It has been two months and 11 days since I moved into this cute little studio apartment in Chicago’s Northwest Side all by myself. Yes, folks, I’m like a legit grown-up now. Crazy to think that a few months ago I was cramped in my little bedroom at my parents’ house, and now I have all this space to myself, it’s ridiculous. This morning I woke up at 7:15, rolled out of bed at 8, took out the garbage, made myself a huge breakfast omelette, drank some coffee courtesy of the Keurig my dad kindly passed down to me, and now I’m sitting here in the living room listening to the Ella Fitzgerald Pandora station and wondering what on earth to do with myself.
Because, alas, I’m also finding myself encountering all these emotions and scenarios that up until now had only existed in the books and movies for me. Like yesterday, when it was a certain person’s birthday and after coming to the conclusion that he did not want to see me on his birthday, I made myself a taco and chugged through three glasses of wine before passing out on my bed at 9:30 in the evening because the thought of spending a Friday night awake and alone while everyone in the world was out having fun was just too much to bear. Then, when I checked my phone this morning, I had 10+ messages from the certain person insisting that his phone was not working and asking me what I was doing. This was all after I had gone to sleep, of course, so as a result I woke up to Snapchats from him out and having fun with our friends. Now I’m just sitting here with back and neck pain in a sad pathetic misery.
OK. Enough wallowing. Must shower and get on with life.
If 2012 was a year in which nothing truly remarkable happened—I continued working two jobs, living at home, hanging out with friends—then 2013 is about to become the exact opposite.
March 2013 in particular. I’ve already established that I’m going on a 5-day solo trip to London, with a quick St. Patrick’s Day stop in Ireland. My parents recently announced that we’re moving from this house to another one in town, with plans to rent it for at least the next two years until my youngest brother graduates high school. Then, they will look into moving out west—more specifically, Las Vegas or somewhere in California. Talk about big moves. As for me, I’m not quite sure what I’ll be doing in two years, but at the moment I’m focused on the next two weeks, in which not only will I have to continue working my two jobs while packing for my trip, but also packing up my entire life (I mean, bedroom) for this new house. Yikes. According to my dad, we can start moving our stuff there next week but we won’t be actually living in there until April 1.
Which leaves me to this next bit. While packing up stuff I found a couple of my old journals from high school. Read through one from 2006, the year I was 16 and a junior in high school. It’s a strange thing, encountering a previous incarnation of yourself. It’s like…you can still feel every morsel of pain and teenage angst that that person was going through, but at the same time you want to show her the light at the end of the tunnel. What was I like at 16? Well according to my journal—and let’s remember here, I seem to be the type of person who only writes when angry and alone and confused—I was a very angry and alone and confused girl at 16. Not many friends, no boyfriend, nothing exciting going on.
Seven years later, here I am at 23. What’s changed? I noticed that for the most part, the fuel to my fire in high school was the tension with my dad. Back then, he would never let me go out. Like, ever. Pretty much every other entry consisted of me crying about how I was trapped in this house with no life and no prospects. But to say my dad has lightened up now would be an understatement—he no longer calls me at 11 in the evening on a Saturday night, demanding I be home within the hour. No questions asked if I say I’m sleeping over somewhere (although only God knows what he’d say if he found out I’ve been sleeping over at a boy’s house as of late). It’s funny how things magically change when you turn 21 and have a car, a full-time job, and a college degree.
But the part that slightly concerns me was, and still is, my anger. A lot of entries began with “Am so depressed” or “I’m so fucking furious” or something along those lines. The scary part is, I know I still feel those emotions today. Sometimes I wonder if I do have a serious problem. Even my newly minted boyfriend (still feels really weird to say that!) has pointed out I have a lot of passionate anger bottled up inside. Hell, I even had a Xanga username once that was called savetherage. I know I get feisty and mad a lot. But I like to think I’ve done a magnificent job not letting it overcome my life. I have passions. A lot of those journal entries also consisted of me writing to do lists and declarations that “I will be productive with my life today.”
And that’s just who I am. I’ve learned that I need to constantly feel busy and productive with my life. I don’t like feeling useless. My life is so filled with activity now, with jobs and friends and hobbies and trips. While I tend to whine a lot, I know that in the past near 2 years since I’ve graduated college, life’s been a lot easier since those hellish high school days.
(Note: This letter was written in a moment of pure catharsis yesterday that my friend encouraged me to write in order to finally obtain closure over this one stupid boy that I’m sure I’ve mentioned countless times on this blog. I think it worked. Maybe one of you will take more away from it that I can. Oh, and I’m too lazy to change names, locations, etc., so there is a frighteningly realistic chance that the one to whom this letter is addressed may one day come across it.)
So. Today is Valentine’s Day.
I remember bumping into you in the main stairwell at BHS on Valentine’s Day. That was six years ago. At the time, things had cooled off between us since that night at the park and I realized there was no way in hell my dad would let me date you, and we hadn’t really talked in a while. But we greeted each other. I remember wishing we were Valentines that day.
I remember bumping into you at a frat party Valentine’s Day weekend during our freshman year at U of I. That was five years ago. Things got steamy on that couch. Then somehow you got into a fight with one of my friends, and her cousin threatened to beat the shit out of you. I called you at 3 in the morning to see if you were OK and you said it wasn’t a big deal. But I was concerned. I cared. Thinking about it now, I should’ve stopped myself then. Stopped that caring before it ever started.
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.
Last Saturday I went to the wedding of an old childhood friend. It was essentially the first wedding of my “generation” that I’d attended. And naturally there were waterworks and feelings of depression and lots of alcoholic-induced “I hate looooveeeee” declarations.
Yes, I was that single girl last Saturday, drinking her sorrows away at the bar. It was rather sad. Actually, if memory serves me right, the bartender was hitting on me a lot. He looked rather old (in his 30s, which may have been OK with me in the past unfortunately, but I’m totally done with that!) and had an accent. And I think I may have started the shenanigans, when I went up, already drunk, to order a sex on the beach (did I mention it was open bar?). The subsequent times I went to order drinks, he asked if I had a boyfriend, how old I was, if I would dance with him, etc. Blechh. I like attention and all, but not when they’re from creepy older European bartenders.
I remember crying at the wedding while the bride and groom did their first dance. I remember wistfully thinking, “I wish I could believe in love…I wish it exists out there for me…” a lot. I remember me repeating, “I wish I could get married someday.” Because in all honesty, I don’t believe it. It’s not meant for me. I don’t do relationships, I don’t do boyfriends, I don’t think any man will know how to respect me, yada yada. Don’t meant to sound like I’m begging for pity or something like that, but it’s the truth. I don’t see myself ending up in a real grown-up relationship any time soon and I’m done dealing with boys and their shit. I think I’m okay with being “alone” for a really really long time. Someday I’ll write down here why and who it is exactly I’m angry with (because of course, there’s always “someone” that makes one become this way). It’s just that it’s a really really unnecessarily long story.