writing this to you, because I can't talk to anyone else... and believe me, I tried. It's interesting (and not in a good way) to have something terrifying happen to you, and to then feel as though you've been reduced to minutia and dramatics by a man who is supposed to be your friend.
I was always under the impression that men were supposed to respect women. In terms of traditional gender roles, women are supposed to be the more delicate of the two sexes -- the "weaker" sex. To that end, I was pretty sure that, except for the mentally unstable ones, all men were brought up from a very young age to be careful with and to protect women -- their sisters, mothers, cousins, friends... even strangers.
I have, for the most part, felt like a very strong and independent woman. Admittedly not as physically strong as the vast majority of the men in my life, but I can compete on a mental level with the best of them. I can take care of myself, and to this point, have felt like I was pretty good at it, too.
Tonight, that changed.
I have never felt so weak. So attacked. So helpless.
Tonight, I had a date (this is a super good thing!). Things went well. We decided to go for a late dinner. After dinner, I walked my date to the corner where we usually split up, and go home separately. I have walked that walk home a million times. Nothing has ever happened. As usual, I pulled my headphones out of my bag as a crossed the street. I had my leftover dinner in my hands.
This time, as I crossed the street, I was followed. Not by my date. By a stranger. A stranger who smelled very strongly of beer. He asked if I was going to wait for the bus. It seemed innocent enough, so I answered -- I said "No."
Unfortunately, the beer-scented man did not stop at the bus stop. He followed me. He kept half-shouting questions at me -- demanding to know where I was going, how far I was walking, why I had chosen to walk. I didn't answer. The more questions I let go by without responding, the angrier he got. He changed tones, from drunk half-shouting to full-on shouting. I still ignored him. I walked a little faster. He quickened his pace and kept right up with me. He kept on shouting.
At this point, he shouted "Why you mad, baby?" and tried to touch my arm. I twisted myself out of his grasp, and darted down a side street. No streetlights. I could still hear his footsteps behind me. I walked a few paces more into the darkness and ducked into a tall hedge. Thankfully, I was dressed almost entirely in black. The perfect camouflage under cover of darkness. I have a hole in my dress from where it caught on the hedge. I am convinced that the hedge and my black dress saved me from something terrible.
I waited in my hedge until he had gone past, muttering all the way. I counted to fifty... slowly. Agonizingly slowly. I walked home quicker than I have ever walked home before, when I was sure he had gone. My heart pounded in my ears all the way. I still feel like I am going to vomit. I have never been so happy to see my roommate sitting on the staircase to our apartment in all my life. At that point, I was even glad to see her boyfriend was standing in the stairway, too.
I have finished shaking. My heart rate has slowed. The nausea is still present, and I am getting a headache... but I even managed to cry out what happened. I feel a little bit more steely. A little bit harder-hearted. I will think twice before I answer a question that seems so innocent again.
At the same time, I will think again before I send a panicked text to my so-called guy friend. This person is decidedly not the person I thought he was. (Again, not my date.) To my own detriment, I did send him the message whilst still in the throws of my almost-panic-attack. Still, I expected more support than I got. I expected him to ask if I was sure I was okay, or if there was anything I needed. Instead, I got told to forget what had happened. To "chalk it up to some drunken idiot."
Further proof to my theory that I have nobody in this life to rely on to care about me other than just me.
Yes, I realize that sounds jaded, and cruel, and harsh... but it's how I feel right now. I am grateful for the true friends that I have... but an instance like this? It shows me a lot about the people I call my friends by how they react. Sure, this reaction was not what I expected... but to be that cold? I don't know. How can people do that? I don't understand.
I guess my lack of understanding why people behave the way that they do is the subject of yet another letter.
Yours in Exasperation,
- A.
PS: This song was just released today, as part of a larger album, and it really helped me tonight. Please give it a listen if you are feeling weak, or like you need some extra motivation.
I am sitting on my bed, writing this to you, because I can't talk to anyone else... and believe me, I tried. It's interesting (and not in a good way) to have something terrifying happen to you, and to then feel as though you've been reduced to minutia and dramatics by a man who is supposed to be your friend.
