Lesser of Two Evils

I don't know which is worse:
Not getting a response to a message, or
Getting a 5-6 word response.

When I was in high school, my non-boyfriend went off to college and started up emailing me, presumably to keep the option open, should he come home on a slow weekend. Things progressed and eventually he was signing off with "love". Now to a naive seventeen year old, that's a pretty big deal. And ever since then, I've paid attention to how people end their emails. I don't know if that's common or uncommon, it's just what I do--and I especially take notice if the sign off changes as time goes by. Eventually, of course, the "love" dropped off the end of the emails and then, the emails too, dropped. Such is life at seventeen.

Or apparently at 25. Not that there was "love". But there were "xo's" and "miss you's" and other such nonsense. And there were also timely responses, and that was when he was also traveling!

I conclude that for basically the first time in my entire life, I went for it, all in, consequences be damned, and I ended up no better than all the girls I've tried my entire life not to be.

Part of me wants to call and talk and clear the air. But I'm not sure I'd be able to make it anything except a conversation about nothing. And then the sensible part of me knows that if his last message meant anything, it was that we meant nothing--at least now that the moment is over.

I'm trying so hard not to reply. I don't know if I'll succeed.

Up On A Wall

Tonight I found myself in the town's high school auditorium. A place in which I spent a good portion of my high school career. It's just the same. In the lobby, on the cement wall, is our wall of, well, fame, I guess. Any success story from our school--there aren't many--has a photo, or a plaque, or some memento.

Up there, with a bunch of movie posters from the one girl that made it big so many many years ago, are plaques engraved with each years' talents. The ones that worked so hard for so little reward. And tonight, looking at those plaques, I found my name. Honestly, I'd forgotten it was there.

It's amazing what a bit of engraving can do to the self esteem. To know my name is on that wall makes me remember where I was so many years ago. Before college, before my travels. I remember my potential and above all, my dreams, what I thought I would do. I'm not eighteen any more, and I'm certainly not where I thought I'd be a quarter through my life. Today, I've got great dreams, great opportunities, great friends, and my name on a wall. Tomorrow, who knows?

Compliments

Most guys tend to think that if you call a somewhat attractive woman (which is exactly what I think I am) beautiful, she'll probably be more willing to sleep with them. Maybe it's the guys I knew growing up, but when a guy tells me I'm beautiful, it pretty much does one thing: makes me suspicious. Beautiful is not the compliment I want to hear, what does it really mean? "You look really good, and because of that, I want to be with you." Woo! Hooray for me.

No, beautiful is not what I want to hear. Instead, call me an artist, call me talented, and most importantly, mean it. Be impressed by what I can do, what I can make, not by what dna made.

A man I view as extremely talented recently told me about our first meeting and his impression of me.
"I thought you were an art girl. Talented. I didn't think you'd be interested in me."

"An 'Art girl' is exactly what I wish I was."

And after that, of course I kissed him. How could I not? It's one thing for people to see your outsides. It's another for them to not only see your insides, but see them as YOU want them to be seen, hope them to be seen. I'll give the other girls, "beautiful" and keep "artist".

Bad Girl

The last week has been a whirlwind of crazy, complete chaos and above all, spontaneity. And I loved nearly every minute of it, most I can remember, a few are a bit fuzzy. I feel like something snapped a bit in my brain and I almost wasn't me anymore. I don't know if it was a permanent tweak, or just a temporary one, and quite honestly, I'm a little scared to find out.

I've always been such a good girl. Painfully but also realistically good. I'm no nun, no stereotype. But by society's standards I've spent the first quarter of my life playing it safe. Really, really safe.

Which is why, when I woke up the other morning and remembered the shocking things I had done the previous night, after drinking more than I needed to, I was highly amused. I giggled to Charlotte about all the uncharacteristic things I had done. Then later, I started to get embarrassed. Mostly because most of the guys I was with didn't know me very well. And while I don't mind being thought of as wild, or fun, and just a little bad, there are so many negative words for the type of girl who pulls a guy into a dark corner of a bar for a little making out. And I am not those words.

The Luxury of Leisure

So, he doesn't actually HAVE my phone number, though he COULD have gotten it with only a little embarrassment. And to be fair, I could have gotten his number in exactly the same way. But I decided to be sneaky instead and now we're exchanging messages online--the old fashioned way--with Myspace. I am clearly twelve years old.

But basically I've been obsessing over something completely meaningless, mostly because I'm bored. Completely utterly bored, waiting for my job to start. And he, he is in a different city (possibly with a different girl) every day. And I'm not even exaggerating here. He is literally in a different city every single day. I'm only guessing about the girls.

When I start work, this leisurely time obsessing over a meaningless boy will probably seem like a time of luxury. Until then, I'll continue to check Myspace repeatedly throughout the day, cursing people who actually have lives and aren't sending me messages.

Funny

He told me I was funny.
He was glad I came.
Then in the darkness, he softly touched my hand.
And I felt more fire than I have in a long, long time.
I'm pretty sure he won't call.

Working on V-Day

Carrie and I were talking by the register instead of doing work when an older gentleman came walking by.

man: Wouldn't you girls rather be home with your husbands getting flowers than getting $20 an hour working.

carrie: We don't get $20 and hour.

me: And we don't have husbands.

Turns out older gentleman has been married to his wife for sixty years. I guess he must be doing something right. I had to work in the jewelry counter today for the first time in ages. All the men and their last minute gifts, and the women who had to buy their own gemstones. I don't know, I think I'd rather get jewelry (or flowers or whatever) on any other day besides Valentine's day, but maybe that's just me.

in Philly they call me "baby"

Me:"I'm from Iowa, I should be used to it."
Hotel Shuttle Driver: "Baby, I don't care where you from. Cold is cold."

Note to Self

Multiple long island iced teas after a dinner of an Auntie Anne's pretzel is never a good idea.

drink'n'text

(Them) 11:03pm est: What u doin
(Them) 11:10pm est: At sparkle bar.

(Me) 11:46pm est (6:46 Hawaii time): In Hawaii. See you next week.

The three stooges must have been bored. We only keep them around cause they are funny. And maybe we're a little bored too.