I should tell you...

I've talked about my Ex by several different names on here. He's been a kind of supporting (or not, as it were) character in the background of many of the experiences you've read about here. The short history - we dated for five years... All through high school, and then for our freshman year of college, for which we went to schools on opposite coasts. We went to a tiny high school where, by virtue of his being utterly likable and my throwing nearly every major party anyone in our class or below went to, we secured a tight group of friends. Many of those people both of us remained close with.

Which of course, made it that much more awkward and painful when we broke up in a BIG way at the end of our freshman year of college. He was the one who ended things - at the time I believed he left me for someone else, and I did, in fact, know who it was. In retrospect, I saw it coming. We weren't right for each other, but he figured that out LONG before I did.

And so we've spent the past three and a half years, essentially, discovering new ways to hurt each other - also known as "being friends." We both took our turns doing and saying terrible, cruel, inhumane things, that managed to affect not just one another, but our mutual friends, who grew to make concerted efforts to keep us apart when we were in the same state. Almost a year and a half, I was in rare form (or not, depending on who you ask), and confessed to him that I'd cheated on him back in high school. I'd like to say I did it to try and make myself feel better or in the interest of honesty, but really, it was my drunken, still-heartbroken last-ditch effort to make him hurt as badly as I did.

Near as I can tell, it worked. There was a single email exchange wherein we decided that we were not going to speak to one another again. We were both still angry and hurting, but it was probably one of the healthier things we'd done for each other since we'd broken up. It was three years almost to the day after he left me.

And we didn't talk. Or see one another. Or communicate in any way. Our friends were already used to avoiding the subject of each other when we were around, but even that became more pronounced. I moved on, dated a few people casually - some of whom were good to me, like Nonboyfriend, some of whom weren't, like Edward. My ex didn't cross my mind much.

And then, this summer, tragedy hit our circle of friends. Without going into private details, a terrible, unfair and unexpected thing happened to my best girlfriend, C. The Scientist and I, specifically, threw as much of ourselves into caring for and loving her as possible, and to her credit - she is astoundingly strong. I'm confident I could not have gone through what she did with such grace, maturity, perspective, and strength.

About a month ago, things culminated in an event that saw all of us who love C together at her house to support her. My ex (again, a good friend of hers) had been flaking on his friends back home, and, in all honesty, I think he was guilt-tripped into it. It was a deserved guilt-trip, though. He should have been there for C all along, but he absolutely needed to be there on this occasion.

Which found both of us back in town. In the same house. Together. I knew he was coming, and I also knew that this was neither the time nor the place to deal with any lingering issues we had. I knew why I was there, and it had nothing to do with him. Besides, I didn't have anything left to say to him.

He came early and I was the first person he saw. He quite literally froze in the doorway. He paled, and I swear I could hear him swallow from across the room. I looked at him, said "Hi," and waved. "Uhm, yeah, hey," he managed, a stiff arm and twitchy-fingered wave complimenting the awkwardness. Throughout the afternoon, he and I were pleasant with one another - I started a conversation or two with him... Just pleasantries. But I think we were both impressed at how we were able to BE so pleasant with one another. I found myself almost enjoying his company. Well, at the very least, not minding it.

As the evening wound down, C asked her friends to stay and party with her. Of course, we would have done anything for her, and this was hardly a stretch for any of us. We ended up going to a concert - C, her boyfriend, The Scientist, myself and my ex. We eventually convinced Nonboyfriend and his girlfriend to come down to town as well, because the occasion called for everyone to be there. (C, the Scientist, my ex and I all went to high school together, and the Scientist, Nonboyfriend and my ex are childhood friends, so Nonboyfriend had been incorporated into our circle early in its creation.) We all had a great time at the show, dancing, letting go of whatever we needed to.