I was always under the impression that men were supposed to respect women. In terms of traditional gender roles, women are supposed to be the more delicate of the two sexes -- the "weaker" sex. To that end, I was pretty sure that, except for the mentally unstable ones, all men were brought up from a very young age to be careful with and to protect women -- their sisters, mothers, cousins, friends... even strangers.
I have, for the most part, felt like a very strong and independent woman. Admittedly not as physically strong as the vast majority of the men in my life, but I can compete on a mental level with the best of them. I can take care of myself, and to this point, have felt like I was pretty good at it, too.
Tonight, that changed.
I have never felt so weak. So attacked. So helpless.
Tonight, I had a date (this is a super good thing!). Things went well. We decided to go for a late dinner. After dinner, I walked my date to the corner where we usually split up, and go home separately. I have walked that walk home a million times. Nothing has ever happened. As usual, I pulled my headphones out of my bag as a crossed the street. I had my leftover dinner in my hands.
This time, as I crossed the street, I was followed. Not by my date. By a stranger. A stranger who smelled very strongly of beer. He asked if I was going to wait for the bus. It seemed innocent enough, so I answered -- I said "No."
Unfortunately, the beer-scented man did not stop at the bus stop. He followed me. He kept half-shouting questions at me -- demanding to know where I was going, how far I was walking, why I had chosen to walk. I didn't answer. The more questions I let go by without responding, the angrier he got. He changed tones, from drunk half-shouting to full-on shouting. I still ignored him. I walked a little faster. He quickened his pace and kept right up with me. He kept on shouting.
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| Image Credit |
I waited in my hedge until he had gone past, muttering all the way. I counted to fifty... slowly. Agonizingly slowly. I walked home quicker than I have ever walked home before, when I was sure he had gone. My heart pounded in my ears all the way. I still feel like I am going to vomit. I have never been so happy to see my roommate sitting on the staircase to our apartment in all my life. At that point, I was even glad to see her boyfriend was standing in the stairway, too.
I have finished shaking. My heart rate has slowed. The nausea is still present, and I am getting a headache... but I even managed to cry out what happened. I feel a little bit more steely. A little bit harder-hearted. I will think twice before I answer a question that seems so innocent again.
At the same time, I will think again before I send a panicked text to my so-called guy friend. This person is decidedly not the person I thought he was. (Again, not my date.) To my own detriment, I did send him the message whilst still in the throws of my almost-panic-attack. Still, I expected more support than I got. I expected him to ask if I was sure I was okay, or if there was anything I needed. Instead, I got told to forget what had happened. To "chalk it up to some drunken idiot."
Further proof to my theory that I have nobody in this life to rely on to care about me other than just me.
Yes, I realize that sounds jaded, and cruel, and harsh... but it's how I feel right now. I am grateful for the true friends that I have... but an instance like this? It shows me a lot about the people I call my friends by how they react. Sure, this reaction was not what I expected... but to be that cold? I don't know. How can people do that? I don't understand.
I guess my lack of understanding why people behave the way that they do is the subject of yet another letter.
Yours in Exasperation,
- A.
PS: This song was just released today, as part of a larger album, and it really helped me tonight. Please give it a listen if you are feeling weak, or like you need some extra motivation.
Haunted
Dear You,
Have you ever felt like you were being haunted by someone? Or something? Not in a negative way, just in a way that every time you turn around, something or someone reminds you of the thing/person that/who is haunting you? I have.
A few nights ago, a very dear friend of mine asked if I had read much Hemingway. I haven't. I think I read part of The Old Man and The Sea in University. That's all the Hemingway I've touched. My friend... we'll call him Tom... recommended that I read Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises. I didn't think much of it. People recommend books of all kinds to me all the time. Most everyone knows I am, and have always been, a reader. I jotted the title down in my mind when Tom suggested it to me. I have a mental list as long as your arm of books that people have told me I ought to read. I will get through them eventually.
After mentally jotting the title down, I began to notice that things would remind me of this book. It came up on a couple of websites' "Recommended For You" lists, and is the book that my other friend's (ie. Not Tom) book club is reading before their next meeting. A copy of it was on the table in the library where I was studying. It was as if the book itself was shouting at me to read it. It followed me around. I read the synopsis online. It sounded pretty good, frankly. I put off walking to the used book store to buy it. The ghost of the book kept following me around. It cropped up in a dream I had last night.
