strange musings of a distracted spunk

Every Saturday night of our senior year in college, one of my closest friends and I would get dressed up. Or at least she would. For me, it was a black top of some sort, with my tightest pair of jeans which weren’t very tight at all, and a pair of black boots that pushed me up to about 5′9. We would arrive before 10, so as to take advantage of the free entrance for girls, and while we would always find something to talk about, inevitably, she would attract attention and find a man (or three) to talk to. I never minded, because a few minutes later, an amaretto sour would come rolling down the pike, as I sipped on my straw and she chattered away. Having lived in Spain for the last year, she would get especially excited when she found a native Spanish speaker with whom she could practice the fluid rolling r’s of the language she loved.

The music would start, and we’d grab hands and make our way to the dance floor, regardless of how many people were dancing. If there was one thing we both knew how to do, it was dance. She moved her body with a spanish flair, the rhythm of the samba and flamenco rolling her hips to the music, a native Spaniard despite her New Jersey roots. As for me? It was always the beat pulsing, vibrating from my foot to my ears, making me part of the music rather than someone dancing to it. My body instinctively would reach out to the notes, the bass the unspoken language of its movement and it was on the dance floor we’d unleash our inner goddesses and let them follow our curves to the music.

It was no surprise that guys gravitated to us, when we were dancing so freely and without abandon. However, while she would dance with anyone because for her, it was about having a good time and dancing, for me, it was purely the movement that appealed to me. Guys would sidle up to me, their bodies pressed against my back, their hands on the lowest points of my hips, sliding down my thighs as they sought to tame the beat that resided within. Very few could move their bodies the way I needed them to for me to feel comfortable with them. There always needed to be a level of attraction for me to feel so close, so comfortable with them, and then they needed to quite simply, be able to move. Only a few guys were able to follow my body as it gyrated; most would rotate to the left while I veered off to the right, or their legs were uncomfortably close to mine, hindering my ability to dance freely, and I would always end up walking away.

I don’t mean to say she was loose or undiscerning, but I do mean to say that much like how I pick the men I dance with, I am also incredibly selective about those I date. For almost a year, I was a one-guy girl, a phenomenon so new and rare to me, it took me several months to acknowledge the fact I was in a relationship. It is rare to find a man who can keep my rhythm, one who won’t stumble a few beats into the music when the note pitches and my body shifts. As I can only dance alone for so long, I’ve made do with those who could dance along with me for a few notes, their feet tapping to the count of unh, unh, unh, yeah as we slid into a night of sloppy kisses or debonair tongues, bodies pressed against one another with hands in those most private of privates, a lick here and a lap there, but not to be repeated more than a few times. My standards for one-night stand type boys were considerably less than they were for the boys I’d date. A dash of nerdiness, a pint of intelligence, occasionally a measure of good wit and banter, and ideally, an appreciation for me. Alcohol sometimes smoothed these deals over.

But the ones that would stay with me, even beyond the messy breakups and tears, were the ones that could keep up with my dance, in every pitch and change of note. I may not be high-maintenance, but I am high-energy. To date me requires challenging me intellectually, mentally, emotionally, physically, and ways that I couldn’t possibly think of, simply put. My standards remain quite high, because so few people can successfully press their bodies to mine and make me want to stay connected through the vibrations of our fingertips and our mouths, or when the music slows down and there’s a brief respite to talk.

This last dance I had? Is probably the most exhausting one I’ve undertaken yet. So I’ve taken a small break, sipping on the wine of restoration, before tentatively making my way onto the floor again. It’s about time for a partner who won’t stay with me for more than a few beats, perhaps a single song, because while he may be able to keep my gyrations in tune with his for now, it can’t go much further. And for the nights he may spend in my bed, or leave small reminders of his presence in my life; a frisbee here, some nuts there, and finally, a shirt, it’s only for a few songs. Giving myself some time where I let it flow through me and into someone else, as we combine our bodies to create a new, shorter movement is just fine with me.

I know someday, the club will pitch, the lights will roll, and someone will slide up and as his hands reach down my waist, my hips, the fabric of my jeans will melt underneath his tips as we begin the new dance, one that will leave me breathless again, and in fervent movements that remind me of how good it can be when someone else knows the song.

Surprisingly, round two of the roommate hunt went much more smoothly than round one. Perhaps round one was sort of a decoy, as though I should feel as though Berkeley’s residents were hopeless? With the lovely help of my friend Skylar Blue from the old AmeriCorps days, we set on today’s mission of “Find DS a roommate!”