At one point, as I was dancing, I took a step backwards and accidentally backed into someone I didn't know. I turned around to apologize, and the guy started hitting on me. Asking me to dance with him, what's my sign (seriously? people still use that?), and I tried to politely decline, telling him I was just there to be with my friends. He didn't go away. He wasn't doing much more than invading my space, but my ex caught my eye, dancing maybe 10, 15 feet away from me. He mouthed "you OK?" at me, and I kind of shrugged and made an "eh... uhm... sortof..." face. Before I could do anything more, my ex was next to me, put his hands around my waist, and pulled me to dance with him. The other dude vanished into the crowd. And I stood there, rather dumbstruck, staring at my ex. I managed to thank him, but I don't think I communicated how genuinely touched I was. I know looking out for someone in the group, protecting them from a creeper, is pretty standard friend behavior, but for my ex and I, the interaction was the friendliest, kindest we'd treated each other in years.

As the concert ended, we took several cabs to various places, some of us stopping at cars on the way, then all of us ending up back at Nonboyfriend's house. For a portion of the trip, it was just my ex and I in his car, after we'd dropped off C and her boyfriend so they could go in their own car. There were some awkward silences, but we did agree that it was, surprisingly, nice to see one another. We both seemed scared to make that assertion... like it might ruin the good we'd managed to accomplish that night.

But back at Nonboyfriend's house, my ex began playing guitar. And I realized he was playing songs that used to be ours. The rest of the group trickled back into the house, leaving just he and I on the patio. Him still playing guitar.

And then we started talking. The conversation started off slow, hesitant, cautious. But soon, it became open, and honest. He started the conversation. He looked at me, tears in his eyes, and said "It killed me, to not speak to you for so long. I hated it. I tried to be angry at you, I really did. But I can't. You are such a part of who I am, and that will never change. You ARE important. You always have been." It broke my heart and healed it all at once.

We kept talking for almost an hour. There were tears shed, but I think more than anything they were a form of release. The most amazing part was that there was no anger. I think we've finally used it up. We were able to talk about what had hurt us, but also what was good. We were able to appreciate how utterly and completely and honestly in love we were with one another... once upon a time. And we were able to move forward.

He hugged me several times that night. And it was good to be back there, my head buried in his chest and his arms wrapped around me. It was sincere. It was necessary. But it wasn't inappropriate. There is no romance left. The fire that once burned so bright for him nearly consumed me... and now all that remains is warmth.

I can finally truthfully say that I no longer have any ill feelings toward him. There are still traces of the boy I fell in love with almost 10 years ago inside him. I needed to know that. I can look back on what we had fondly and without pain. I can wish him well and happiness with his girlfriend, and mean it. And I can mean it when I tell him I'm looking forward to seeing him when he's back in town.

So while I've called him many, many things over the years, and even over the course of this blog, really, the way I should refer to him is as my First Love. Because he was. And he deserves all the import that title commands. Part of who I am today is because of him, and that experience will always be a part of me.

And, finally, thank god, I no longer resent that fact.

"I should tell you

that you were

my First Love..

So it's Christmas time,

It's been three years

And someone else is knitting things for your ears

I have come to know I'll only see you

Interrupting my dreams at night

But that's all right

That's all right

I should tell you

that you were

my First Love

And it's all right

And it's all right

We were seventeen again together,

We were seventeen again together,

We were seventeen again...together."

Throwback

Just a quick post today while I'm putting off doing other things I should be.

I was enjoying having the house to myself today while my roommates are out at the university basketball game, meaning I can turn up my music and sing without shame. (To be fair, they haven't complained and actually tend to compliment me when I'm singing... at least on Guitar Hero.)

And while my iTunes was on shuffle, this song came on. And immediately I was back in junior year of high school, in my black '92 Pontiac Grand Am, with the windows down, blasting this and screaming the lyrics. I was 17, freshly dumped, and very angry. Screamo was precisely what I needed.