Today, at 2:45pm, I looked the book up in the iTunes book store. Being as how it is a relatively old book, and is considered a "Classic" piece of literature, I was curious to see how much the book would cost in electronic form. (I lately seem to prefer reading on my iPad to reading a hard copy of a book, but that is a subject for a different letter.) The answer to my query? 99 Cents. I looked at my account balance. $3.30.
I caved in, and bought the book.
I have every intention of beginning to read it today, so that it will stop haunting me. It's a little creepy, being haunted by a book.
What do we think... shall I write you a book review when I've finished? I think that could be fun.
After all of this creepy book-stalking, I hope it's at least as good a story as the synopsis made it seem!
Critically yours,
- A.
Have you ever felt like you were being haunted by someone? Or something? Not in a negative way, just in a way that every time you turn around, something or someone reminds you of the thing/person that/who is haunting you? I have.
A few nights ago, a very dear friend of mine asked if I had read much Hemingway. I haven't. I think I read part of The Old Man and The Sea in University. That's all the Hemingway I've touched. My friend... we'll call him Tom... recommended that I read Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises. I didn't think much of it. People recommend books of all kinds to me all the time. Most everyone knows I am, and have always been, a reader. I jotted the title down in my mind when Tom suggested it to me. I have a mental list as long as your arm of books that people have told me I ought to read. I will get through them eventually.
After mentally jotting the title down, I began to notice that things would remind me of this book. It came up on a couple of websites' "Recommended For You" lists, and is the book that my other friend's (ie. Not Tom) book club is reading before their next meeting. A copy of it was on the table in the library where I was studying. It was as if the book itself was shouting at me to read it. It followed me around. I read the synopsis online. It sounded pretty good, frankly. I put off walking to the used book store to buy it. The ghost of the book kept following me around. It cropped up in a dream I had last night.
Today, at 2:45pm, I looked the book up in the iTunes book store. Being as how it is a relatively old book, and is considered a "Classic" piece of literature, I was curious to see how much the book would cost in electronic form. (I lately seem to prefer reading on my iPad to reading a hard copy of a book, but that is a subject for a different letter.) The answer to my query? 99 Cents. I looked at my account balance. $3.30.
I caved in, and bought the book.
I have every intention of beginning to read it today, so that it will stop haunting me. It's a little creepy, being haunted by a book.
What do we think... shall I write you a book review when I've finished? I think that could be fun.
After all of this creepy book-stalking, I hope it's at least as good a story as the synopsis made it seem!
Critically yours,
- A.
Monday, 15 July 2013
Love Geometry
Dear You,
I am beginning to wonder why things in life have to be so complicated. Why can't people just be honest? Not only with themselves, but with each other? Why do we mess with each others' minds? Worse yet, what reason could there possibly be to play with someone else's emotions?
In case you hadn't noticed, I am in the midst of an existential crisis. Part of this was brought on by the two houseguests my roommate and I currently have. I don't mind houseguests. I mind drama. Frankly speaking, I hate drama. I am the girl who tears up over somebody else's heartbreak, or heartache, and this time is no exception. Our houseguests are in a fairly serious conflict. One of our guests is male (and also my roommate's sort-of boyfriend), the other female. Let's call them... Bob, and Laura. We'll call my roommate Jane. (This is just for argument's sake, as well as for their personal privacy. I am sure that at least one, if not all three of them would murder me in my sleep if they knew I was writing you about this. It is a very personal issue.)
Bob and Laura drove here from a far away place. I won't tell you where. Prior to their leaving, Bob and Laura had a mild romantic encounter (described to me after the fact as "making out."). They then hopped into Laura's car and drove for over 24 hours (I won't tell you how much over) so that Bob could come back to be with Jane (my room mate). Both Bob and Laura are staying in Jane's and my apartment. Laura, upon seeing Jane and Bob together is bitterly unhappy. I can't say as I blame her, exactly. Were I in Laura's shoes, I don't think I'd have even so much as had the guts to make the drive here in the first place. So, here is poor Laura, sleeping on a pull-out sofa in my living room, trying to make the best of things, while Bob and Jane are playing happy couples in the next room. Bob knowing all the while that Laura can hear them. Jane blissfully ignorant. Laura... totally miserable.
