How can I measure up?

I really, really, really really wish that I was a better writer. I wish I was able to captivate people the way so many of my idols (pedestal patrons? Literary heroes?) are. J.R.R. Tolkien was able to capture grandiose and detail in unparalleled precision, and created works of literary art that has transcended generations. Peter Beagle is able to take a basic concept for a child's story and layer it, add depth and swirls and tweaks in the characters and plot until it's something that reaches to people on every level. Even smaller-time writers, like Allie Brosh. She has this fantastic blog, is capable of taking the most outlandish, bizarre stories and presenting them in a relatable, hilarious, horrifyingly close-to-home fashion and has millions of fans/readers who adore her and her ability to show us that mirror we unknowingly look in every day.

Like, I know I'M NOT A terrible writer. I can halfway construct a decent sentence, and I occasionally have witty quips and semblances of meaningful thought. But--all these people above me, all these people who are out there, getting published, being loved by everyone and adored for their gifts to the world--I'm not one of those. How can I live up to them? They're all so far out of my league, I can't even see them anymore. There are so many wonderful, talented, amazing people out there doing wonderfully talented, amazing things, and I'm just...kinda bein' me, you know? How is "me" supposed to live up to "them?"

I'm not looking for solace, or an ego boost, or even consolation, I just really am at a loss as to what to do. I can't even decide what this fucking blog is going to be about. That's important, right? Like, blogs need a theme to help them catch on and be big. Humor, drama, cooking recipes--they've all got some cohesive THING that pulls it together and helps it be one of the best. Mine isn't like that. One day it's some random story, another it's weeping over X,Y or Z, and another it's some random shit about fly racing. Who can relate to that?

I guess...I guess I really want to be relatable. I really want to reach people, to speak to them on a level they get very deeply, and to wow them and show the world how beautiful words can be sculpted into being with the right craftsman.

Relatable. Beautiful. Popular.
It sounds pretty petty when I put it that way. I'm just not sure how to accomplish all these things.

For a friend...

So, I've discovered that you can't make people love you.

Shocking, right? I know. Even weirder, you especially can't make them respect you.

No matter how much love or appreciation you give, no matter how much you lift up the other person and show him/her they mean the world to you, they always have a choice. They can always refuse that support, that love, and that contribution to their world.

It doesn't mean that this person is bad, or that you didn't give them enough love, and it certainly doesn't mean that you aren't deserving of the same in return. It means that--for whatever reason--they are either unwilling or incapable of change. At least, in that area of their lives.

Maybe something happened to them when they were a kid, and they just never told you. Maybe they think they're better than you and that you're not worth their time or love. Never think that. No one is ever above accepting (or at least acknowledging) another's love. Maybe...just maybe...they're just as damaged as you thought yourself to be. Maybe they can't move past those things in their life that froze them into this damaged, echoing cavern, and all they can do is reject you and who you are, or who you try to be for them.

It's not a reflection on you. That's very important to remember.

Maybe I'm saying this to myself, maybe it's my own way of coping with the rejection of the love that I've given people very close to me. But I prefer to think of it as a final way of giving back. Of reaching out to that damaged, insecure, broken person, and letting them know that I do love them. That I can honestly say--with no ego--that I understand and forgive what they did. That we've all been in that position, all hurt those who we know love us, in spite (and because) of our flaws. None of us are perfect, none of us are ever going to be. It's not about that. It's not about managing to come across as funny, or charming, or witty, or curvy or sexy or thin.

It's about finidng those who love us back. And you've found that person. I just hope you'll see it. I love you.

The Infected...

   Duela panicked as she slammed the heavy door behind her and bolted it shut, gasping for breath and grasping desperately for something resembling coordinated thought. "Okay," she talked herself down, "just through the window and up the fire escape. The roof will last for a while. They hate the sun. That I've seen." She glanced down at her bloodied, pale hands. How many had she clawed her way through to get here? How many once-helpless innocents had she mown down for the sake of her own safety, for the priceless, rare gem of an opportunity to be alone, to sort out her thoughts, and to arrange some sort of plan in this madness? It's always fight or flight, I suppose they say, but this time...this time it was different. These were people she knew, people she loved once.  

