I guess if there were dreams to sell, I’d buy finding peace in my past – all the people I’ve hurt, and all those that have wrong me; all the mistakes I’ve made, and all the bad things that have happened; all the negative feelings I harbor from things I can’t change anymore. I don’t know what the price would be to achieve that. To let go of everything and come to terms with all that has happened. I know it would definitely cost me my pride to forgive the people that have done such wrong to me and my family. I would have to give up my bitterness and resentment; allow both my head and my heart to let go and move forward. It would definitely mean investing in courage. Courage to say “what’s past is past” and give up the shield of anger and fear that the past will repeat itself. Courage to face life with a blank slate, despite the fact that new bad experience may be ahead. I guess if forgiveness were for sale, the price would be steep. But to invest in forgiveness, to finally be able to let go and stop dwelling on past people and events, would be worth the investment of humility, courage, and time.
Monday, November 18, 2013
Monday, November 11, 2013
Really Sorry Attempt at Byron
The things the stories say that I’ve done
I would never confirm – no! – never repeat;
Alcohol breath and vomit stains haunted by the sun,
The “me” by daylight does curse me;
If the good ones are the ones who die young,
Before long, death by truly living, I foresee.
To make the city bow down for the night is demanding
So far though, the body does recover somehow – outstanding.
So, I don't know exactly what you wanted. From Eurotrash Girl, I basically just gathered that it was about a guy flying by the seat of his (probably STD infected) pants -- going from place to place doing whatever the hell he wanted. Which is basically how Byron lived. So I just tried to write a stanza that talked about that kind of lifestyle. And it was really fucking hard. I have mad respect for Byron right now.
Monday, October 21, 2013
Jane Doe
Winding gravel road and murderous ditch.
Leaves floating gently; fences and dust; fear.
Soft wind carries no sounds but the skidding
Of the car and all the shattering screams.
The tree is still only half to its whole;
The other lost in the terror and crash.
Birds sitting in the branches and singing
Mimicking sirens and panicked, thin air.
Thunder talking above to remind me
What the helicopter said in the dark.
This scene is broken – Like I was that night.
Nine bones shattered in me – four in the neck.
What hurts ma’am? What hurts the most? Shine more light.
Please don’t move. Just stay with me and relax.
Jaws of life; CareFlite; ICU; "Jane Doe".
Pain; anxiety; healing; so broken.
Two years marched by – I finally return
to the spot that broke my body and mind
but not my spirit – never my spirit.
The tree and fence have not healed like I have.
Two long years of rehab and suffering
My journey is now at its end – thank God.
Two long years of pain and tears and nightmares
From a jerk of the wheel – out of control.
The birds’ song sounding so sweet to me now
The sirens are gone – just the sweet song left.
The thunder and helicopter noise left
With them. The sky is bright and opens up.
The tree will survive after destruction.
I have finally healed from destruction
At the spot that broke my body and mind
But not my spirit – never my spirit.
Alright, well. I tried. So this is the first poem I've written since the poetry unit back in what, 6th grade? Uhm, it went ok (on my end). Actually, I feel like I lucked out a little bit. I've had a lot going on in my head recently about the accident I was in -- and this served as a pretty good way to get it out. I just recently was released from physical therapy after going for 2 years, which has brought some really bittersweet feelings. I feel so thankful and blessed that I am finally back to functioning semi-normally -- but I'm also grappling with the fact that that accident ripped away 2 years of life from me. Every day since then has been a struggle for me - mentally and physically. Being in and out of doctors and therapists and rehab is a lot to just "take in stride". So to have "closed" that chapter of my life has been incredible. I just recently revisited the scene of the accident and couldn't believe the sensations it brought to me. It was overwhelming. I didn't remember a lot of the accident itself, but my friend Avery (who was the driver) took me to the spot and explained how things happened. "And this is where I lost control, and this is where we hit a tree and flipped, and this is the fence that pinned you inside the car..." All that great stuff. Anyway, this poem (as crappy as it probably is) was a really good release. And whether or not it's "good", I think that the whole point of poetry is to say what you want and need to say. And I did. I definitely had a lot more feelings and emotions than I had words for them. It's a challenge to put it into words, even more so to try to put it into a poem.