The first girl arrived a bit after two, which I didn’t mind as I was still reeling from the game-on atmosphere of the last few days. Yes, ladies and gents, I am back in business. GDB and his lovely body are a thing of the past because I have moved on, and quite officially too. Three times in one morning methinks qualifies as good moving on behavior. Though my vagina may be a bit stunned, because it forgot what that was like. Something along the lines of, *penis enters* “Um…what are you doing here? I’m busy doing my nails…and I have to wash my hair. I’m not ready for this yet. Can you come back another time?”

We’ll see how I fare tomorrow.

So anyhow, the first girl arrived and while I knew I liked her e-mail, I didn’t expect to like her as much as I did. She reminded me a great deal of my old roommate in Manhattan, and she also has a cat! (This is a big selling point, folks.) She was more quiet than outgoing, and she seemed as though she’d be super relaxed and easy to live with. Her e-mail said she’d be down for someone she could talk to, but not have to talk all the time. A bit more introverted, she seemed like someone I could easily get along with. There was also the fact that she had super cute style which reminded me of some of my friends and made me feel instantly comfortable. After some basic chit-chat, she went on her merry way, and I felt slightly resolved in the fact that heeyyyy! There might be some normal folk after all!

Not long after, the phone rings again, and it’s Sailor Boy. I took one look at him and knew there was no way in hell I could live with him without wanting to jump him. He was cute, smart, funny, and from the East Coast! Hallelujah! So we went through the usual rounds of questions and answers and viewing the apartment and Skylar Blue smirked because she caught the look on my face. He left, but not after we talked about how I’ve yet to visit Tahoe and Yosemite and wine country, and he offered to go with me if I ever wanted. I will say there was some slight flirtation. Very slight. I may have been out of the game for a while, but it seems my ability to casually flirt remains intact. Score!

I pondered what I could possibly say to him about why I’m turning him down. “Hi. You’re way too cute and I’d want to jump you all the time, so I can’t live with you, unless you want to do the jumping thing all the time too, but then it’d just be bad, so no. I can’t live with you.” Doctor Long Island suggested saying, “Hey, I don’t think we’d work out as roommates, but want to grab some coffee/dinner/boobs soon?” Admittedly, I have been a bit more forward about the male sex lately; just last night, I left my number for a guy I chatted with while volunteering at a comedy show and he facebooked me before I even got home. But methinks offering my boobs to Sailor Boy (as cute as he is) may have been a bit too forward. Just a bit. Though I have offered my boobs before in the past, before I knew the suave movements of romance and subtle sex. (This would be sarcasm. For the most part.)

Roommate option #3 showed up, with his father, which I thought was a sweet touch. He kicked ass in being awesome. Where were all these normal people on Monday? They should have been spaced out more, gah! We laughed a lot, but he was super extroverted, and I hadn’t decided if I wanted to live with a guy or a girl, an introvert, or an extrovert. He also complimented my shirt (which said “Break dance, not hearts!”) while wearing a spiffy shirt himself (”Way old school,” featuring a print of the original Nintendo console.) It was clear I’d get along with him big time, but I was a bit concerned that we’d end up hanging out all the time, since we were so on the same page.

Roommate option #4 showed up while #3 was finishing up, so Skylar Blue took over the tour. (I’m telling you, these people showed up like clockwork almost; it was a beautiful thing.) I think the hardest part of roommate hunting is being the one making the decision and feeling bad because some of these people are in dire situations. Option #4 had been mugged twice in his neighborhood (cause once wasn’t enough apparently), while his roommate liked to bring random men home. All the time. Strange men, wearing no socks and cooking in your kitchen: just a bit creepy. He was sweet, and easily someone I could live with, but I liked Cat Girl and Awesome Shirt Guy better.

Spectacularly, option #5 showed up and happened to be a Long Island girl. How I knew? I saw the 516 area code. Somehow, she got misdirected downtown, showed up with two friends, and before we even really started talking, she had redesigned the entire layout of the apartment. “Oh, you could put drywall up here, rather than have these doors here, and then it really would be two separate bedrooms, and also, I have a lot of furniture, and I think your room is too small, plus I do have my cat to consider, and oh, I love to cook, and I’m here with my friends but I don’t entertain, not often at least. The hebrew letter Chai on my foot? I think it means like…peace or something.”

1) No renovations necessary.
2) You showed up with two friends to apartment-hunt? Yet you don’t “entertain?” Yeah, okay.
3) Chai? Seriously? How the fuck are you jewish and never heard the expression “L’chaim?” I can’t even hear the fucking “ch” and yet I still know what it means.
4) Hell-to-the-fuck-no.

The last girl showed up, bearing a t-shirt labeled Chicago pizza, and while she was perfectly nice, Chicago is a place I’d like to leave behind for a bit, at least without daily reminders, which I’d have to see every single day. Again, she was nice, but I want someone who I felt super comfortable with. Also, if you wear cool shirts that make me laugh, or at least have a sense of style I envy, I will probably pick you. I am lame like this.

