Truth Project: One
Something you hate about yourself.Note: This post is a euphemism-free zone. Sad, because I like euphemisms a
lot, but necessary.
I'm not sure exactly when it happened, but I'm a pretty happy person. I have a whole slew of so-called negative qualities - I'm an unforgiving, judgmental, solitary grammar Nazi - that I actually find really amusing. To say that I'm full of myself wouldn't be too far off the mark. All of this means that writing about something I hate about myself is a challenge; I don't really hate anything about me. If I did, wouldn't I be trying to change it? So I started thinking about things I'm not so fond of that I can't change, and I finally came up with something: I'm really self-conscious about myself when I'm asleep.
I know. You're thinking exactly what Bradshaw said when I mentioned this to her: "But...you're
asleep."
That's kind of the point. I hate feeling out of control, and you don't get much more out of control than asleep. Combine that with a slew of less-than-attractive sleepytime activities and you get one of the few things that makes me really uncomfortable. The things I've been told that I do in my sleep range from the mundane (light snoring, flailing and kicking) to the potentially interesting (I talk in my sleep sometimes and have been known to insult others, and I once tried to leave my house while sleepwalking). I'm so convinced that I'm hideous when I sleep that I avoid sharing sleeping space with anyone else. In fact, with the exception of Bradshaw, I think the last time I fell asleep in the same bed with someone else was five years ago. And I'm 24 and single.
Since I live alone in a town where there are no potential bed buddies, this isn't something that comes up often, but it has in the past. Memorable moments of avoidance include leaving the bed of a sleeping dude at 6 am (likely coloring the rest of that so-called relationship) and the phrase, "You drove two hours to sleep with your back to me?" (No, I drove two hours to have sex with you and the idea of you watching me sleep makes my skin crawl. But I didn't say that.)
The idea of snuggling is another whole can of worms. I get hot, I worry about my hair being in his face (or mine), and I feel trapped. There's a whole litany of "wrong" things going on if someone is touching me when I'm trying to sleep. I don't consider myself claustrophobic, but someone else being on top of me (remember, euphemism-free zone) when I'm trying to sleep makes me reevaluate. Then, of course, is the sleeping-in-my-makeup guilt and the morning breath concern.
It would be nice to be able to let this go, but I'm not sure I can. For now, unless naughty things are happening, I'm going to limit the occupancy of my bed to one (plus two felines).
Labels: my insanity, truth project
In Which I Show the Crazy
I don't believe in ghosts. At least, not exactly. I guess it's more that I don't believe in ghosts in the Halloween-y, haunted house sort of way. Like everyone else, I've heard about spirits communicating through lights and sounds, and every time a street light goes off when I walk or drive by (which happens quite a bit), I wonder if it's supposed to be some sort of sign.
I have a ghost clock.
I live in my great-grandmother's house; she died five years ago in February. I sleep in her bedroom, and on the dresser sits a clock that's been there my entire life. It's battery-powered, and it used to drive me crazy when I would spend the night when I was little. It ticked really loudly, and I have a tendency to count such things: steps, beats in songs, clock ticks. It's hard to sleep when you're counting.
When I moved in a year ago, I left the clock, but didn't replace the batteries. One morning, lying in bed and pretending that I wasn't awake, I found myself incredibly annoyed. It took a while, but I finally figured out that it was the ticking clock. Which is weird, right? When I went to bed that night, the ticking had stopped, so I figured I made it up. I sometimes do things like that.
In the year since I moved into the house, the clock has started ticking a dozen or so times. Even in a low-energy device, isn't five years a long time for batteries to maintain power? Even intermittently? So the question becomes whether this is just a weird quasi-electronic thing that I'm reading too much into or if it's something more.
I'm not sure. But I'm still going to call it the ghost clock.
Labels: everyday musings, my insanity
Fake It
After spending my day badgering second graders into being quiet, I feel so energized! I'm inspired to write, clean my kitchen, fix the vacuum, and make gnocchi from scratch.