It could be that way no longer.  

Taking a deep breath, she focused, calmed, steadied her hands in front of her. The feeble, persistent scratching from the other side of the office door started them shaking again. Who knows how long that door would hold.  

 It was an old house, built when real wood and metal were used liberally throughout the construction of such things—that had been what saved her. They were weak, but they never stopped coming, and their numbers were ever-growing. Her mother. Her brother. Her own fiance—all had succumbed to the sickness. Narcoleptic Introvert with Radical Domains, was what the news called them. N.I.R.D.s, for short.

   It had started small enough, she supposed: a few stories on the news, singular, alarming only in their irregularity. Then a few more. Then people on the street started showing signs—people she knew, people she talked to every day! Ugg boots replaced with Converse, Abecrombie gave way to the Avengers. Even Starbucks—for years, a safe haven when all else had failed her—had become infected! “Free double-shot for every Whovian!” their blackboard up front had boasted in bold, brightly-colored letters, a miniature TARDIS carefully sketched out next to it in cerulean blue chalk. “No, stop that!” Duela panicked--”don't give it a name. That's how it enters. That's how it starts...” But, try as she may, she couldn't block out the image of this morning. That horrible, nightmarish image as she turned the corner of her own hallway to pour some cereal or drink some coffee or whatever her regular ritual had become since the turn.

   Her brother. Her own dear brother, the one she had tried so hard to protect. Gone was the faux-hawk—shaved down now to a close-cropped crew cut. The eighty dollar jeans—pre-torn so carefully by the slave workers in India or Vietnam or wherever the hell they were from this year—replaced by denim just a little too short, revealing his custom Joker-fied sneakers. His collar was no longer popped—indeed, there wasn't even a collar to be popped any more—if there was, it was covered up by some ghastly abomination of a hoodie: black, with “1 + 1 = 10” on the front. He said it was binary. BINARY! But the worst of all—the thing that had set her screaming and running into the street for relief—was what he held in his hands. In those small, scabbed-up little boy hands—those hands she had held so lovingly when he was a baby as she sang him to sleep with Kanye West's latest hit—was a Nintendo DS. Some ungodly yellow mouse-looking thing scarred the front with it's abominable visage, and the boy was mumbling something under his breath about “Missing No.”

   She had found this place in her panic—thrown aside countless tweens with “Keep Calm and Chive On” tee shirts, clawed her way past deceptively loving couples with matching Deathpool shirts “Deathpool? Deadpond? No! Stop thinking about it!” and finally to this sanctuary. They had followed her, of course, cruel mimicries of concern echoing through the halls. “Such concern! Wow! Many anger , very confuse!...You have yoga pants, we have a Hulk!...Do you want a banana? I like bananas, bananas are good for you!”God would they ever STOP?! Wasn't it enough that they had to take her brother—now they had to come for her, too?!

   "I'm almost there," she thought, determined. "I just have to get to the roof, I can hold out there for a while, at least." Another deep breath, and Duela crossed the room, reaching for the window latch. She stopped. Fingerless gloves. Shaking in horror, she looked down. A red leather underbust cinched her waist, coupled with a white shirt and some leather pants—one leg red, one black. Three black diamonds on the red leg. Thigh-high, heavily buckled boots completed the ensemble—again in the mismatched red and black. Her breath came in quick, short bursts—slowly, she walked closer to the window, studying her reflection in the glass through tear-clouded eyes. No, please God not this--white makeup—anything but this, please—black lipstick—ANYTHING else—pig tails—just please...don't let me be...

Duela had dropped her guard while she regrouped her thoughts. She had focused too much on the sickness, too much on the symptoms and that look in her brother's eye—the brother now forever lost, like her. While she had mourned, It had set in, becoming embedded in her system deeper than the purest, most predisposing genes.  