And, I'm no longer ashamed to admit that I bought Atreyu's album solely for the 80's-like riffs at the chorus and especially at 2:13. With flowers in her hair, gazed upon with dead lover's eyes - she never looked so good...

And yes, I realize this post has little to do with sexuality. Oh well. These things happen.

V-day.

So, it's no surprise that el dia de San Valentino is upon us.
For me, it's kind of like any other day. And like I've written about before, I have random favorite holidays (Fourth of July and New Year's, for the record). But Valentine's day has never been particularly special for me. I'm short of those who avidly bemoan the artificial holiday's existence (although I'm not a huge fan of made-up and socially mandated displays of affection), but I certainly don't live for the day with my expectations delicately tied to a helium balloon, constantly rising higher.

That being said, it's been quite a while since I've actually been dating someone on Valentine's day. The last time was probably four years ago, when I was head-over-heels in love with Ex, who went to school on the opposite side of the country. I surprised him by flying from Washington (that's the state, not the district) and showing up at his door in Manhattan. It went well, all things considered. There was a massive snowstorm that dumped two feet of snow in Central Park overnight, and so the city was quiet and calm and romantic. We had celebrated our five year anniversary that December.

He left me for someone else three months later.

I'd like to think this hasn't jaded me for all time when it comes to Valentine's day. I just don't have any illusions about the holiday. And for the past few years, the kinds of relationships I've had don't lend themselves to over-romanticized displays of affection, anyway. After all, what is etiquette for someone who you're fucking, but they may or may not be in the same state, and while you tell each other you love one another, there isn't any mush involved in such statements of simple fact?

Answer: Emails containing things like this:



Compliments of Jacob, who is guilty of more mush than this on a regular occasion. I tease him about it, but he knows that sometimes it really does make me uncomfortable. So today he sent me this photo, and it made me laugh because it was so appropriate. And true. And just... how I would say things. How he and I communicate. It works.

In other, more physically proximate V-day news, I think Bear is trying to sneak a romantic weekend on me. We had standing plans to go see a movie tomorrow (my choice), and this afternoon he asked me to join him for dinner at one of my favorite places on Saturday night. We haven't gone out to dinner yet this semester (although we do it periodically in general), and it seems mildly suspect that the first time just so happens to be on Valentine's day. And it just so happens to be MY favorite restaurant. And I wouldn't be surprised if he just so happens to want to come home with me.

I'm not complaining, I just think it's funny.

And I think it's funny how he never calls me by my name anymore, only referring to me as "Love," and very rarely even by the nickname he used to call me by playfully. And today he came by while I was holed up in the multimedia lab selling my soul to Soundslides. And complimented my project and made sure I was doing OK. Nothing a regular best friend wouldn't do, but I have noticed that he's a little more gentle with me since we slept together. Then again, that's not necessarily a bad thing.

I just think it's funny.

Reflections I

My time in Spain is coming to a close. I have a whopping 10 days left here. Not that I'm counting.

It has, in the end, been a life-changing experience. I think I'm still too close to it to see how much of that was actually a result of Spain, itself, and how much was simply a result of being somewhere else. It's a bittersweet sentiment, because I will miss some of the people I've met here, and more often than not, my closest friends this semester will not be returning to the same campus I will be next semester. It's precisely this pattern in my life that makes me so eager to graduate and settle down in my own place... The idea that I don't have to entirely uproot my life every four months is amazingly appealing. I don't know that I'll set down permanent roots, but I do know where I want to go when I graduate and I have a pretty good idea how to get there.

One of my best friends here (The Texan is the other, this is a girl who is a year younger, but we've very much bonded)... her boyfriend of over a year just broke up with her. Over the internet, and without warning. They had just spent a fabulous weekend together in London, and she didn't see it coming at all, but he's holding firm that he needs his space and time to be alone.