The hardest part of making decisions is knowing that you’re going to disappoint people. I mean…who wouldn’t want to have an apartment with skylights, clawfoot bathtub, a stove from the 1940’s (maybe even the 1920’s) and all these other kooky, quirky, charming things? So many individuals expressed interest, and I was legitimately shocked because I didn’t anticipate such a turnout from people, considering I live in a college town and would be renting for the summer months while tons of other apartments were available.

After much debating and back and forth, and arguing the merits of Cat Girl and Awesome Shirt Guy (introvert vs. extrovert? Guy vs. girl? Cat vs. no cat?), I called up Cat Girl and offered her the room. Pending a few paperwork and other details, I may now have a new roommate!

I was a bit disappointed that this round wasn’t as story-worthy as the other, but at the very least, Awesome Shirt Guy recognized it as a super cool social experiment. Also, methinks if I ever get bored of the boys I know, I’m just going to do a “room for rent!” ad on Craigslist and demand pictures or facebook accounts. Ta-da! Dating made easy.

Now if only I’d hear back from Sailor Boy…

Being the child of two teachers who were both active and easily bored meant it was unlikely that I would ever have a summer where I didn’t do anything. I’ve never known the lazy summers with vacations and playing in the front yard, running through sprinklers and riding bikes around. That’s what we did in the spring, in June, before school ended, before camp started. For eight years of my life, I was a camp baby. I attended sleepaway camp for free while my parents worked, as head counselors or the waterfront director, supervising squadrons of counselors who always seemed so much older than my innocent years.

I was precocious; there weren’t many redheaded campers with long wavy hair that knew your name and could speak intelligently with most others. Between my parents working there and being among the youngest campers to sleep in a bunk, there were few people who didn’t know who I was. It never occurred to me that the camp wasn’t mine; I walked around as though I owned it, the lacrosse field on the hill between the woods and the arts and craft cabin the ground of my childhood imprinted. The camp has since replaced a portion of the lacrosse field with a pool, and the arts and crafts cabin became a bunk, relocated to a newer building at the base of the hill.

It was that camp where I had my heart broken for the first time. I think we all go through a point in our lives where our childhood friends betray us, where the imaginary games and the shared stories and the hours of false competitions like ice skating and dancing in the space between all our beds become obsolete. Where we once made the rounds of bat mitzvahs, joining together on the stand to sing along and dance behind the DJ, forsworn in our vows to always be friends are memories that a certain song will recall but won’t be repeated. It’s been almost ten years since I’ve left my camp, after watching my bunkmates, some of whom I had shared summers with since the very beginning, slowly dissolve. We started at three, grew to seven, jumped to thirteen, before rounding out to a perfect ten. Ten girls, who only lived for the summer, to sing “Won’t you light my candle?” on the top of our lungs during rest hour, to take turns straightening each other’s hair before the big dance, to gossip about who kissed who behind the canteen.

The bonds of friendship shifted; each summer I found myself with a new bunkmate. After a while, I just stayed with the same one because I used up so little space, there was more room for all her clothes. Even back then I was low maintenance; I didn’t mind taking the last shower even though reveille had already started, for I knew I could be in and out, shampooed, conditioned, soaped, and dressed in under two minutes. To this day, I still have difficulty taking long showers after being so carefully cultivated at camp.

What I never expected though was to watch those friendships shift, from a web of ten girls who were all equally close, who lived and breathed camp and each other, to smaller groups, to the beginning of cliques which I had known but never fully experienced. What had once been a consistent group dynamic dissolved into smaller, more fragile microcosms of what had been. I had always marched to the beat of my own song, as equally happy to read a book on my own during rest hour as I was to socialize and play light as a feather, stiff as a board before lights out. My independence and precociousness garnered me friendships in the older girls, in the counselors who thought I was adorable, and in the younger girls who looked up to me because I would play with them for hours. I had no qualms about disappearing off to practice with the circus for hours, leaving the other girls behind to do whatever it was they were wont to do.

But then one day, the dynamics shifted. I saw six of the girls clinging to each other, pushing the other four of us out. I saw one spending time regularly with the bad girls; the ones you knew were doing things they shouldn’t, but you didn’t know what. It was the first time I had heard of laxatives, and the first summer where third base was regularly reached. I watched two grow more and more resentful of the other six, sticking to themselves and casting nasty glances. I watched all of it, but never participated, for even as a kid, I had enough drama going on at home to want to get involved with it socially. I figured we were a bunk, we would still come together when it came time to stand up and declare who we were and take over the camp as we always did, for we had been there the longest, children of camp employees, spoiled to oblivion. No matter what happened, we would always be there for one another, like we always had been for the last seven years.

