Friday, September 30, 2011

forget it

Irony: an outcome of events opposite to what was expected

Is it "ironic" that it is difficult to forget someone who has forgotten you? Or does it just suck, in its own non-ironic way?

Forget: to cease or fail to remember

Maybe "forget" is the wrong word.


"Cease to contact."

This is not a break-up. It was not a relationship. It was barely a friendship. You meet someone, you kind of like them, you spend a lot of time together for a few weeks and then.... where did he go? No texts, no phone calls, nada, zilch, bleh. He's just not that into you, apparently. Clearly.

You're just left to wander around, being zinged by random bits of memory floating through your conscious. Zing! Ouch! Ka-pow! They come at inopportune times. Lame. Pathetic. Stop dwelling. I'm not dwelling. I just need to keep busy. Find something, or someone, to occupy my mind and time with.

This proves difficult when you'd rather stay hidden inside, watching crappy TV (old re-runs of the Kardashian sisters taking over Miami. All the sisters are married now, damn these episodes are old).

Have to make phone calls for my freelance stories and grocery shop and shower and clean out my car and get my car inspected and find out what the hell is taking Best Buy so damn long to isntall the damn motherboard on my laptop and ask my mother for help with rent a-damn-gain and get the check and figure out how the hell to make an extra $500 a month to pay off my credit card when the interest-free period ends in December and....shit. I will accomplish none of that.

Thursday, September 29, 2011


A new, tiny, miniature goal of mine is to write something every day.

From a single sentence to a novella.

Here goes.

Life is crazy. News to no one. Things change slowly, and they change fast. Our minds twist and bend in exotic ways until we read a journal entry from tne years ago and roll our eyes, blush with embarrassment and, hopefully, chuckle. Christ, I'm only 22. I'll probably roll my eyes at this tomorrow, because I NEVER feel like I adequately express emotion with words, spoken or written. And I'm a writer. Or, I want to be. I'll always write, even if I'm never paid a dime. I freelance! Does that count? Sure! Stream-of-conscience, A.D.D.....The rain stopped!

Oh, yes, I'll be rolling my eyes at this.

Tuesday I took my mom out for her (belated) birthday dinner, and we both realized the last time we'd been to that restaurant was last year, for her birthday. And while some things have changed, too many things are still the same. Which is a tired old broken record I am sick to death of singing/hearing.

Change: I moved out!
Same: Same job. Same person.

Occurrences: I went to Iceland! And Harry Potter World! I lived a summer in a basement with one of my most favorite people! I did stuff!

...But I'm still the same. I'm still me. Sometimes, I think, I haven't changed at all.

And the sad stuff. That I can never bring myself to mention outright to friends and acquaintances, so I tuck it into a tiny box, hoping to forget.

Why is it that when you're alone, the sad stuff is all that you think about? My head always writes the sad story. It dwells, it takes forever to let go. My head is a bitter old person, harping on the past and how she was wronged. (Yikes. That was a terrifying sentence.)

I'm struggling with the idea that who I want to be and who I am are drastically different, perhaps separated by an uncrossable chasm. I am impatient and unsympathetic with others because I am impatient and unsympathetic with myself. I am stuck. So stuck.

I know life will get better eventually, and I also know that it will happen when I make it happen. It's just the when. When. When. When will I get up off the couch and change myself and my life. When will I demand better for myself? When will I make things change?