I feel old. Old and boring. I graduated from college only 5 months ago, and yet I feel like I’ve aged 10 years since. All I do is work and do errands and schedule time to sleep, eat and shower. My love life is so empty and dry, it’s as dry as the bloody Sahara. I go out every weekend and dance my ass off, but I’m no longer the fish I used to be (although that’s debatable…it may just be that my tolerance has lowered, making it tougher for me to drink the amount I used to be able to drink, but I’m not gonna complain too much ’bout that, ’cause hey in the end it’s better for my wallet). I’m shopping so much because I don’t have many work-appropriate clothes in my wardrobe. All the t-shirts and sweats I bought and wore in college are collecting dust in my dresser drawers. Most importantly, the NBA is likely not coming back this season and I want to cry in despair.
This weekend was homecoming weekend at my school and I felt like the only one who didn’t go back to party and visit friends. I miss my friends. I miss college.
I really want to cry. I didn’t get any stuff done tonight, and it was one of my rare nights off from work. Instead of cleaning my room or paying bills (I got slapped with a $25 late fee because even though the online system claims my payment will be posted to the due date, it fucking didn’t and now I fucking hate credit cards with a burning passion—the HSBC Best Buy store card in particular) or updating my calendars, I went shopping with my mom, paraded around the room in my new clothes, and talked on the phone with my roommate (old roommate, I guess I should say…obviously we don’t live together anymore). And now it’s 10:52, way past my bedtime, AND I’VE GOT NOTHING DONE. MY ROOM IS STILL A MESS, I HAVE YET TO SORT THROUGH MY FINANCES, AND I NEED TO SLEEEEEEEP.
There’s also a good possibility I’m PMS-ing right now. Which would be great, because I expected my period last week and it would be nice if it could come now so that I can start birth control pills again like I originally planned to—last week.
My mood also shot down the toilet tonight when my dad started lecturing me about how when he first came to America he worked two menial jobs, from 6 a.m. to midnight and didn’t complain (which I totally don’t believe, there’s no way you can’t ever complain about a life like that). Like seriously dude, I was joking when I said 10 was my bedtime (I aim for 10:30) and that I wanted a break from working (by break I mean a bloody vacation, not calling in sick, silly).
And now I’m fucking wasting my time blogging instead of doing the actual things I’ve been meaning to do!! Waahhhhhhhh.
(I’m slightly sorry about the above entry. Please excuse my excessive swearing and whining.)
My life feels like a mess. Not a bad mess, but an actual, really disorganized mess. My room can’t stay neat for a day, I’ve got shit lying around and shit missing and as much as my OCD self wants to get that situation fixed, my new workaholic self keeps reminding me that I just don’t have the bloody time. And that’s because I spent the entire weekend being wild and social. My bank account took a hit, considering I went on quite the shopping spree Saturday and boozed it up several times with friends. I even managed to squeeze in time today for a nap and a movie, which the new me would never have ever done but the old me was just begging for some lazy time.
But alas, now I have to figure out my bills, get stuff situated, and all that good stuff.
The movie I mentioned previously was (500) Days of Summer. I borrowed it from the library and saw it for the very first time. I laughed, I cried, I experienced bouts of epiphany-like states. It was a seriously damn good movie. I didn’t know who I was in love with more, Joseph Gordon-Levitt or Zooey Deschanel. More importantly, I didn’t know who I related to more, Tom or Summer. The heartbreak that Tom went through was more or less similar to the heartbreak I experienced with Boy O. But the attitude Summer had is exactly the attitude about love I have right now. Except unlike Summer, who didn’t really have any expectations of love and had previous relationships that didn’t come close, I’m of the mindset that I’ve already experienced the horrible things called love and heartache and I just never want to have to deal with them again. Hmmmm…
I went to Medieval Times for perhaps the 4th time in the past 5 years. It was my 5th time overall. It was also my first time there as a legal drinking adult, which was interesting. The sad part, though, was that the knights didn’t come out after the show because there was another show to prepare for after, so I never got to take pictures with them. I also didn’t get to take pictures with the cute knight I’d seen twice before.