I haven't left her side since she found out. Literally. As soon as she told me, I gave her a hug, and held her as her body shook with sobs. When she made herself reply to his emails, I was there helping her type through the tears. And last night, after I finished with class at 10pm, I went over to her house and spent the night with her, because she didn't want to sleep alone. When she's angry at him, I remind her what an asshole he is for breaking her heart. When she's pining and thinking it's her fault, I tell her of course it's not and to try to focus on the good things that came from the relationship. She keeps apologizing and thanking me for being there and asking why I'm doing all this for her. For one, she's my friend.

Secondly, I know exactly where she's coming from.

The similarities between her and her boyfriend's breakup and mine with Ex are strikingly similar. A semester spent apart. Moving closer together (although not the same city) next semester. Occasional visits have gone smoothly. She didn't suspect anything being wrong. He's being incredibly blase (at least in appearance) about everything this is doing to her. And while Ex told me he didn't love me anymore, her boyfriend said he still loved her, but both her ex and Ex used the exact same phrase: "I'm not going to rule out the future, but I also can't promise you anything."

And watching her hurt so badly, and go through all of the same shit I did two and a half years ago, breaks my heart. For her sake, and mine. I do understand where she's coming from, and maybe that's why the neediness doesn't bother me. I would have killed to have time around friends who DIDN'T know ex when I was processing the breakup. My friends were wonderful, but were all also his friends, which made it more than a little awkward. So I'm sitting by her side, and doing whatever she needs. Trying to convince her to eat, even if it's only a little food. Because I remember what it was like. I do.

And that's an interesting thing to have thrown back into your conscious. I haven't thought about Ex much lately. He's no longer on my buddy list, but I was reminded today that he's still on my Facebook when his name popped up on the chat, and I saw his new girlfriend (well, she's not new, it's the same girl he left me for two years ago) wrote on a mutual friend's profile. But I took a deep breath. And that was it. It wasn't followed by the sting I'd become so accustomed to when thinking about him. I didn't have to stop myself from going to look at his profile, or his latest photos. I haven't been making my holiday plans with an ever-awareness about where and who he might be seeing.

Because it doesn't bother me anymore. I don't care. And that isn't the defiant, angry, I don't care, but instead the passive, it simply doesn't affect me, kind of I don't care.

So, sure, it took me two and a half years. But I'm there. I am officially over it. There's no more animosity, and while there may still be some scar tissue, it's not so ugly and apparent anymore, but rather just one more thing that makes me who I am.

And I'm proud to be able to say that.

Closure.

Preface: Last night I had a dream about my ex. (With a little e. You'll see why shortly.) Those of you who know me personally know which one I'm talking about. The dream, which would have, had it involved anyone else, been a pleasant memory, was genuinely disconcerting. It wasn't a nightmare - in fact, in this dream, he was being sweet. I woke up with fond memories of him. Which is a problem. A SERIOUS problem. I tried to deal with this all morning, but while I was sitting at my BS office job (ah the joys of work study), it was all I could think about. And I needed to study for my midterms tomorrow, but I could not, for the life of me, process what was going through my head. So I wrote a letter. I won't be sending it to him, but here's what it said. (Be prepared... it's long. There are a lot of things I wish I'd said to him.)

Maybe you can tell me why the hell I'm thinking about you right now. You should be the furthest fucking thing from my mind. What's worse is that I'm thinking of you fondly. That's not OK with me. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't mind. But I shouldn't have fond memories of you. Not because there never were any good times, but rather because it's important that I not remember them. Because if I remember that, for a time at least, I really believed you loved me, if I remember how good we were together, sexually at least, if I remember how every once in a while, you'd do incredibly romantic or loving things, then I might not hate you any more. And if I don't hate you anymore, I might want to to talk to you again. Just for closure, I'll tell myself. And then I'll do something stupid like call you when I'm home and ask you to meet me for coffee. Which would be probably the stupidest thing I could possibly do.