I only know this information because I am the kind of person who cares a lot about people in general. I feel responsible for Laura, and for Bob, because they are staying under my roof. At the moment, most of my caring and wishing I could be of more use is extended to Laura. I can only imagine how horrible this situation must be for her, and I want to be able to fix it. Most of what I feel for Bob at the moment is an undying urge to knock his block off. To make him choke on his own teeth. I won't do it, though. Not to worry. I won't do it, because I don't know how Jane will react. I won't do it, because I promised Laura I wouldn't say or do anything. I won't do it, because I am not a violent person. Still, the image of the way his face would look with my fist alongside it is something that keeps playing in my head. I fill with anger from the bottoms of my toes right up to my scalp every time I can hear his voice outside my door, and I fill with blinding rage every time I see him in person.
I may not always get along with my roommate, but that doesn't mean I don't love her, and that I don't want what's best for her. In no way, shape, or form, is Bob what is best for her. He doesn't know that I know what he did. Jane doesn't know any of it. The whole thing is a great big mess, and I have no idea what to do.
I have asked for advice from my friends, and even they're conflicted. Some of them say I should pull Jane aside and tell her what Bob did. The others say I should keep my mouth closed. I am stuck between a rock and a hard place, here. All I really and honestly want to do is run away. Pack my things, put my cat in her carrier, and find somewhere else to be. If I had a car, I would sleep in that instead of here... at least until Laura and Bob leave. Laura's under the impression that they'll both go back to where they came from. Jane's under the impression that Bob may never leave again.
I kind of hope Bob gets run over by a train.
The really stupid thing? This isn't even the half of what's on my plate to deal with from an emotional perspective right now.
I'll write you more later.
With angst,
- A.
I am beginning to wonder why things in life have to be so complicated. Why can't people just be honest? Not only with themselves, but with each other? Why do we mess with each others' minds? Worse yet, what reason could there possibly be to play with someone else's emotions?
In case you hadn't noticed, I am in the midst of an existential crisis. Part of this was brought on by the two houseguests my roommate and I currently have. I don't mind houseguests. I mind drama. Frankly speaking, I hate drama. I am the girl who tears up over somebody else's heartbreak, or heartache, and this time is no exception. Our houseguests are in a fairly serious conflict. One of our guests is male (and also my roommate's sort-of boyfriend), the other female. Let's call them... Bob, and Laura. We'll call my roommate Jane. (This is just for argument's sake, as well as for their personal privacy. I am sure that at least one, if not all three of them would murder me in my sleep if they knew I was writing you about this. It is a very personal issue.)
Bob and Laura drove here from a far away place. I won't tell you where. Prior to their leaving, Bob and Laura had a mild romantic encounter (described to me after the fact as "making out."). They then hopped into Laura's car and drove for over 24 hours (I won't tell you how much over) so that Bob could come back to be with Jane (my room mate). Both Bob and Laura are staying in Jane's and my apartment. Laura, upon seeing Jane and Bob together is bitterly unhappy. I can't say as I blame her, exactly. Were I in Laura's shoes, I don't think I'd have even so much as had the guts to make the drive here in the first place. So, here is poor Laura, sleeping on a pull-out sofa in my living room, trying to make the best of things, while Bob and Jane are playing happy couples in the next room. Bob knowing all the while that Laura can hear them. Jane blissfully ignorant. Laura... totally miserable.
I only know this information because I am the kind of person who cares a lot about people in general. I feel responsible for Laura, and for Bob, because they are staying under my roof. At the moment, most of my caring and wishing I could be of more use is extended to Laura. I can only imagine how horrible this situation must be for her, and I want to be able to fix it. Most of what I feel for Bob at the moment is an undying urge to knock his block off. To make him choke on his own teeth. I won't do it, though. Not to worry. I won't do it, because I don't know how Jane will react. I won't do it, because I promised Laura I wouldn't say or do anything. I won't do it, because I am not a violent person. Still, the image of the way his face would look with my fist alongside it is something that keeps playing in my head. I fill with anger from the bottoms of my toes right up to my scalp every time I can hear his voice outside my door, and I fill with blinding rage every time I see him in person.
