On My Own

It's cold in Chicago today. I scraped the icy debris off of my windows myself. I pumped my own gas and kept myself entertained by puffing air out of my mostly novocained, post-apocolyptic-dental- destroyed mouth into the cold and watching it swirl away. I'm actually surprisingly adept at doing a lot of things by myself. I can do my own laundry and dishes and keep my room in some semblance of order. I know the numbers north, south, east and west as they branch out from the center point of downtown (madison and state). I can stumble home inebriated without aide. I can finish my homework and talk around questions in class when I don't. I remember to breathe. I very rarely burn things when I cook. I (most of the time) find a way to pull myself together and get from point a to point b and through the day. A lot of the time, I even enjoy it. There is strange delight in answering to no one, explaining yourself to no one. Being able to eat more ketchup than I should on a hot dog or not carrying gum if I'm going out for salad without fear of being judged or wanted any less. It makes me feel like a mystery, even if there isn't anyone trying to solve me. Which in some odd way makes me feel more interesting, prettier, vaguely exotic.

It gets better or something

You know how some days are ok? The kind you bounce through. With music. And things that make you happy, like cupcakes or a long run along the lake.

Well, some days are totally not ok. No matter how hard you try to make them ok, you can't escape the crushing sadness, the sweeping waves of grief. And you find yourself somewhere you aren't sure you really wanted to be in the first place and you realize you aren't good at being there. And that you aren't the same kind of pretty as the other girls there. And that you don't remember what to say to make people laugh, can't remember what to do when a guy wants to buy you a drink. And then the sadness overtakes you. So you go home. But that's not really a good option. Then, you're all alone. and you have not avoided the sadness or the tears and suddenly, you find they overtake you, when you hear a song or remember what it was like when someone loved you for all the things that were wrong with you. And even though, you know you are better off, you can't stop crying. Can't stop feeling pathetic, Because he is not, most assuredly, sitting on his couch crying.

It's been 3 months. Why aren't I getting better at life? And I know I'm better than I was. But I'm tired of being a burden. Needing someone to console me. So I try to keep it all in. But some nights, like tonight, I just can't. This has to get easier, right? It has to get better.

Gay Men

I am reading a book called Girls Who Like Boys Who Like Boys.

It may or may not be the best book ever.

1.) It is essays. I love books of essays. (Like Ex Libris for example) This makes for awesome train reading.
2.) The title is funny. It is a great conversation piece. People ask about it. They think its cute and maybe it makes them think I'm more cute? Or maybe it gives the wrong idea about me. Either way, people almost always giggle when they see the title. And if they don't, well, they are probably not my kind of people anyway.
3.) I have 2 very very amazing gay best friends. They are not similar at all and I love them both very much, but in different ways. Anyway, I'm not quite sure I would have made it through the last three months without them. I know neither of them will ever read this, but they have literally saved my life over and over again and there is probably no way to ever really repay them. So reading other stories of straight girl/gay guy friendmances makes me feel all warm and fuzzy about the two most fantastic and fabulous men in my life.

Read it. You'll like it. Promise.