I don't make a habit of hating my exes. Even those I don't speak with anymore, well, I don't hate them. I know it's healthier for both of us if we don't speak, so that's how we operate. But you. I have to hate you. It's important. Because if I don't, I risk bringing you back into my life when I've spent so much time and effort making sure you're removed from the same. So I can't think about any of those good things that happened while we were together. I just can't.

Instead, I need to think about how shitty you treated me. I need to remember that for every night you'd do something romantic, there were five where you would get drunk and scream at me. For every time we'd have great sex, there would be three where we could only have the kind of sex YOU wanted. You refused to indulge me, even a little, no matter how much I indulged you. And, for the record, yes, the anal sex fucking hurt. Didn't you notice I was only "willing" when I was drunk? No, of course you didn't. And also, for the record, I know now that it doesn't have to hurt. In fact, it can be a hell of a lot of fun. And I owe someone else for showing me that. And you're the reason he laughed when I asked, flabergasted, "you mean it isn't supposed to hurt?!"

I never felt sexy standing next to you, or laying with you. Not because I wasn't sexy, but because you told me I wasn't. You never let me forget that you were better-looking than I was. You told me every fucking week. You'd tell me how lucky I was that you would (condescend) to be with someone who looked like me. You didn't like me wearing high heels because it made me taller than you, and that made you insecure. It was bad enough I was heavier than you, you'd say. I didn't need to be taller than you, too. "I know I'm more attractive than you are," you'd say, implying that you were some kind of saint for being with me anyway. And then, the next person I was with? Well, he was better-looking than you are. Fucking gorgeous, actually (a generally accepted fact among those who've met him). And in actuality, he isn't much taller than you. But here's the catch: he made me feel, as cliche as it sounds, like the most beautiful woman in the world. He'd find things to compliment about me. Little things, like how I kissed him or how I sang or how I looked waking up next to him. And he made me feel sexy because he was sexy. And he'd tell me I was. And, the real kicker? He and I were better together than I could have ever dreamed you and I would be. It was, without question, the best sex I've had. For any variety of reasons.

And where you would get drunk (off the booze you'd buy with my money while living in my house where I paid rent,) and insult me and throw things at me and hold me down when you didn't want me running away from you; he would invite me over, share a drink or two, and talk with me about literature and art and music. And then he'd take my face in his hands and kiss me softly, then gently lead me to the bedroom.

I want to tell you all this because I want you to know. I want you to know that I realize how awful you were to and for me, and I want you to know that you didn't break me. You made me feel so fucking worthless. And I realize now it was all a strategy to keep me down so I'd be too scared and too weak to leave you. And when you were worried that I might be getting ideas in my head to leave, you'd invent a problem. You'd violate my privacy, and read my personal (paper) journal, then wake me up to fight with me about it. And when I didn't shrink then, because I wouldn't apologize for writing something down instead of saying it to you and because I refused to censor myself simply for fear you'd find out, you reacted like a petulant child. With a drinking problem. You channeled Stanley Kowalski and showed up at my work, drunk off godknowshowmuch whiskey at 5pm, screaming at me and banging on the glass. In addition to being angry at you, you fucking embarassed me. Not that that was something new for you. You know precisely why I wouldn't bring you around my friends and your fucking jealousy was literally tangible. Tangible in the bruises you'd leave only in places you knew no one would look.

So I don't owe you a goddamn thing. This letter will serve as all the closure I could possibly need. I don't need to go to coffee with you. I don't need to see you again. Because you don't deserve that. You don't deserve to have me in your life. You gave up that right the moment you laid a hand on me. The moment you spoke to me like that. The moment you used me. I'm sorry for myself that it took me so long to get you out of my life, but now that you are, that's exactly where you will stay.

Impromptu

While reading the lovely Amalthea's latest post (and first foray into sex blogging, huzzah!), I couldn't help but be reminded of the joys of impromptu sex. In fact, it's something I didn't realize I'd been missing until I was reading her words, feeling rather transported into her space. (Indicative of the quality of the story, dear.)