I haven't ever felt great about creative writing or writing poetry, so I was scared shitless of this assignment. Once I figured out what I wanted to talk about, it actually rolled pretty quickly. The more I wrote, the more emotions and snippets of memory came rushing to me. I could've written a lot more I think, but to be honest, I feel pretty embarrassed that my poem probably isn't as deep or lovely or complex as "real" poems are or my classmate's poems will be. So I felt like I should just "stop while I was ahead". Try not to hold it against me.
I can definitely relate to Shelley in feeling like my emotions are "above, below, or beyond words". It's a lot. Yeah. I am even lacking words as I type right now. The feeling of an EMT asking you what hurts and then realizing it's your neck that hurts. Will I be paralyzed? Am I disfigured? Being careflited to a hospital in a different city because they're the only one with a Level 1 trauma center (for the almost dead people) and being tagged as a Jane Doe because they didn't think I'd make it there alive. That's a lot to put into words in a poem.
As always, this R assignment has been a really cool experience. I was dreading it all weekend because writing a "greater romantic lyric" was something I didn't feel confident about. But it felt good to me. And I feel better now. Emptier without all those feelings flying around in me. And I did my best and learned a little something too. Go me. Go R assignments.
Monday, September 30, 2013
Alright, R Assignment #3. Here we go...
Well, I've been watching the way groups interact with homeless people for two years now -- by looking out the windows of Jamba Juice. It's one of my favorite things about my job, people watching, that is. So fascinating. So many people moving as one mob, but each totally unaware of the other hundreds of people around them. Each having their own life, own story, and own place to be at that exact moment. And then there's the Drag Rats. Each with his own story and life too. But no one really cares to hear about that. Homeless people are a curious thing. There is such a wide variety. I've met Drag Rats that are the kindest people and offer to walk me to the door of Jamba just to hold it open for me. And then I've also met the ones that are obviously sick -- in the head and of the body. Really diverse, they are. Some ask for "spare change" from ever passer-byer, others ask for nothing at all. It's unfair how fast The Mob shuns them and figuratively spits in their direction. One of my favorite things to look at when The Mob passes (in between classes, touring on game days, etc.) is the multiple ways in which these people uncomfortably try to avoid looking or talking to homeless people. There's the "don't make eye contact" taking the number one spot of course. Followed closely by "quick, look at your cellphone or put in your headphones". Number three probably goes to the awkward "I don't have any cash/not today/sorry, maybe next time" (insert half smile here). That's always a good one. Let's be honest. They probably have cash. And there isn't going to ever be a "next time". Sometimes, very very rarely, someone spares a dollar or two. Or even more valuable than that, a glance -- some acknowledgment that there's a human being there. Standing. Trying to talk to you. But like I said, that's rare.
The groups that are the most scared are the sorrostitutes and the tourist, suburban moms. It's always nice to see the true test of friendship between "sisters". When the herd of them pass a homeless guy, one girl always gets nudged out closest to him. The weakest link. The one that is being sacrificed. They all look disgusted. All the time. Heaven forbid a Drag Rat actually ask for some spare change. They just roll their eyes. Or scoff. Or laugh and walk on. Poor guy. It really isn't him. They wouldn't give me the time of day either. I don't wear big enough shirts.
Then there's the tourist moms. Always roaming around on game days. In their UT merch with their huge shopping bags and big sunglasses. I love seeing their reaction to the homeless. So shocked. And scared. And unfamiliar with that "species". I even had one lady ask if "those things" would hurt her if she was walking alone. Jesus Christ. Anyway, I think the Drag Rats just pick on them because they know it scares them the most. I don't even think they're in it for the money.
Something else I've noticed. Groups are safe. When someone is walking within a group, they can blend in and hide and don't have to worry about being "the one" that gets asked for change. It's when people are alone that they really get bothered for money or food. So I think people probably like the safety of a group.
Also, fun fact, the "Save the Children" people are despised equally, if not more, than the homeless people. You ought to see all the ways people come up with to avoid talking to those annoying sacks of shit. Now THAT is amusing. Homeless people should really feel successful in comparison.