Nope, no sense to be made from the combination of image and words. I just like that comic.Labels: my insanity, rambling
Be Proud of Me, Damn It
You, my lovely readers are aware that I'm a slob; I've told you as much. I have a tendency to let things get bad - sometimes very bad - before the mood to clean up strikes me. Sharing space, however, with Roommate makes me more aware of my messes and more likely to clean them without prompting or near-hazmat levels being reached.
For the last week, I have desperately wanted to clean our kitchen. For some reason, however, I have developed a mental block to cleaning unless I am completely alone in the house. I feel like I'm disturbing the other person or that they're judging the way I'm cleaning. Also, I like to listen to music that is very loud and not always appreciated by everyone, and since I haven't been home for an extended, guaranteed length of time in a while, the cleaning wasn't getting done. Bradshaw can attest to the fact that it was driving me crazy since it was one of the seven dozen or so things that I cried about during our conversation Monday night.*
Now, after all of that likely unnecessary exposition, I get to tell you that tonight I got to clean. I lost steam between sweeping the floor and the mopping that needs to be done but hasn't been, but I did a load of dishes, cleaned the stove and countertops, gathered the clutter from the island/table, and swept all the crumbs and detritus from the floor. I also folded Roommate's laundry that was in the dryer, transferred her last load into the dryer, and did one of my own. This is a vast improvement on my usual practice of waiting until I have
absolutely nothing to wear and going commando for a week before doing anything about it.
After all of that, I grabbed a trash bag and went after my room. I emptied the trash cans, then set to gathering all of the junk that ends up on my floor: junk mail, Netflix trash, random papers with inconsequential things written on them. Now, I still have a laundry basket and a chair full of things that need to be put away that I have no intention of touching tonight and really need to wash my bedding, but you have to be proud of me for that.
It is amazing to me how much lighter I feel for having done all of these chores. Clean counters and an empty sink and seeing the carpet in my bedroom just makes it all so much lovelier.
Now, after I made you read the play-by-play of my domestic chores - ick - I'm going to tell you about my really idyllic plans for tomorrow morning. I have croissants, fresh strawberries, orange juice, and coffee just begging to be eaten on the patio (which I cleaned up yesterday - trash and junk left from Memorial Day and the many days since) while I read the new Vanity Fair and ponder a shower.
*Oh yes, Monday was a banner day for little Miss Nic. You just got the tiniest taste in Monday's post.Labels: everyday musings, my insanity
Saying It Aloud
I am a writer.
This was an exercise that I did in a class a few years back, and the entire point was to say aloud to someone - and believe - that I was a writer. Not someone who knew a lot about writing, not someone who wrote sometimes, not someone who taught writing, but a writer. I said it to Bradshaw, who looked at me and simply said, "I know."
I've been writing as long as I can remember. When I was very young, I remember a story about a bunny, though I'm not sure what the bunny did. Most of what I've written has been inconsequential, first-person drivel that basically amounted to wish fulfillment. I took a short story class that helped me to grow as a writer through revision and showing my work to other people. I've journaled inconsistently for years, and I clearly have a blog.
Sometimes, I fear that the old cliché of "those who can't, teach" will be true of me. My mother has been saying for years that if I don't write a book she will be surprised and that I will have wasted a ridiculous amount of paper; others, getting to know me, have agreed. Maybe it's that expectation that keeps me from writing, which is ridiculous since, if nothing else, I always live up to others' expectations for me.
It's been months since I've written anything substantial, but finding the 1000 Words blog linked in TILT inspired me. It reminded me of a book of writing prompts that I own and the fact that, while I loved the book so much that I recommended it to a friend who also loved it, I've never actually carried through with an entire prompt.
Part of me is inspired to write. I don't have a good excuse not to; I have only good excuses to take the time to do it. I think, perhaps, that is the best thing.