She had become a N.I.R.D.  

She was....in cosplay.

Tears streaming down her face, streaming her heavy black eyeliner, Duela crossed back to the door, unlocking it with trembling fingers. Clenching her teeth and closing her eyes for a moment, she slowly opened the door. Suddenly laughing manically, she stepped through the door, screaming out in a high-pitched, tear-strained voice, “Hi, Puddin! Harley's home!”

Stink Bug Sadist

So like, Kentucky has these Stink Bugs, right? Little shield-shaped fuckers designed to just not really do anything and be annoying due to their sheer volume. Oregon has them, but nowhere near the fuck tons that Kentucky does. It's fucking annoying. At any given point and time there's at least one on my blinds, hovering over my head, waiting to drop down on my face and scare the literal shit out of me.

Anyways, I saw one of these little shit bags just, like, chillin' on my blinds, same as always, and I decided to get rid of him. I didn't want to kill him, partly because I'm a kind soul, mostly because I didn't want him to stink bug all over me. My bedroom has storm windows, so I basically have two sets of glass separated by about a 2" gap between them. Only one one window though, 'cause apparently fuck storms for the other one. But whatever, I decide to push him out the window that doesn't have two pane of glass so he can fly away and do whatever these little shits do. Whatever. Anyways, I slowly raise part of the blinds (being very careful not to dislodge the little guy) and open my window. Phase 1 accomplished. 

Phase 2 didn't go as well as planned. I gently shook the blinds while holding a piece of paper below him, hoping to push him out the now open window. However, these guys didn't scramble to the top of the food chain by being the smartest little buggers (hehe), in fact, they're nowhere near the top of the foodchain at all. He loses his grip on the blinds, falls, bounces off the piece of paper and falls on his back just outside the window. Whatever, job done, he can figure out how to get up on his own. As I begin to slide the window shut, (his six little legs flailing frantically in what can only be waves stark bug terror and panic,) I realize that not only have I shooed him out the window that he CAN'T escape from (read: he is now between two panes of glass with no hope of escape), but as the window snaps shut a gigantic spider pounces down on him with venomous passion. Thankfully, I didn't see what happened next. 

Instead of mourning for his untimely death, I laughed. Chortled, even.


Little fucker shouldn't have been in my room.

UPDATE: I just raised my blinds to watch the rain. I can see his little web-spun carcass hanging by the spider--some kind of horrific dead bug trophy. I slowly lowered my blinds and tried not to think about what I've become. 

Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Douchebags...

When you're new to a town, you don't know the rules. You don't know where to go for food, friends, stuff to do--it's unexpected and an intriguing twist when you've grown up in one place for so many years. You meet a few people here and there, but your social circle just isn't as large as you'd expected it to be, so you run out of ideas and join a dating site. You meet a couple neat people, and one in particular sparks your interest.

After a few weeks of texting (yes, one of the precious few you gave your number to), and a few rescheduled meet-ups, you agree to an impromptu date of sorts. I mean, why not? You were already out and about, had already had a few, and now's as good a time as any. Your aunt drops you off at the local gay bar (his suggestion), and you can't help but smile a bit as you question whether he really did mean this to be a date for the two of you. But, the drinks are good and strong and the environment's fun, so you stay.

You're smart about it, though. You finish your drinks before you go to the bathroom, you order a glass of water in between drinks, and you ask the bartender if you can charge your phone--just in case. He was nice, funny, and more than a little intelligent and charming. He makes a few awkwardly obvious attempts at physical contact: a touch of the knee, comments on how sore his neck is, etc. He invites you to his place to watch Doctor Who, but you politely decline--that's not how you wanted the evening to end. A few drinks later, he asks if you want to hit up another bar, maybe grab some food at a local crappy diner (Waffle House, anyone?). Sure, that sounds fun, safe, and you're more than a little hungry after such...significant servings of booze.