Anyway, back to the prompt I suppose. Groups. And Drag Rats. And Individuals. And a homeless person. They get lumped together a lot. Because I guess they do move like one organism. Groups flow like a current, and the homeless people are like the boulders in the middle of the river. The water just flows right around them. I wonder why? Why don't people stop? I don't. I don't because I feel like I don't have time. But that's not true. I have plenty of time. Is it because I'd be shunned too if I talked to them? Maybe I'm scared of them a little -- of them being unstable. Or smelly. Or maybe it's because I have nothing to offer. I don't have any cash. I have 2 fucking cars but not enough cash to help someone out. But, I don't feel that bad. Is that why these people don't stop either? They're too busy or too cool or too broke? I can't really figure out from just watching. I'm sure everyone has a different reason. All probably equally pathetic or dumb.
I could -- and do -- watch for hours. Thousands of people passing by. All in their own ruts, all on their own ways to do whatever comes next. Probably nothing in common with each other. Except that they all want to avoid interaction with the homeless at all costs. People are so weird.
Well, I've been watching the way groups interact with homeless people for two years now -- by looking out the windows of Jamba Juice. It's one of my favorite things about my job, people watching, that is. So fascinating. So many people moving as one mob, but each totally unaware of the other hundreds of people around them. Each having their own life, own story, and own place to be at that exact moment. And then there's the Drag Rats. Each with his own story and life too. But no one really cares to hear about that. Homeless people are a curious thing. There is such a wide variety. I've met Drag Rats that are the kindest people and offer to walk me to the door of Jamba just to hold it open for me. And then I've also met the ones that are obviously sick -- in the head and of the body. Really diverse, they are. Some ask for "spare change" from ever passer-byer, others ask for nothing at all. It's unfair how fast The Mob shuns them and figuratively spits in their direction. One of my favorite things to look at when The Mob passes (in between classes, touring on game days, etc.) is the multiple ways in which these people uncomfortably try to avoid looking or talking to homeless people. There's the "don't make eye contact" taking the number one spot of course. Followed closely by "quick, look at your cellphone or put in your headphones". Number three probably goes to the awkward "I don't have any cash/not today/sorry, maybe next time" (insert half smile here). That's always a good one. Let's be honest. They probably have cash. And there isn't going to ever be a "next time". Sometimes, very very rarely, someone spares a dollar or two. Or even more valuable than that, a glance -- some acknowledgment that there's a human being there. Standing. Trying to talk to you. But like I said, that's rare.
The groups that are the most scared are the sorrostitutes and the tourist, suburban moms. It's always nice to see the true test of friendship between "sisters". When the herd of them pass a homeless guy, one girl always gets nudged out closest to him. The weakest link. The one that is being sacrificed. They all look disgusted. All the time. Heaven forbid a Drag Rat actually ask for some spare change. They just roll their eyes. Or scoff. Or laugh and walk on. Poor guy. It really isn't him. They wouldn't give me the time of day either. I don't wear big enough shirts.
Then there's the tourist moms. Always roaming around on game days. In their UT merch with their huge shopping bags and big sunglasses. I love seeing their reaction to the homeless. So shocked. And scared. And unfamiliar with that "species". I even had one lady ask if "those things" would hurt her if she was walking alone. Jesus Christ. Anyway, I think the Drag Rats just pick on them because they know it scares them the most. I don't even think they're in it for the money.
Something else I've noticed. Groups are safe. When someone is walking within a group, they can blend in and hide and don't have to worry about being "the one" that gets asked for change. It's when people are alone that they really get bothered for money or food. So I think people probably like the safety of a group.
Also, fun fact, the "Save the Children" people are despised equally, if not more, than the homeless people. You ought to see all the ways people come up with to avoid talking to those annoying sacks of shit. Now THAT is amusing. Homeless people should really feel successful in comparison.
Anyway, back to the prompt I suppose. Groups. And Drag Rats. And Individuals. And a homeless person. They get lumped together a lot. Because I guess they do move like one organism. Groups flow like a current, and the homeless people are like the boulders in the middle of the river. The water just flows right around them. I wonder why? Why don't people stop? I don't. I don't because I feel like I don't have time. But that's not true. I have plenty of time. Is it because I'd be shunned too if I talked to them? Maybe I'm scared of them a little -- of them being unstable. Or smelly. Or maybe it's because I have nothing to offer. I don't have any cash. I have 2 fucking cars but not enough cash to help someone out. But, I don't feel that bad. Is that why these people don't stop either? They're too busy or too cool or too broke? I can't really figure out from just watching. I'm sure everyone has a different reason. All probably equally pathetic or dumb.