Labels: my insanity, personal growth
Torn
There are times when, despite what I know intellectually, I feel the urge to do something that is incredibly bad for me. Not like eating that piece of cheesecake or taking the third tequila shot - something that is bad for me emotionally or spiritually. And what is the worst about these moments is that I'm not sure which part of my psyche is trying to trick me. Is it the emotion, lonely and craving a change? Is it the libido, demanding attention and affection? Or, on a less sinister level, is it my intuition, trying to make me realize that this person is someone who actually should be in my life? Whichever piece of me it is, it's fucking with me in a way that is potentially self-destructive, and I am not a fan.
So when I left Spark's house tonight after baking cupcakes and playing Wii, I ignored the voice that told me to contact him, to be the bigger person and mention that I was going to a party on Saturday night and he was welcome to come if he didn't already have plans. I ignored that voice because, whatever attraction beyond the physical - for I will never deny the physical attraction - that I had begun to carry for Hershey, the fact is that he slept a girl who has herpes, and there is no way that I could trust him physically again. It's a bad idea on so many levels that it's easier to avoid him.
And so I ignore the voice that tells me to invite him to the party or to put myself in a situation where I will be in his way or to ask him if he ever had a chance to read
Man in the Dark - I ignore that voice as a means of self-preservation and instead sit here wondering, torn between being proud of myself for having the self-control and berating myself for not finding out for sure and allowing another what if.
*Photo from Finally Seeing - see the sidebar, kittens.Labels: boys, my insanity
Reality Check
I have a superficial fantasy. In this fantasy, I leave my house on a rainy evening in a khaki trench coat and brown heels. I end up in a small, imaginary bar with a group of people that I'm very fond of. I spend my evening in a belted dress, wandering among these friends and feeling fantastic. I am sipping something pink and feeling delicately tipsy when we close the bar down, and a very polite young man walks me home - my imaginary home is apparently very close to this imaginary bar. He kisses me on the front porch, standing under the amber light next to a blooming pot of fragrant pink hyacinths.
The young man leaves, because that is what proper young men do, and I go inside and put the bright pink kettle on the stove. While I wait for it to boil, I change into a black silk nightgown and wash my face, smoothing on the last bit of moisturizer just as the kettle whistles. I climb between the sheets - white, and just washed that afternoon - beneath the soft pink down comforter with a floral china cup of peppermint tea and a perfect book.
There are massive flaws with this fantasy. First, I have a roommate, who doesn't seem to exist in the fantasy. The house is adorable and perfect and immaculate, which is the first sign that it can't actually be mine. No man that I know would be gentleman enough to walk me all the way to the door and leave with just a kiss - because I clearly know great guys. I do not own a black silk nightgown, a pink tea kettle, china cups, or a down comforter.
Then, of course, is the fact that I see no room in that fantasy life for an evening spent at home in sweats watching multiple episodes of
That 70s Show on DVD and reading
Vogue while snuggling with the kitties. Ah, well. Baby steps, right?
Labels: my insanity, television
Changes
Sometimes, people do surprise you.
My parents were shockingly receptive - if hesitant - to my plan to and reasonings for moving in with a roommate. My lease is up at the end of the month (yes, two weeks) and I had to scramble to find alternate arrangements. I'm going to be moving in with a girl that I've been working with since starting at Giant Bookstore, although we don't know one another well. I have a really good feeling about it and I choose to hold on to that feeling for as long as possible.
Sometimes I fear that I'm so comfortable being alone that being with someone will be uncomfortable - and I don't want that for myself. I want to make myself a better, more well-rounded person, and I feel like the way to do that is to pull away from my comfort zone. Yes, I enjoy living alone. I like naked time and bath time and sing-whatever-I-want-really-loud time. But I'm willing to sacrifice some of that to be a better person.
I choose to see this change as a positive thing for myself. I am going to grow and be better for it. I'm so relieved that my parents are okay with this. I'm so relieved to have the plans almost finalized. I'm glad I can finally stop bugging everyone around me by talking about it!
Today, I am full of hope.
Labels: my insanity, updates
Is Change Possible?
Question: Would you want to be around someone who behaves the way you do?
Answer: No, I wouldn't.