I may not always get along with my roommate, but that doesn't mean I don't love her, and that I don't want what's best for her. In no way, shape, or form, is Bob what is best for her. He doesn't know that I know what he did. Jane doesn't know any of it. The whole thing is a great big mess, and I have no idea what to do.
I have asked for advice from my friends, and even they're conflicted. Some of them say I should pull Jane aside and tell her what Bob did. The others say I should keep my mouth closed. I am stuck between a rock and a hard place, here. All I really and honestly want to do is run away. Pack my things, put my cat in her carrier, and find somewhere else to be. If I had a car, I would sleep in that instead of here... at least until Laura and Bob leave. Laura's under the impression that they'll both go back to where they came from. Jane's under the impression that Bob may never leave again.
I kind of hope Bob gets run over by a train.
The really stupid thing? This isn't even the half of what's on my plate to deal with from an emotional perspective right now.
I'll write you more later.
With angst,
- A.
Tuesday, 9 July 2013
A Little Welcome
Dear You,
Welcome!
Now that that's out of the way... A bit about yours truly, because it's always nice to know who it is that's writing you. It'll make us a little less like strangers, and a little more like friends. I'm a twenty-something. I think that in and of itself is pretty well enough said, but I'll explain. As a twenty-something, I'm transitioning. I'm going back to school for one last year, I'm trying to start a career. I'm trying new things, and pushing old envelopes. I'm making new friends, I'm losing old friends. I'm learning new skills, and seeing where my new repertoire can take me.
In all of this, I'm finding things every day that make me smile -- I'm quintessentially girlie, which means I enjoy the frillier and pinker things. I'm a bit of a music junkie. I have discovered that I'm one of "those" Cat-Moms (You know the one -- I find myself spending more time talking about my cat than about anything else. I can almost hear people getting bored with me now and again.). I'm artsy, and definitely not sporty. Like at all. I prefer Shakespeare to Soccer... although I think it would be fun to learn archery.
In a nutshell, I'm not sure what this blog will wind up being. It could just end up as a great deal of my rambling away about nothing (or... let's be honest... my cat), but I think that's half the fun. As a twenty-something, I don't really know where I'm going. I have a general idea, but the path is uncertain, which means that getting where we're going is half the fun. Being as how I'm taking you all along with me, I promise to write as frequently as possible. Much of my particular brand of twenty-something is up in the air, but we'll be patient with each other, won't we?
So... if you're ready, we'll just get started then, shall we?
Anxiously Yours,
- A.
Welcome!
Now that that's out of the way... A bit about yours truly, because it's always nice to know who it is that's writing you. It'll make us a little less like strangers, and a little more like friends. I'm a twenty-something. I think that in and of itself is pretty well enough said, but I'll explain. As a twenty-something, I'm transitioning. I'm going back to school for one last year, I'm trying to start a career. I'm trying new things, and pushing old envelopes. I'm making new friends, I'm losing old friends. I'm learning new skills, and seeing where my new repertoire can take me.
In all of this, I'm finding things every day that make me smile -- I'm quintessentially girlie, which means I enjoy the frillier and pinker things. I'm a bit of a music junkie. I have discovered that I'm one of "those" Cat-Moms (You know the one -- I find myself spending more time talking about my cat than about anything else. I can almost hear people getting bored with me now and again.). I'm artsy, and definitely not sporty. Like at all. I prefer Shakespeare to Soccer... although I think it would be fun to learn archery.
In a nutshell, I'm not sure what this blog will wind up being. It could just end up as a great deal of my rambling away about nothing (or... let's be honest... my cat), but I think that's half the fun. As a twenty-something, I don't really know where I'm going. I have a general idea, but the path is uncertain, which means that getting where we're going is half the fun. Being as how I'm taking you all along with me, I promise to write as frequently as possible. Much of my particular brand of twenty-something is up in the air, but we'll be patient with each other, won't we?
So... if you're ready, we'll just get started then, shall we?
Anxiously Yours,
- A.
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