Being more than a shade more sober than you are, he offers to drive. "You know, I'm just at the point where if I have another drink, I won't be able to drive you home," he frowns a bit. "You know what I could really go for? Some Angels in Manhattan. I've got them on my hard drive at my place, and I could pour you a drink there, if you want. Then I could drive you home. Does that sound good?" It's awkward now. You already said no once, but it's a decent offer, and you don't want to come across as rude or stand-offish. You agree. You chat a bit more on the way to his place, and you end up talking about sex. Big surprise, right? "Are you a slut?" he asks, laughing a bit. "No judging at all if you are, I'm all for equal gender empowerment." You laugh uneasily, and say no, that you really don't sleep around with guys until you've known them for a while. He proceeds to spout some thinly-veiled spiel about women being called sluts when they sleep around, and how it's unfair since men aren't held to the same standards of chastity.

You pull up to his place (a large house shared by several students), walk up the stairs and he unlocks the door. Walking down the hallway to his apartment, you can't help but feel a bit intimidated: the ceiling is high, the walls are close, and the lighting is poor. You're sure he mentioned something about roommates before, but it's a one bedroom. He must have just meant he used to have roommates. An easy misunderstanding--the bar was distracting, and all the alcohol is really starting to go to your head. Actually, it's hitting you pretty hard.

You follow him into the kitchen, where he proceeds to make your drink--a coke and something strong with a dash of grenadine. You're still careful, and you watch him make it, just in case.

The damn thing nearly sets your breath on fire, and the glass is full to the brim. It's impossible not to spill a bit on the floor/yourself. He tells you not to worry about it, and starts to rub your neck as you turn to leave the kitchen. It feels so nice to get some of those kinks out, and you spill some more of your drink.

He turns on the tv and launches the first episode. "Why don't you sit down here on the floor?" He suggests, "Then I can rub your shoulders." Again, you feel awkward. A sip of the drink to ease your nerves, and you slide down onto the rug. You lean back between his knees, trying to avoid leaning back too far. You're already worried about the impression you're giving him. The show starts, and you try to focus on the show and not on the fact that his fingers are pressing harder...wandering further, even momentarily pushing themselves up the back of your shirt before respectfully pulling it back down. You tense up, but his fingers press into your shoulders so hard--it kind of hurts. He begins to massage your scalp, but then starts to pull your hair a bit. It's getting harder to watch the show like this. Pushing one sleeve to the side, he rubs under your bra strap--just a bit. Lower, further, his hands always pressing themselves where they shouldn't be--pushing the boundaries and your top a little further away from where they should be.

"You smell nice," he mutters, and you realize his face is right next to yours. "Um, thank you..."

Of course, somehow, he kisses you. It wasn't hard, he's still pulling your hair with barely contained self-control. The fingers, attached to those hands, wend themselves down your shirt. The front this time. Uninvited, unwelcome, unrestrained at first by you. This was not how you wanted the evening to end. The alcohol is really hitting your head by now. You must taste like it. You can't tell if he does. Something sharp in the corner of your mind. Some dying, drowning semblance of sobriety? "I should call a cab." You shrug him away, leaning forward and moving your drink away from you.
"You should..." he smiles, kissing your neck and pulling you back to him.
"No...I....I should call a cab.."
"okay..." he's still moving, he's still not supposed to be here--you're not supposed to be here. This wasn't how you wanted the evening to end. But it's been so long since you've....
"NO." The last drowning bit of your self-restraint wakes up again, and you're glad of it. "I'm going. I'm calling a cab." You break out of his grasp, grabbing your purse and standing--stumbling--up this time.
"Do you want to wait here while you wait for it to arrive?" He walks nearer, placing his hands on my hips--or maybe my arms--I can't really tell right now.
"No. I'll--I'll be okay. I have to go. I have stuff to do tomorrow."
"Okay, thanks for the fun night." He mutters as he smiles, kissing you again. His front door was locked. It shouldn't bother you as much as it does just then. You unlock it and practically slam the door behind you. That narrow hallway now seems like something from a dream: the door to the stairs outside is right there, if you can just reach it without being harassed. It's so far though. But you reach it. Of course you do. There's no reason why you shouldn't have. It's not like he was going to physically keep you from leaving.

