Watched The Perks Of Being A Wallflower tonight. Decided last night that Daniel and I would go after work. I’d have something to look forward to after long hours in the office, feeling trapped, confined, listening to the people talking around me, trying to participate but always feeling so strained and distant, caring less though than I did when I was seventeen, when I read the book and understood. Thought I’d end up liking it because I was so opposed to seeing it, to making myself sit in the theater and allow it to keep me, to take me, to remind me of how it was. Of how far away I felt and allowed myself to feel when I was young. But I don’t know how I feel about the movie. Don’t know if I tried too hard to make it real or if it fell short and really was just not that hard, not as big and abysmal as it had been when I was smaller.
this thing i wrote on xanga in may and then posted on my current blog before copying and pasting it to tumblr where no one knows me or cares to read all of it
Hey no one,
It’s, like, two a.m. and I don’t have work tomorrow, so I don’t feel pressure to sleep. For five months now, I’ve been blogging every day on Wordpress—my serious blog. But it’s been dumb lately. Like, really stupid. I don’t ever know what to say or who I’m actually writing for, so if I can get through a hundred words without mentioning how much I hate my job or not knowing what to write, it’s good. It’s, like, noteworthy. Seriously. Throw me a freaking party. When I have time, I try to think of something profound to really sit back and reflect upon. And for some reason, I’m always taken back to high school. At camp, crying during worship because I think I’m being real with God. At a table with Fireman in the senior area, being the victim of a breakup I really should have expected. On Robert’s bed with a bunch of boys, trying to be cool because I always had a crush on one of my friends, trying to be sweet and girly like they all liked, actually feeling more comfortable with them than I would have just one girl, trying not to eat. And fine. That was A Time, or whatever, but they’re all the same to me now. One giant wad of pathetic. And blogging about them as an engaged twenty-something doesn’t make me feel any better about what happened when I was a teenager. I can only talk about it because I think my readers think I’m better now, older, and everyone understands that all the little things that broke your heart in high school are actually really funny. Even if they aren’t. But that’s probably how people move on to become better and stronger. I mean, I really think I’ve grown to believe that confessing my attraction to Surfer Dude in ninth grade and watching him scribble some other girl’s name onto his pants with a marker during Conceptual Physics is funny mainly because, at the time, I was utterly devastated. Who even does that? But whatever. I saw him once in college and we hugged, for like the first time if you don’t count that night during Project Grad when everyone went around a circle to hug everyone in our class of one hundred, and he said we should have lunch or something and to “hit him up on Facebook,” which I think and hope to God I didn’t. So adult. So mature. So completely over Surfer Dude and ninth grade humiliation.
I think what I started writing here to say is that Wordpress is making it hard for me to think. Even though what I’m writing there now sucks, I’m still too concerned about the content I post. Like, what is it about my new blog that makes it so difficult for me to tell you that his name was Michael or that I have my period now, and I’m cramping but bleeding less since I’ve been taking birth control pills for a little over a year because when I found out I was anemic and my three-tampons-an-hour flow was NOT NORMAL, the doctor said that these pills would regulate my blood flow and help me keep more blood that I apparently needed. And iron pills. But really. I did not know how easy a heavy but not ULTRA-WATERFALL-HEAVY flow could be, and it’s all because of those pills I was embarrassed to take. Maybe if I’d known in high school how ABNORMAL it was to lose, like, an arm’s worth of blood in SEVEN TO EIGHT DAYS, I would have sought help without having fainted twice in 2010 and I might have been confident enough to go to the beach more and be tanned and beautiful like the girl whose name was written on Surfer Dude’s jeans.
Most of the day was fine and I was content and fine, yeah, totally just fine. And then people say things that weren’t even intended to hurt me and I’m, like, shit. I hate everyone and everyone hates me and I’m twenty-four and still living at home so no one would care that I want to run away right now and go cry in the dark or do something really dramatic like hop on the next flight to Vegas and spend the next month in the Stratosphere giving strangers the stink eye and drinking way too much cheap vodka.
Ew, but, whatever.
I’m calmer now than I was when I started writing this, but I’m still going to take a cold shower and then crawl into Daniel’s bed and cry into his sheets and beg him to take me away from everything, especially my job, because I’m so tired of hating it, of needing things from other people, of feeling so separate and angry, and because I need to stand under a different sky and feel new again.
During my ten minutes working as the cashier/receptionist today, I smiled at the tall blondish guy wearing some sort of blue casual uniform type thing that suggested he was at the dealership to pick up car parts like he might do often or that he’d just come from work and is just waiting for someone to tell him that his car is done being serviced and repairs will cost him x amount of money to which he can pay at the desk I didn’t realize I’d occupy for an insufficient amount of time. Anyway, he smiled back and I felt giddy, not because I wanted him to fall in love with me and for us to makeout over the center console in his car like I might have if I were twenty. It’s just that I’m twenty-four now and engaged and sometimes I think I’m at that point in my life where I need confirmation, a lenient term it seems, that I still got it. Or whatever. A smile from a good-looking stranger means that I don’t evoke the bitterest of disgust, which sounds all very fine, and I take what I can get. But this is more a question, I guess, asking to whom can I send exclamatory texts when I see a hot guy I have no intention of ever touching?