As of late, the sex I've been having has been in a sense planned. Not in the sense that my partner(s) and I know exactly what we're going to do or how long it's going to take - quite the opposite in many cases - but rather that sex occurs at very regular times in very regular places. Sex happens at the end of the day. It's the last thing to occur before I (and sometimes my partner, although that depends on the person and the situation) fall asleep. There's nothing wrong with this. Indeed, I'd be the last to complain about my sex life as of late. This summer was fabulous for many reasons, and the regularity and quality of sex I was having was absolutely a primary factor. I've only had sex once since leaving, and while that was thoroughly enjoyable as well, it was rather predictable, concluding a long night of bar hopping.

I miss the kind of sex Amalthea describes. Where you go into it, well, not thinking you're going into it. Just sitting on the couch with a partner, for example, when a simple kiss turns into something more. And then you lead them by hand into the bedroom, or maybe stay there on the couch. The afternoon sun streaming through the window and illuminating your bodies, clothes maybe strewn on the floor or maybe not even entirely removed. It's not selfish, not presumptious, not complicated, and entirely beautiful. Then maybe, like Amalthea, you end laughing as you both try to stand up, legs weak and wobbly. Then carry on with your day, still a little flushed but very happy to be alive and where you are with who you're with.

I can't remember the last time I had this kind of sex.

I think, in large part, this is the kind of sex that comes most easily to those in a significant-other kind of relationship. Where perhaps you live together, or spend time together outside the bedroom and at times other than the darkest hours of night. I'm sure this isn't restricted to couples, but I can't see a whole lot of other situations where this might be possible. I suppose it also requires some level of privacy, or self-sufficiently, as some (not all, I know) people wouldn't necessarily want to have sex in a living room shared with several roommates (then again, some certainly would, but that's a different entry and a different desire being filled).

I think the last time I did anything like this was probably when I was with my Ex. (Yes, with a capital E... the one I was with for five years.) I suppose the length of time and how comfortable we were with one another allowed this kind of encounter. And we were very young, still living with our parents, but we would often have our respective houses to ourselves. Hmm. And this is the first time I've thought about sex with him in a long, long time. It's a strange sensation. Because I don't remember details, or sensations. I know it happened, but all the details are fuzzy. My guess is that's a self-preservation mechanism. Or maybe those memories served their purpose and are now necessarily fading into obscurity.

This entry has taken a very different direction than I had thought it would. I suppose that happens sometimes. I'm not even sure it really has a point. I guess I'm just realizing that there are perhaps unintended consequences of this liberal, free-spirited sexuality I'm living right now, bucking monogamy and traditional relationships and what not. I'd be lying if I didn't say that my experiences thus far have occasionally left something to be desired - emotionally, at least. I don't think that something missing is unattainable from this setup I'm living presently, but I think it will take a good deal more work to find and secure. But so it goes, I suppose.

the music.

Music has always played a significant part in my life. Both my parents were singers (just in plays, choirs, that sort of thing), and I've grown up singing, although I never was able to really play an instrument. I preferred writing. But I've always appreciated it, and as I've gotten older and more technologically dependent, I now can't imagine a day without music. My iTunes library only boasts about 3500 songs, but I can assure you that I know every word to every one of those songs. Maybe that's why there's no room for other things like, oh, my times tables.

Anyways, on to the point... I've always equated sex with music. And vice-versa. I don't mean this in the I've-seen-too-much-porn-where-every-sex-act-is-accompanied-by-the-bowchikawowow kind of way, but more like I think making sex (I really don't like the term making love... it makes me uncomfortable. Let's not go into what that says about me) is a little like making music. I always prefer to have sex with music in the background. It's like our bodies, and the breathing, and the sound of skin on skin adds a whole new element to the music. And there are definitely certain songs I associate with certain people. Let's run over a list of those. (In no particular order.)