I think that's the sign that it's time for something to change. Once upon a time, in a time far from this one, I was a cheerful, generally happy person. Now I am introverted, easily irritated (my neighbor's music is making my eye twitch as I type this), snotty, and judgmental. I spend far more time considering how my life is worse than someone else's than realizing that there are people out there whose lives are infinitely worse than my own. I no longer have a valid excuse for my behavior, and more than that, I'm tired of feeling this way all the time.
I don't know what I'm going to do, but something different needs to happen, and it needs to happen soon.
Labels: funk, my insanity
Mission: Evasion
In an effort to stay out of the crazy space in my head, I've started a new personal project. I am attempting to update my style. No, to say update suggests that I had style before, which I certainly didn't. I am attempting to create my style. I'm paying attention to shapes and combinations and accessories and when I look hot. On Wednesday at work, my style-conscious manager Bubbles looked at me and said, "You always look so cute. You could help on
What Not to Wear." Since I love Clinton and Stacy, I took this as a huge compliment. Admittedly, I looked adorable on Wednesday (black knee-length A-line skirt, navy blue half-sleeve sweater, black patent belt and ballet flats, and a white enamel cuff bracelet), but I can't imagine that I was worthy of the compliment.
Part of this is an effort to look outwardly put-together is a disguise against how inwardly fucked I am lately. Between obsessing about Hershey and taking his rejection personally (no matter how much I try to reconcile that in my mind) and dealing with the situation with the guy I work with (which is such a mindfuck that there isn't any other way for me to describe it) and all the bullshit that exists in the in-between spaces, I am honestly a mess. However, I feel like making sure that I look thin and appropriately and interestingly accessorized, combined with some exquisite self-control (I'm channeling Audrey Hepburn) will disguise my inner turmoil. I'm an excellent liar and very few people in my life can look at me and tell when I'm upset - and none of those people live in College Town.
It isn't a new idea, covering insanity with superficiality, but it is new for me, and so far, it's working. You don't see a girl in a brown cotton dress with a faux-python belt and pointy brown stilettos and know that she's going to go spend the night at home home, mopping the kitchen in nothing but teal heels*, black boy shorts, and a wifebeater. You don't see a girl in khaki-colored wide-leg pants with a black shirt and red patent flats and think that she's going to spend that evening in a nightgown, begging her neighbors to turn down their music and watching
Breakfast at Tiffany's. You don't see a girl out in a bar in a silk dress with black patent heels and think that she's having an extremely emotional breakdown via text message and will go home to sob to her friend at 3:30 in the morning.
I'm hiding behind this facade and I refuse to let anyone see through it. In fact, I'm working hard to take the facade even further. And when people see me in flattering silhouettes** and carefully chosen accessories, and I'm wrapping myself in comfortable sweaters and tiptoeing around in wildly uncomfortable shoes, I'm going to let people believe whatever they want to believe about my personal life. They can think that I sleep with anyone I choose*** and drink every night and spend my weekends having crazy adventures. They can think all of this while I spend my nights and weekends hiding out in my apartment, napping with the kitties and flipping through magazines and watching
Gilmore Girls and
Sex and the City for hours on end. I'll continue to play with makeup in Sephora and find fun cocktail rings and search out the perfect pink cashmere scarf (which I desperately want for this winter). I'm going to surround myself with things and hide behind them and damn it, it's going to be fucking effective.
*To break them in, of course.
**Too much Project Runway, What Not to Wear, and Tim Gunn, I swear. Since when do I talk like this?
***I was told that I can by someone who clearly doesn't know me. One, no, I cannot. Two, I wouldn't sleep with someone just to sleep with them - that isn't me.Labels: girl stuff, my insanity
Giving Up
I hate giving up and giving in. I hate to admit that something - or someone - is stronger or has gotten the better of me.
At this moment, after spending my night in a bar in a super-cute dress with carefully chosen accessories and new shoes and fabulous eyeliner, I feel defeated.
I find myself wondering if this is all worth it. I find myself wondering if I'm capable of letting go and letting in someone who isn't my "type." I find myself wondering who this "myself" bitch even is.