You practically run down the stairs, jog past his house, glancing up at his windows. Your lips are still wet. You hastily wipe them off, then do the same with your neck, although that is dry. You half run once you hit the corner. Your phone. It's charged. You pull it out and text your aunt. She agrees to come pick you up.

You're not sure where you are, but you see a tall building with "Hilton" lighting up the side. A brief reprieve from the otherwise mostly flat Lexington skyline, and a near literal Godsend as to helping you get your surroundings. You power-walk the four or five blocks there, repeatedly wiping off your lips, your neck, the back of your neck like you're swarmed with some invisible swarm. People on the street must think you're high. You really shouldn't be so freaked out, but you are. You really shouldn't have felt so violated, but you did, and, for some unexplained reason, you keep glancing behind you, expecting to see his truck pull up and to have him offer you a place to crash for the night--to sleep it off.

There's a cop car in front of the Hilton, and for some reason this is more comforting than it should be. You lean against a concrete pillar until your aunt arrives, letting the cool, roughly-pebbled surface calm you back to reality a bit.

Two quick beeps, and your aunt pulls up. Your dog is in the front seat, all you can see is her head, and she's elated to see you. It's obvious that the adventure of both a car ride and seeing mom was almost too much for her soft little head to handle. You hold her the rest of the way home. You try to rationalize it. Your aunt helps put that to rest. You start thinking about all the men you've been with before, about what you would have done if any one of them had pulled away. About how they've all responded when you've turned them down in the past. Certainly not like this one had. You hug your dog closer as she tries to climb on the window to smell the fall air.

You settle in bed, surrounded by your things, your animals, your mess. Your phone lights up. It's a text message from him.

"Hey, you get home okay? :)"
You roll over and go back to bed.

I hope you know...

I hope you know, you fucked it up.

When you pick up that phone to text me a quip about your day, I hope you hesitate a little with regret before putting it back in your pocket. When you smile at an inside joke that is brought to light by something you see on the street, I hope you cringe a little inside at the thought of what you ruined.

When you hope there's someone there for you, when you ache not to feel alone and unloved--when you want someone to reach out to, but they're already gone, I hope you remember: you caused this pain.

I'm not trying to harp on you (or maybe I am), for I know that words hold no meaning anymore to situations like these. Words are empty, words are hollow, and--for all the power they hold--they can't fix it. And, my dear, they can't fix you.

I'll move on, I suppose. Mourn a little less every day, try to push those thoughts of you from my mind--try not to wonder what you're doing or think about what we had--brief as it was, real or not. Someday, I'll grow old and tired of this mindset, move on to the next good thing in my life, and appreciate what you did do for me--what we did for each other.

Until then, though: I hope you walk around the streets at night on your own, flipping your phone in your hand and debating calling me and apologizing for hours before your bitter pride gets the best of you. I hope there are moments--those terrible, bittersweet, truthful moments--where you're alone in your house, or car, or at work--when you break down inside and pray to God you lose the ability to grasp what you lost. Where you hang your head in your hands, pushing away the migraines and the troubled dreams and the occasional tears that prickle at the corner of your eyes, and you know--know then, more than ever--that you fucked this up.

Hi

I still wait for that text message. The one saying you're sorry..you hit just the right place, cracking open all my emotions and engorging the hemmorage with a crowbar

And then you left.

I still check your facebook, looking for signs that you miss me. I sure miss you.

I didn't think I could grow so attached so quickly,  and yet in did. Only to be let down. Thrown down.

Although I should move on, memories of happiness in others causes me physical pain and disgust.

I still wait for you, although I shouldn't.