Friday night I went out to the bars in Wicker Park in Chicago. It was my first time at the bars in that area, and I must say, it was a blast. It’s totally more my scene than Lincoln Park (too college-y, which I know I should theoretically love but at the same time there’s also too many fratty white people for my taste) or downtown Naperville (where I’d been last night, way too many snobby rich suburban folk). And it’s definitely a neighborhood I would consider living in someday.
I have much more to say but my bedtime approaches and I need to get a good start to the week.
Is it freaking sad that I’m 22 years old and yet I feel like my best years are now behind me? That my life is basically over, and all I have to look forward to now is endless years of work, loan repayments, bills and other shitty adult matters? When will I ever be able to dance in the streets of small Central American villages again? When will I get to sit on rotted tree logs on the beach at one in the morning again? When can I ever have late night dance parties and vodka drinks with my roommates?
It’s 11:53 right now. Not even midnight, but it’s way past my bedtime already. I’ve been trying to squeeze in time this week to organize my accounts and bills and shit. For goodness sake, I have trouble finding time to SHOWER, let alone do the stuff grown-ups are supposed to do.
But in other news, I BOUGHT A CAR. My first car. It’s a black 2012 Honda Civic coupe, so beautiful, I’m in love with it. I’ve never been one to ever care about shiny cars, but damn I’m starting to understand the appeal. Picking out a car was like how I imagined picking out a wand would be. Lots of decision-making and careful consideration.
And so, on a positive note…at least I get to drive my brand-spanking new car to work tomorrow bright and early!
I didn’t like Lil Wayne much before, but I’m definitely one of those girls who swears this song was written about them. It’s like every word is dripping with all the pathetic tales of my sad love life. Until last weekend, I thought I was just always running into bad luck when it came to boys. Now, I’m pretty sure I’m fucking cursed.
Last Friday, as I mentioned, I went clubbing with a friend. At this club, my friend had invited her new boy toy, who of course had in turn brought along his friends. Only two of those friends are relevant: K, a white boy who had expressed interest in me to his friend and my friend; and B, an Hispanic boy who I didn’t care much for at first, but when K turned out to be a dud I ended up telling everyone B was more my type and somehow people thought that meant I wanted B instead (which, okay, was true, but totally not what I had told my friend).
At any rate, at the end of the night I was somehow delegated the task of driving everyone (me, my friend, her boy toy and his friends) home. I ended up dropping K and B off at K’s house, where I assumed they were gonna go smoke up. K didn’t bother to say good-bye to me (nor thank you, wtf!), which I guess is because I’d basically rejected him. B asked for my number, asked what I was doing the next day, gave me a hug several times, and actually ended up giving me a kiss.
Now, fast forward to yesterday. My friend and I happen to work together now (at the retail job I’d gotten last month), and when she told me her boy toy was coming to the mall to visit, I of course asked if he would be bringing any friends with him. She raised her eyebrows and was like, “You want to see B again don’t you?” “Duh.” “I think he has a girlfriend.” … “WHAT?!”
Apparently, my friend had asked B on Friday at the club if he had a girlfriend, and he responded, after hesitating, with an affirmative, and her new boy toy even drunkenly semi-confirmed it (I don’t know why these boys can’t just fucking come right out and say it). Now, I really don’t care what happens at this point between B and I, but this just absolutely, positively confirms the fact that I am fucking cursed. I am always, always the other bloody woman. (Remember the married Costa Rican DJ?)
I am never ever the girl in chick flicks who ends up with the boy of her dreams at the end! I am never the nice girl who gets left out in the cold because nobody thinks she’s cute enough! I am just the slutty ho men want to play around with because they think that’s all she’s good for! And no, I am not purposely going around acting like a slutty ho, I’m really trying to portray myself as a classy-yet-badass-y kind of girl. What the fuck!!
Here is the count:
Number of boys I’ve dealt with who turned out to have girlfriends at the time: approximately 3 (that I know of for sure…I’m pretty sure there’s more I’ve forgotten)
Number of married men I’ve dealt with: technically 1, 2 really, and there’s a third I don’t know whether to count or not
Number of boys who ended up finding girlfriends after me: 3 (again, I stress that these are estimates)
Number of times I got fucked over in the end, and not in the good way: infinite
Let’s keep in mind that these are all individuals that I’ve managed to remember in my head. The actual numbers may, I fear, be higher.