I give up on avoiding the funk. I'm going to dive right in and wallow. I'm not sure if I want to go out next Tuesday night (which I've done for weeks and weeks); I'm not sure if I want to stay in College Town this weekend. I'm not sure if I want to talk to anyone for the next six to eight months, although I have to be at work in ten hours, so I guess I don't have much of a choice.
I give up.
Labels: boys, drama, my insanity
An Open Letter to My Indecesion
Dear Indecision,
For as decisive as I can be in so many areas of my life, you sure are a controlling personality attribute, and, quite honestly, you suck. I am tired of dancing around the same issues over and over simply due to your influence. I am sick to death of allowing you to control my day-to-day life, and I demand that you release me from your hold.
Please suck it,
Nic
Labels: my insanity, open letter
Cry for Help
I am forever talking myself out of things. Getting out of bed in the morning (just one more snooze, really), not going out on the weekends (I'll regret it if I sit at home again), or pursuing something that I may or may not want.
Three years ago, I was telling myself that it was okay to bide my time. I could wait until he was ready; really, I didn't want to pursue anything until he was ready. I still that's true. However, I will always wonder if he wouldn't have been ready sooner if he'd known that I was waiting for him. Fear of rejections, however, is stronger than logic, than desire even, at least for me. My desire for him was so much more than physical that it hurts to think about it. And after he died, after I had that searingly painful moment of clarity, I swore to myself that I would never, ever put myself in that sort of position again. I would pursue any desire, any want, no matter the consequences. Being rebuked or rejected or ridiculed could never hurt as much as this regret, this all-consuming regret that was crushing me.
So now, every day, I have to wonder if my actions are going to lead to regret. If I go back to ignoring the flicker that I started to let myself feel with Hershey - and yes, at this point, it is little more than a flicker - will I at some point begin to wonder what if? And is that possibility of the what if strong enough to undermine my self-preservational instincts? Not allowing myself to think about him or to be upset by his actions is certainly the response to the instinct to avoid pain.
Is it possible to pursue something without fully investing yourself in it? Rather, is it possible for
me to pursue
this something without fully investing myself? I know that I can't be completely invested in it without losing my mind, so to a certain extent, it becomes an all-or-nothing situation, doesn't it? I feel like I need some sort of plan beyond waiting to see if he shows up at Piano Bar every Tuesday and then waiting to see if he approaches me to say hello. I'm driving myself quietly insane thinking about it, and I really need someone's input. How exactly do I make this work?
Labels: boys, my insanity
Love to Hate
Every time I come home to Small Town, I am reminded of all the things that are great about small towns, as well as all of the things that suck. Specific to me, some are as follows:
I love that it takes less than five miles and five minutes to get everywhere. I love that I don't have to give my name when I go to pick up my pizza. I love standing on my front porch in my underoos and knowing that no one can see me. I love having free time to finish a fantastic book. I love knowing that I'm incommunicado unless I choose to communicate with someone - that is, no one can show up at my door yelling at me for ignoring their phone calls. I love playing with teensy kittens. I love my dad's fancy pants high-def TV. I love that I have quiet time to just think.
I hate that there isn't anywhere of interest to go. I hate that there aren't any people left here in Small Town that I give two hoots about. I hate that all of the coffee here sucks. I hate that I can't have food delivered. I hate that I can't go get another book immediately after finishing the first. I hate that when I start to go stir-crazy, there isn't anyone around to break up the monotony. I hate that there isn't even somewhere for me to go and read a book and drink a cup of coffee. I hate the compulsion to go to the cemetery where Iris is buried. I hate driving past my grandma's house every time I want to go somewhere. I hate that too much thinking time leads to obsessing time and then I start to lose it in my head.
Maybe coming home is a small doses sort of thing. My mom wants me to stay an extra day or two, which is only possible if I rearrange my work schedule. Due to the last few things on my "hate" list, I'm compelled to tell her that I couldn't work it out. If I spend too much time here, things will start to get bad.