Dirty Little Secret - All-American Rejects (oddly enough, this song never made me feel bad about the brief affair that this was. It still makes me smile)

Konstantine - Something Corporate (Anyone who knows me even the tiniest knows the story behind this song. Needless to say, I don't listen to it much anymore.)

Ruthless - Something Corporate (I know I already have a song by the band on here, but I very distinctly remember listening to this when I was deciding to go to college, which, for me, was in many ways a choice on who I was going to be with. That relationship didn't work out, but this person is still completely pivotal in my life to the point that I couldn't function without them. There's a line here that says "Cause by now/I know you better than yourself/and I know what you really need/or I need/but either way/this is where we should be...") Also, anything by Lacuna Coil reminds me of this person... But that one's obvious.

Narcissus/Hands Clean - Alanis Morisette (This was a long time ago, but the words still ring so true. Ha.)

Fix You - Coldplay (and this one, the memories aren't so pleasant. I mostly remember this song being used as a guilt-trip. On an almost-daily basis.) Also, for this relationship... Poor Little Rich Boy - Regina Spektor. This one's self-explantory. Oh, and Face Down - Red Jumpsuit Apparatus. (Yeah, this was a BAD relationship. Any time I need this much music that's all this depressing to get me through the day, it's no bueno.)

Almost anything by Dispatch (which is funny, because this isn't the person who introduced me to the band, but I distinctly remember driving back from the mountains the first time we kissed and as I was falling asleep in the passenger seat, he put on Dispatch for me. We still text each other whenever we hear it.)

Of All the Gin Joints in all the World - Fall Out Boy ("You only hold me up like this/Cause you don't know who I really am." 'Nuf said.)

Mindless Self Indulgence (I've sworn off this band because the memories attached to it are too strong and it's an incredible trigger for me. This is the downside to being so in tune with music. I remember him putting this on loud enough to drown out my cries for help.)

Say Goodnight and Go - Imogen Heap (for a good friend who I was just friends with for a long time, and we never seem to have feelings for one another at the same time. It's kind of funny, actually.)

Tears and Rain - James Blunt (all of his music reminds me of my time in Seattle, but this song specifically reminds me of something that never happened while I was there. A missed opportunity, we'll call it. That might have been something good.)

How You Remind Me - Nickelback (for my first-ever boyfriend when I was 14. We used to sneak off to the library and as we'd cuddle, we'd listen to this on his laptop. I don't know where he is now.)

And this one is in chronological order...

Bowlegged and Starving - Jay Brannan (for my current situation. Again, it's something that seems like it should make me feel dirty, but everytime I hear it, I can't help but smile. The line, in particular, that says "I'm bowlegged and starving/but walking home happy/let this mark the moment/when I felt freedom ring" strikes a chord. No pun intended.)


Wow. That was an interesting trip down memory lane. And I know that makes it look like all I listen to is Emo, and that I just have generally terrible taste in music (with a few notable exceptions, thank you), but it's the lyric-heavy music I tend to connect with situations. It makes it easier to draw parallels after the experience is over and starting to fade from memory.

And all this leads into something I was actually going to write about in another post: my "number." The person I'm with now asked me about my number the other night. I didn't tell him. I jokingly asked him his, and he told me it was 6. Which I was actually surprised at - I'd expected it to be higher. I've had him up on a pedestal for so long that I assumed everyone sees him like I do and has been as eager to jump into bed with him as I was. Which, maybe they were. If that's the case, then I feel even more special. Heh. I'm going to go ahead and believe that.

BUT. the point is, my number is higher than that. Like, a lot higher. I'm not going to publish it here... partially because I'd need to go back over and update the list. But I think, now knowing his number, I'm glad he doesn't know mine. It does lead me to wonder, though, how much sex is too much sex?

