Inhumane

There's something inhumane about our human instinct to relish pain. I watched a relationship crash and burn. Daily. And then, finally, I walked from the plumes with ash in my hair. 


I continually compare envied loves to my own fucked relationship. Why??? WHY.


To extinguish my emotions, I've thrown myself into my work. Maybe one day at Princeton I'll look back and learn not to hate him. I'll learn that, maybe. One day, in a nearby summer, I will dance through Italian meadows, cobblestone streets, and learn to forgive. Until then, I'm just learning how to deal. And once again I'm suspended. Suspended somewhere between hurting and healing, between a relationship and the freedom I once craved. I'm too hurt to love, too lonely not to.

Grief

I've arrived at the anger stage of my grieving process. I'm angry because he's sharing experiences with other girls, and I'm not welcome anymore. Angry because he hasn't called. Angry because two humans can coddle and love and days later, they aren't speaking. They're just a figment of a shared past. And I'm angry at people for asking about it. And for not asking about it. Angry at myself for still crying, for checking his Facebook, for losing my sense of self-worth, for not feeling beautiful anymore. Most of all, I hate that I got my heart broken. This wasn't supposed to happen. It wasn't, I swear.

Tissue Paper Dress

Taylor, Sydney, and I went to a party hosted by the Literature Club last night at one of the professor's homes. Everyone sat around sipping Sake and eating Korean food. It was a nice contrast to the usual fraternity parties. We spoke of the classical references in Paradise Lost instead of strong white liquids in sippy cups.

Afterwards, Michelle and I wore saran wrap mini dresses to a Sigma Nu ABC party. For the amount of effort we spent dressing ourselves (with Taylor's help), the party sucked. Few people dressed up, save some guys in bed sheet togas and a hefty boy in an inner tube.

None of the guys approached me. I stood yawning in the corner. We left and I remembered that old, familiar feeling of rejection. On the ride home, I sulked in my tissue paper dress.

Goodbyes

I hate endings: songs, movies, relationships, you name it. But I suppose an ending is necessary for a new beginning.

Bukowski

Daniel and I ended our relationship. We cried because we knew it was right.

And wrong.

10 PM: Michelle takes me to buy a collection of Bukowski poems and another copy of The Catcher in the Rye. Taylor calls me in the store, "Are you okay?"

I sob in the literature section.

"Daniel's middle name was Holden, I thought it was a sign." I say to Michelle. I suck an Oreo mint milkshake and reminisce.

Next time it will be better.

John Mayer, Walk Me Through This One

Sundays always depress me, especially when it rains.

I cry, say, "In the past year, I've experienced more emotion than I have in my entire life. Only the poets understand." I'm always making these literary allusions, and I can't help but wonder if he'll miss it when I'm gone.

Matter

Years from now, when I narrate my life to new generations, I won't remember the chapters I forgot to read. I'll remember the first boy I ever fell in love with and his blue eyes. I'll remember feeling beautiful and walking hand-in-hand with my best friends or driving through the rain at midnight, laughing and shoving french fries in my mouth. We magnify what's important to us. Fuck the rest.

Chatrt

Okay, lately I've become obsessed with the web's newest voyeuristic craze: ChatRoulette. It's simple. The site connects you via webcam to strangers across the world. If at anytime you become bored or (more commonly) disgusted with your partner, you "NEXT" them, and they're gone forever. While Chatrt has become a forum for perverts and their playful, raw parts, I have met a few interesting people.

A Tunisian guy named Wjadi wanted to marry me.
I talked to a film student in Dallas for two hours before I was disconnected and lost him forever.
I've practiced French with a few Frenchies.
A military man from Nova Scotia talked to me at 6 AM when I couldn't sleep. He showed me his flannel underwear, told me how incredible they were.
Last night I stayed up until 5 AM talking to a college freshman from Paris. We're now friends on Skype, and he opened up about his relationship, how the last time he saw his girl was a year and a half ago. He can't even talk to her on the phone, but he's waiting until she turns eighteen (in two years) so they can be together. Now that's love.

There's something fascinating about talking to a stranger. You can be totally honest, because, hey, they don't know you. You may never see them again. And if things get too unbearable and you find yourself too vulnerable, you can always say, "Next." I wish this applied to reality. When you become too close to someone, when you know you're on the brink of heartbreak, I wish you could say, "next" and that person would be gone forever without the risk of pain, of instability, of being so connected to someone that you forget about yourself and adhere to them completely.

Love

I don't remember where or or when or how I fell in love. If it was between the CD racks at Best Buy or the three-second intervals between radio songs, I don't know. It could have happened beneath the shadows of my ceiling, late at night, when you slept beside me and I listened to you breathe. It might have happened as my door creaked shut behind you, after you said goodbye, kissed me quickly, and left. Was it between the folds of my linen curtains? As they rustled in the winter wind while your fingers traced my ribs? It could have happened at half-time or between our first and second date or between Saturday night and Sunday morning. Maybe it happened in the blue glare of the television as we kissed in the hot, dark living room. How or when or where I fell in love, I do not know, but it happened. And it aches.