Labels: lists, my insanity, Small Town
Update: This Weekend
Just a brief update from the weekend, as most of the details aren't really worth writing down: Ms. O got to meet Hershey and give me her opinion of him. The verdict: "
Very cute, very flirtatious, and definitely has a thing for you." I've decided that this is a positive assessment.
The next morning we were sitting at Gallagher's parents' together, drinking coffee and chatting. Somehow the subject of grandparents and cemeteries came up, and this somehow led to my brief mention of Iris. He said he didn't know who that was, to which I replied, "That's a good thing. Talking about him just brings all of my neuroses to the surface." He found this amusing. I wonder if he would be amused if he knew the whole story.
When I was leaving, he gave me a back-cracking hug and told me to be careful, then asked when I was going to be back in College Town. I answered and was asked to, "give him a call so we can hang out." I'm never sure if Hershey means the things that he says or if he's saying them because he feels obligated. Somehow I don't think I'm going to be calling him.
Labels: boys, my insanity, updates
Such a Great Big Liar
An observation: I need to start being more consistent with this posting stuff. I would be annoyed if I was reading my blog, what with the sporadic posts and insane nature of them. With that said, I'm going to be even more insane.
A couple of weeks ago, I decided that I wasn't going to write about
Hershey any more. The problem is just how difficult it is to stop thinking about him, and since I tend to write what I'm thinking, there's a bit of a disconnect. Maybe that's why I got so random with the posting. In any case, I feel like we've crashed and burned - as much as something ten feet off the ground can crash and burn - and it is entirely my own fault. And not only is it my fault, I just
keep going.
First was the night that I told him that he needed to
get off his ass and be there for his supposed best friend, Gallagher, on a day that he knew was hard for her. I interfered in their friendship, something that I learned not to do back in high school but did anyhow. I know it was the right thing on some level, but on another, I feel really bad about it.
Then, there are the text messages. I seem to have a problem with texting when I drink, and since I'm not going to stop drinking, I think it's time to make a no-drunk-texts rule. Hershey played drums for a little bit at Piano Bar on Tuesday night.* The transcript of wasted-Nic texts went as follows:
Nic: Nice rhythm, drummer.
Hershey: Why thank you
Nic: You're welcome, doll.
Let's pause to point out that yes, I should have stopped right here. But I totally didn't. Nic: I'm definitely drunk, but do you think you and I have a chance to start over drama-free?
Hershey: Drama?
Nic: You seem...thrilled with me since last Sunday.
And this is where the texting stopped, which leads me to believe one of two things. One, he was smart enough to realize that I was wasted and to end communication, regardless of his feeling about the conversation. Two, he really is still pissed about it and refuses to talk about it. I'm pretty sure I'm not happy with things either way.
Now, unless there are developments that don't make me want to pull my own hair out, I will refrain from posting about him again, lest I drive you all crazy. Also, I propose that I institute a no drunk texts rule! We shall consider this carefully over the next few days.
In unrelated news, I'm thinking of coloring my hair a bit for the first time and going slightly more red than my natural color. Thoughts?
*We are not even going to go to the place where I talk about drummers right now. You know how some girls feel about the guitarist? Or the lead singer? I'm all about the guy in the back.Labels: alcohol, boys, my insanity
Power of Persuasion
I've always been a big proponent of the "fake it till you make it" philosophy, to a certain extent. I believe that I can make a bad day suck less, or that I can come across looking completely confident when I'm scared senseless, all due to my personal power of persuasion. The question becomes if the persuasion works or if it merely an illusion that I have convinced myself is real. Is the day really better just because I want it to be, or has my outlook on the still-crappy day changed? Do I really look as confident as I think, or is it simply a big fat act that I've put on for others?