I could -- and do -- watch for hours. Thousands of people passing by. All in their own ruts, all on their own ways to do whatever comes next. Probably nothing in common with each other. Except that they all want to avoid interaction with the homeless at all costs. People are so weird.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Alright, 2nd R Assignment. Here goes.
As soon as I opened up the art folder and saw the first picture I was immediately captivated by it. I didn't even look at what it was called or who it was drawn by. I still don't even know. I'd have to re-open that tab to find out.
All I could look at was the picture itself. The picture as a whole. Then the picture as a bunch of brushstrokes. Then the picture as a snapshot in time. Where some guy, dressed really well, is standing on a giant rock staring out at a serene ocean scene. And when I write the description of the picture in words, it doesn't really sound like anything special. Maybe that's because I'm not a very great writer -- or maybe that's because the picture isn't really all that astonishing in and of itself. But something about it astonished me. I felt like I could've been there with that dude. Right behind him, on the same rock. Staring out too. Contemplated life. All my good choices and bad choices and fun times and sad times. And maybe that's why it was captivating to me. Some picture made from different strokes of paint made me instantly step back and take a look at my life. I imagine that's what the nicely dressed fellow is doing out there on his rock. Either that, or contemplating suicide. Could go either way I suppose. Maybe that's what I liked about it too. That you don't know what he's doing. Is he smiling? Crying? Stern? Thoughtful? Crazy? You just don't know. You can't see his face. Just his back. And his cane. I thought his cane was really classy. Which led me to wonder what a classy guy is doing wandering around by the ocean. I wonder if he just happened upon that spot, or if that's HIS spot. And he goes there like, every morning or night or something. I'd like to have a spot of my own one day.
The other pictures were cool too. But not as cool as my foggy ocean man. I found him so mysterious and classy and intriguing. So I guess that tells me what makes me interested by something/someone -- not being able to take it at face value -- wondering what the story is.
I don't really look at much art. Well, not in a deep or meaningful way -- so basically not the way one should "look" at art. I usually just look for the most colorful one. But I do actually enjoy going to art museums. My brother and I always said we'd get rich one day and just walk into a museum and buy whatever the fuck we wanted. -- because art is beautiful. And expensive. And if we were rich, we could just do that. I think I'd buy this piece. And hang it really big. Above my fireplace. My hypothetical fireplace. I don't even have a couch. I think I'd like to see this piece every day. Because it would make me stop for a second. Whatever I was doing. And just think. Like my friend on the rock. Think about all sorts of things. And I need that sometimes. A minute or two just to think about whatever I need to. And this guy does that for me. So I guess I learned that my taste in art is something I can benefit from. Colorful stuff makes me just feel happy and thankful -- that's beneficial. But this guy is beneficial to me too. Tonight, just now, when I saw him on Blackboard, I forgot I was doing homework and just stared at him and pondered. Felt like I was really there with him. Much more vivid than if I read it in a poem or story I think. The ocean was magnificent. And he looked great too. The way he was posed with his cane. And his leg up. That's a REAL thinking pose.
Anyway, now I just feel repetitive. I guess it's because I'm floundering for how to explain WHY I got way more hung up on this picture than any of the other ones. Trying to figure out what exactly made me stop and be transported to that place with him. And feel the breeze and hear the sound of thoughtfulness all around me. I guess maybe that's an important thing too -- floundering. Because I think in the most astonishing moments, it's hard to find the words to fit. And that's kind of how I feel here. The Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog by Friedrich. That's totes my fave.
As soon as I opened up the art folder and saw the first picture I was immediately captivated by it. I didn't even look at what it was called or who it was drawn by. I still don't even know. I'd have to re-open that tab to find out.
All I could look at was the picture itself. The picture as a whole. Then the picture as a bunch of brushstrokes. Then the picture as a snapshot in time. Where some guy, dressed really well, is standing on a giant rock staring out at a serene ocean scene. And when I write the description of the picture in words, it doesn't really sound like anything special. Maybe that's because I'm not a very great writer -- or maybe that's because the picture isn't really all that astonishing in and of itself. But something about it astonished me. I felt like I could've been there with that dude. Right behind him, on the same rock. Staring out too. Contemplated life. All my good choices and bad choices and fun times and sad times. And maybe that's why it was captivating to me. Some picture made from different strokes of paint made me instantly step back and take a look at my life. I imagine that's what the nicely dressed fellow is doing out there on his rock. Either that, or contemplating suicide. Could go either way I suppose. Maybe that's what I liked about it too. That you don't know what he's doing. Is he smiling? Crying? Stern? Thoughtful? Crazy? You just don't know. You can't see his face. Just his back. And his cane. I thought his cane was really classy. Which led me to wonder what a classy guy is doing wandering around by the ocean. I wonder if he just happened upon that spot, or if that's HIS spot. And he goes there like, every morning or night or something. I'd like to have a spot of my own one day.