Hmm. Channeling Carrie Bradshaw there. Sorry about that. It's the shoe collection calling my name from the closet. :) OK. I apologize for the absolute randomness of this post. But to wrap it up in the same fashion, and try and tie it all together... here's the first poem I've written in almost a year. So I'm a little rusty. So forgive me.

The silence isn't so oppressive
when I'm with you.
Usually bearing down on me
Too heavy to think
or feel or act
It starts to lift the moment
your lips touch mine.
And as your arms envelop me,
The silence vanishes
Replaced by something unspoken
And bigger than either of us.
The heat between us
begins to buzz.
As out breathing quickens
Creating a frenetic baseline.
Our bodies, slick and sticky with desire
Move against in unison
And I am so lucidly aware
of every sensation in my body
I realize I can't feel the silence.
Instead I listen to the the
rhythm of our breath
The melody of our bodies
And the harmony of the lust
Searing between us
As we go harder faster longer
We've created a symphony
And the music is tangible
A soundtrack to us
Our lives, our passion.
And as it builds to a crescendo
It gets louder
harder, faster, more urgent
Until it reaches that moment
When every instrument plays
In some massive
harmonious
dischord
Where no single note is discernible
So like our bodies.
And then
The music slows
And the silence quietly
Makes its way back into the air
But it's lost some of its power
And the weight it had
to crush me
Is infinitely lighter
Unable to compare
to the music we make together.




(yeah, I've never been a strong writer when I'm happy. So it goes.)

(un)Anniversary.

It was two years ago today. I'd forgotten. But there are certain rituals that take place the same time every year in the life of a student, and this pseudo-Spring cleaning is one of them. And while throwing out all the papers I'd spent too many hours writing and reading, I stumbled across it. The box. I'm not unusual for having it - at least that's what I tell myself. I think most people who spend a quarter of their life with someone have some mementos from the relationship. And as I was fingering the dog-eared pages of the notes I'd held where he professed his unending love, I was all too cruelly reminded that, exactly two years ago, it ended.
I tried to fight back the tears, but I couldn't keep myself from reading those letters, smiling just the faintest at his misspelling, but feeling the sting of remembering when I believed he meant the things he expressed in those notes. And everything he said.
And then there's the ring. Of course, it would be better if he'd had terrible taste. Unfortunately, he didn't:


Sapphire for his birthstone, diamonds because he knew I'd never owned them, white gold because he knew I never wore yellow. I watched myself slip the ring back on my finger, unable to stop myself.
And I read the note, still stained with tears from the first time I read it, where he writes "I would be a lucky man if I were all you needed." The irony is, by the time I was ready to admit he was, I was no longer all he needed. So it goes.

Worst of all, I feel silly that running across these things on a day like today, while my iTunes, which clearly has evil intentions, decides to play a song whose chorus is "she stole my future when she took you away," still upsets me. Not as much as it used to. I didn't do anything drastic. But I'd be lying if I said there were no tears. Shed not so much for the lost relationship, but in a way, mourning the person he used to be. The people we were together. None of those people exist anymore. Of course, the girl he loved once doesn't exist anymore, either... but I was so ready to try and continue being that girl that I was blindsided when he said he didn't love me anymore.

All this is just therapy - me working through something that I can't really explain to anyone because, well, in a way, my life now is a result of what happened between us. And it's not all bad. I have a good life. I am, for the most part, happy. So is he. But that doesn't mean I don't miss how happy I used to be with him. And I can't believe anything but that he was happy with me, too. At least for a while.
But, again, in the words of the illustrious Mr. Vonnegut: so it goes.

Happy Anniversary. And while I'm on the subject of nostalgia, here's a poem I wrote a month before the end.

He painted my canvas with
careless ease. His eyes
confined the blue that was drained
from my sky.

Painting the sunrise with
violet colors and tawdry reds
he had drawn up
from my body.

Then in winter with
glove-covered fingers he
tended to the trees, giving each
snow from my tears.

White-washed each season
this canvas which he
never could make flawless
beauty out of me.