I'm trying to stop drinking Dr. Pepper again. Back in high school, I went six years without drinking any pop - particularly Dr. Pepper, since it is my favorite - and it wasn't a struggle at all. I didn't start drinking it again until after Iris died; it was something of an emotional catharsis, drinking something that he was so fond of. Twisted, but understandable, I know. In an effort to stay away from the carbonated beverage, I keep telling myself that I don't want it. "Nic, you do
not want to drink a Dr. Pepper. It is nothing but sugar and bubbles and empty calories. You do not want Dr. Pepper." Of course, I'm pretty sure I still want it.
Thinking about the Dr. Pepper makes me wonder about other things. For example, for the last two and a half years, I've been saying that I don't want a boyfriend. For at least the last two years and three months, I believe I meant that. Now, I'm not so sure. Am I actually pleased with being alone and with having no romantic prospects, or have I simply said it so many times that I've built an illusion for myself in which the statement is true. And, of course, bringing this up to myself opens a whole can of worms. The biggest, fattest worm wriggling around is the idea that I might actually
want someone else - when there is no one around. I think this is too much for Monday afternoon.
Labels: my insanity
The Cosmo Conspiracy
Let's consider the following while remembering that Nic is crazy and is also something of a conspiracy theorist.
Monday night, Bradshaw and I had what can only be described as a marathon of a phone call. We chatted about how I'm crazy and preoccupied and how she's crazy and how we're friends because we're both crazy - normal stuff. We also discussed the propaganda that is spread by Cosmo, the quintessential magazine for girls in their twenties and girls who are proponents of a healthy sex life. We decided a few things about the magazine. First, that it is the same magazine month after month. Second, that it is either derogatory toward or completely ignores career paths taken by enough women to matter. Third, Cosmo spreads sexual propaganda.
I have my own theory on the sexual propaganda. Since I work at a bookstore, I tend to read magazines at work rather than buying them, and this month's issue of Cosmo (with the Blake Lively cover) was no exception. There was an article that, I am sad to admit, intrigued me, at least until I started reading it. The claim was that they were going to tell me what guys are actually thinking when they're having sex with you. Cosmo tries really hard to make us believe that guys don't care about our bodies, but I think Cosmo is full of it. I have no doubt that I have slept with the most hypercritical guys in the world, each of whom has thought, "She looked a lot better with the clothes
on."
I try not to dwell on this. Feel free to discuss how I'm paranoid and insane. You were warned.
Labels: boys, my insanity
Lists: To Reveal the Real Me
I believe the following list of things I bought at the grocery store will show just how pathetic I really am, once you cut through all the drama that goes on around me.
three bottles orange-flavored Vitamin Water
one box of 94% fat-free mini-bags of popcorn
one 7 lb bag of Purina Cat Chow Indoor Formula
Thankfully, I left the cookies behind. Even though I really want some fucking cookies.
Labels: lists, my insanity
As She Over-Thinks the Over-Thinking
I am a girl who over-thinks nearly everything.
I plot. I plan. I come up with a dozen different scenarios, all of them ending with the exact result I had envisioned. Then, after it's all said and done - whatever it is this time around - I rehash it all. I redo conversations, change my facial expressions, my words, my reactions. Again, it always ends with the result I originally desired.
Heaven forbid I come up with a result that will do me more harm than good in the long run. Because, inevitably, I will run the entire situation into the ground until I either get that desired result, or I drive myself and everyone around me crazy trying.
The last time I wanted something, the picture was very clear in my mind, and it happened exactly the way that I envisioned it. At least, the way I envisioned it happening once I got around to doing something about it. Before that, I had a hundred failed scenarios flying around in my brain.
This time, things are equally muddled, perhaps more so. While the problems surrounding the situation are rather the same, I'm not entirely sure what I want out of it. This is problematic when coming up with my scheme.
Maybe I should do myself a favor and stop thinking, stop planning. I'm sure that whatever came out of it in the end would work more to my advantage than when I try to make things happen. Of course, we all know that Nic can't just step away and let nature take it's own course. I believe somewhat in Fate, but I am of the mind that Fate needs a little nudge once in a while.
I think it's time for me to shut up.
Big things are coming tomorrow. Be excited.
Labels: my insanity