The other pictures were cool too. But not as cool as my foggy ocean man. I found him so mysterious and classy and intriguing. So I guess that tells me what makes me interested by something/someone -- not being able to take it at face value -- wondering what the story is.
I don't really look at much art. Well, not in a deep or meaningful way -- so basically not the way one should "look" at art. I usually just look for the most colorful one. But I do actually enjoy going to art museums. My brother and I always said we'd get rich one day and just walk into a museum and buy whatever the fuck we wanted. -- because art is beautiful. And expensive. And if we were rich, we could just do that. I think I'd buy this piece. And hang it really big. Above my fireplace. My hypothetical fireplace. I don't even have a couch. I think I'd like to see this piece every day. Because it would make me stop for a second. Whatever I was doing. And just think. Like my friend on the rock. Think about all sorts of things. And I need that sometimes. A minute or two just to think about whatever I need to. And this guy does that for me. So I guess I learned that my taste in art is something I can benefit from. Colorful stuff makes me just feel happy and thankful -- that's beneficial. But this guy is beneficial to me too. Tonight, just now, when I saw him on Blackboard, I forgot I was doing homework and just stared at him and pondered. Felt like I was really there with him. Much more vivid than if I read it in a poem or story I think. The ocean was magnificent. And he looked great too. The way he was posed with his cane. And his leg up. That's a REAL thinking pose.
Anyway, now I just feel repetitive. I guess it's because I'm floundering for how to explain WHY I got way more hung up on this picture than any of the other ones. Trying to figure out what exactly made me stop and be transported to that place with him. And feel the breeze and hear the sound of thoughtfulness all around me. I guess maybe that's an important thing too -- floundering. Because I think in the most astonishing moments, it's hard to find the words to fit. And that's kind of how I feel here. The Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog by Friedrich. That's totes my fave.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
So, first R-Assignment. Here we go.
I was pretty excited for this assignment because I bullshit with hundreds of people a day -- it's my job. As the assistant manager of Jamba Juice, I basically get paid to hand people their order and then talk to them about whatever I can for a few minutes to make them feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Usually it's something pretty shallow like their drink choice, school, or weekend plans. But sometimes we strike up a pretty good convo -- sometimes.
Anyway, the girl I picked for my R was a blonde sorostitute (sorority girl/prostitute probably). After ordering her small, light calorie smoothie (typical), I asked her about the shirt she was wearing. It was a shirt for the volleyball game. As she was telling me about how she was wearing it to support the team, I was rolling my eyes at the fact that the stupid shirt swallowed her. It was probably a XXL. I nodded my head and pretended to be interested in what she was saying -- something about who she was going to the game with. Then I said, "I hope the volleyball girls do better than the football team." And she shot right back with some of the stats of the game. I was totally shocked. Like, she was a bimbo, she wasn't supposed to know about sports. All of a sudden I felt myself change (cheesy, whatever). I instantly went from all peppy and fake to actually being "myself". I felt like I didn't really have to pretend to be "like her" and all girly and stupid. We talked sports. And stats. And about the players asses. It was a really odd feeling. I felt kinda bad for judging her just because she was in a sorority -- not that bad though because 99% of them really are dimwits. Then I felt excited that another female was actually interested in sports like I am. Then I wondered if I should start drinking low calorie smoothies too because her legs were super thin. Then I realized it was probably time to stop talking so she could leave and I could get back to work. Then I wondered what skin products she uses. Really good skin. All this within 2 or 3 minutes. In conclusion, I guess I was really aware of how fast I changed when I realized there was actually something going on in her blonde head -- something that I was interested in too! She was cool and it was refreshing to talk about something other than the weather or the normal stupid stuff. I stopped being so peppy and girly (that's not how I normally speak) when I realized she wasn't as peppy or girly as I thought she'd be. My body language got a lot more relaxed when I felt like we were on "level" ground. It was a pretty quick little switch from "I have to talk to this girl and seem happy that I'm doing it while also trying to be girly enough so that she doesn't think I'm below her" to "this girl is cool -- now I can be myself".
Okay now for my boy I guess. I went out on Friday and got way too fucked up. No regrets. I met plenty of males, about 50% sucked and were boring, 30% were cool, and 20% were too busy drooling from being too drunk to actually interact with anyone around them. I met a guy named Daniel. At the time, I had definitely had a few drinks. I remember focusing all my energy into flexing my stomach so that I looked skinny and attractive -- I was wearing a shirt that was tied up exposing my mid-drift (or whatever old people call it). I was holding my cup with a tight fist because I was worried I might drop it otherwise, I was standing up as straight and tall as I could (slouching is so unattractive), I was laughing a little too loud at his jokes, and I was worried about how my hair looked (I had been sweating). We started talking about school and majors and hobbies and all the boring stuff that everyone talks about at first. We actually ended up having a lot in common. He was telling me about some of his favorite books he's read -- and I was telling him some of my favorite jokes (What do you call a cow after it has a baby? Decalfinated.) -- and I checked to make sure I was still flexing my stomach. I was. We talked for a little while longer, I gave him my number, and went back to the party -- Daniel was cool. But not cool enough to make me miss out on all the mingling and booze and madness for more than the 15 or 20 minutes we spent together. He actually texted me the next day -- how nice.
Let's see. Differences and similarities between my lady friend and my nonlady friend. My body language was definitely different when I was talking to Daniel. I mean, when I talk to other girls, I want to look nice and appear attractive -- but girls get it. If my hair isn't perfect or my make up is smudged, they don't judge because that shit happens to girls. But when I'm talking to guys I haven't met before, I want to try to make them think I'm the hottest lady in the house -- which I hardly ever am. But who doesn't want to hear a guy say they are pretty or whatever? Exactly. So I was definitely sucking in and standing like a lady and tousling my hair all girly and whatnot when I was interacting with Daniel. As far as language, I didn't really use any different vocab or words. My voice was probably a higher pitch when I talked to Daniel. "Cute" girls have high pitched voices. And I was drunk. That's just asking for a higher pitch than normal. What did I feel? When I talked to the girl, I felt like I had to. Because I did. For my job. It was enjoyable. But it wasn't the highlight of my day or anything. Talking to Daniel was nice. He was actually very intelligent and genuine. Something that isn't easy to find at a raging house party. So I felt happy and actually kinda lucky that I ran into a good person. I felt more at ease talking to Daniel than to the girl. Probably because I have always gotten along better with males. Females are just too dramatic. We all want to talk about ourselves or one up each other. It's natural. But males, they just go with the flow. The 2 minutes I spent with the girl was nice -- she was laid back and cool and stuff -- but any more time would've been too long. It was a breeze chatting with Daniel. So I guess what I'm saying is, my body felt more unnatural talking to Daniel, but I was more comfortable and more myself. My personality is pretty cool -- so I just had to make sure my exterior looked good too. I feel like this is a pretty common feeling. That I feel more comfortable around boys than girls. I mean, obviously not my girl friends -- I can totally be myself. But like, strangers. Hmm. Don't know though. May depend on a person to person basis. Will have to try this experiment over and over again. Become more conscious and think about this further.
I was pretty excited for this assignment because I bullshit with hundreds of people a day -- it's my job. As the assistant manager of Jamba Juice, I basically get paid to hand people their order and then talk to them about whatever I can for a few minutes to make them feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Usually it's something pretty shallow like their drink choice, school, or weekend plans. But sometimes we strike up a pretty good convo -- sometimes.
Anyway, the girl I picked for my R was a blonde sorostitute (sorority girl/prostitute probably). After ordering her small, light calorie smoothie (typical), I asked her about the shirt she was wearing. It was a shirt for the volleyball game. As she was telling me about how she was wearing it to support the team, I was rolling my eyes at the fact that the stupid shirt swallowed her. It was probably a XXL. I nodded my head and pretended to be interested in what she was saying -- something about who she was going to the game with. Then I said, "I hope the volleyball girls do better than the football team." And she shot right back with some of the stats of the game. I was totally shocked. Like, she was a bimbo, she wasn't supposed to know about sports. All of a sudden I felt myself change (cheesy, whatever). I instantly went from all peppy and fake to actually being "myself". I felt like I didn't really have to pretend to be "like her" and all girly and stupid. We talked sports. And stats. And about the players asses. It was a really odd feeling. I felt kinda bad for judging her just because she was in a sorority -- not that bad though because 99% of them really are dimwits. Then I felt excited that another female was actually interested in sports like I am. Then I wondered if I should start drinking low calorie smoothies too because her legs were super thin. Then I realized it was probably time to stop talking so she could leave and I could get back to work. Then I wondered what skin products she uses. Really good skin. All this within 2 or 3 minutes. In conclusion, I guess I was really aware of how fast I changed when I realized there was actually something going on in her blonde head -- something that I was interested in too! She was cool and it was refreshing to talk about something other than the weather or the normal stupid stuff. I stopped being so peppy and girly (that's not how I normally speak) when I realized she wasn't as peppy or girly as I thought she'd be. My body language got a lot more relaxed when I felt like we were on "level" ground. It was a pretty quick little switch from "I have to talk to this girl and seem happy that I'm doing it while also trying to be girly enough so that she doesn't think I'm below her" to "this girl is cool -- now I can be myself".
Okay now for my boy I guess. I went out on Friday and got way too fucked up. No regrets. I met plenty of males, about 50% sucked and were boring, 30% were cool, and 20% were too busy drooling from being too drunk to actually interact with anyone around them. I met a guy named Daniel. At the time, I had definitely had a few drinks. I remember focusing all my energy into flexing my stomach so that I looked skinny and attractive -- I was wearing a shirt that was tied up exposing my mid-drift (or whatever old people call it). I was holding my cup with a tight fist because I was worried I might drop it otherwise, I was standing up as straight and tall as I could (slouching is so unattractive), I was laughing a little too loud at his jokes, and I was worried about how my hair looked (I had been sweating). We started talking about school and majors and hobbies and all the boring stuff that everyone talks about at first. We actually ended up having a lot in common. He was telling me about some of his favorite books he's read -- and I was telling him some of my favorite jokes (What do you call a cow after it has a baby? Decalfinated.) -- and I checked to make sure I was still flexing my stomach. I was. We talked for a little while longer, I gave him my number, and went back to the party -- Daniel was cool. But not cool enough to make me miss out on all the mingling and booze and madness for more than the 15 or 20 minutes we spent together. He actually texted me the next day -- how nice.
Let's see. Differences and similarities between my lady friend and my nonlady friend. My body language was definitely different when I was talking to Daniel. I mean, when I talk to other girls, I want to look nice and appear attractive -- but girls get it. If my hair isn't perfect or my make up is smudged, they don't judge because that shit happens to girls. But when I'm talking to guys I haven't met before, I want to try to make them think I'm the hottest lady in the house -- which I hardly ever am. But who doesn't want to hear a guy say they are pretty or whatever? Exactly. So I was definitely sucking in and standing like a lady and tousling my hair all girly and whatnot when I was interacting with Daniel. As far as language, I didn't really use any different vocab or words. My voice was probably a higher pitch when I talked to Daniel. "Cute" girls have high pitched voices. And I was drunk. That's just asking for a higher pitch than normal. What did I feel? When I talked to the girl, I felt like I had to. Because I did. For my job. It was enjoyable. But it wasn't the highlight of my day or anything. Talking to Daniel was nice. He was actually very intelligent and genuine. Something that isn't easy to find at a raging house party. So I felt happy and actually kinda lucky that I ran into a good person. I felt more at ease talking to Daniel than to the girl. Probably because I have always gotten along better with males. Females are just too dramatic. We all want to talk about ourselves or one up each other. It's natural. But males, they just go with the flow. The 2 minutes I spent with the girl was nice -- she was laid back and cool and stuff -- but any more time would've been too long. It was a breeze chatting with Daniel. So I guess what I'm saying is, my body felt more unnatural talking to Daniel, but I was more comfortable and more myself. My personality is pretty cool -- so I just had to make sure my exterior looked good too. I feel like this is a pretty common feeling. That I feel more comfortable around boys than girls. I mean, obviously not my girl friends -- I can totally be myself. But like, strangers. Hmm. Don't know though. May depend on a person to person basis. Will have to try this experiment over and over again. Become more conscious and think about this further.
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