It backfired. I came back to the cabin one day to see eight faces, streaming with tears, red in anger, huffy, disenchanted, used. I watched one of the girls, who was the newest addition to our group, who I shared a bunk space with look at me and say, “You’re not part of this.” Indeed, my group leader came out and told me I’d be best going somewhere else, as this was a bunk problem that they all needed to solve. I had just turned fourteen, had just left Brooklyn for good, and my bunk life was the only stable presence I still had. My parents were divorced, my lifestyle had changed, I had just left the only dance school I had ever known, and now I was being told I was no longer part of the group.

I count that day as the day I made my first adult decision, at fourteen. When I realized how damaged the bonds of friendship had become, how I had somehow been removed from the equation as though I were an unnecessary period after the sum had been added, I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t watch the people I had felt closest to, most stable with destroy my memories of a camp I had loved, that I can still breathe in the warm summer air, up in the mountains, the firecrackers over the lake on the fourth of July, the waterslide and the floating docks I got tossed off of, the ceramic chess sets I made for my grandfathers, the basketball curved under my fingers as I sent it to meet its netted hoop, the color wars I would never be Captain for, the boys I would never kiss behind the canteen, the counselor I would never become there, years of traditions at my fingertips. With only a week left before the end of the summer, before some of my favorite traditions of lazy Sunday and long days at the lake, the sunset that would render me immovable in my tracks as we made our way to the gym for evening activity, I left.

I don’t remember the drive home. I don’t remember if my father picked me up, or if I went home with my soon-to-be stepdad, or if I got a ride from someone else who was going down to Long Island where I would have probably stayed with my father for a few days. I don’t remember anything that happened after leaving the gym during color war sing practice and saying goodbye to tearful campers, who had impacted me so deeply, I knew I would never be the same. I heard their pleas to stay, but I was resolute in my decision. I don’t remember anything that happened between those last moments and starting high school, several weeks apart.

Years later, I still wonder. What would have happened had I stayed? Would I recall loving so deeply the air, the grounds, the sky, the mountains, the lake with its strange fish brushing my feet, the trapeze rough beneath my hands, the dining hall where the chef snuck me my favorite cornbread muffins, the girls who I loved and have now lost? Facebook tells me where they are, and I’ve even seen a few of them here and there. But after having been so deeply connected and torn apart of my own choosing, it’s strange to watch the bonds of my childhood exist where I no longer am.

A scent of barbecue in the air can easily bring me back to Tuesday night barbecues, where we sat in red chairs and chattered on and on about whatever it is young girls do.

There are no more red chairs. I just cling to hope that somewhere, my old bunks hold my name scrawled on the walls, tangled with the girls whom I shared my childhood with, commemorating something we’ve all moved beyond. Time is both immovable and fluid, but memories are not.

A field of memories, each contained in a single blade of grass would tell my story, of how I learned what friendship was, and when I made my first major decision to break ties. Of when my hearing aid surrendered to the pounding rainstorm that came without warning and left me with a waterlogged ear that would take three days to replace. Of the mornings we’d wake and find our counselors exchanged for one of the male counselors, delighting us and also slightly terrifying us because it was a boy! In our bunk!

Yet I still feel as though if I were to return, walking down the red dirt path down to the base of the hill, the same sunset would greet me, its colors softly nuzzling one another as it broke into the most unlikely shields of the rainbow, the blades of grass rising up to meet me, cushioning me with the memories of a life lived long ago.

Sometimes I wish I could wrap my friends in a protective layer of no-hurt zone. I know they would do the same for me, and I know many of them would rather swallow up the pain I’ve been doled out recently than me have to fend for myself, alone on this side of the country. If they could be here, they would. I don’t doubt that. When I become close with someone, and let those walls down, I love. And I love fiercely. I don’t want to see them upset, I don’t want to see them feeling helpless or lost.

I will admit that I get annoyed by depressed people. I require an ability to be lighthearted and fun, to laugh, but to also talk seriously, to discuss the deeper side of things. I understand that we can all get lost in a sea of emotion or depression; I’ve fallen prey to my own depression more often in this last year than I can count. I just have low tolerance for people who spend more time depressed and unwilling to do anything about it than I do for people who are depressed and know it, but will move towards resolving it. Contradictory, yes, but I spend so much time trying to be positive that negativity will too easily draw me down to the places where I don’t want to go again.

But the worst thing to experience is to know when a friend is hurting, and know there’s nothing you can do. You can offer to kill the guy, throw flaming bags of poo on his doorstep (Froggy, I’m looking at you here), send him evil vibes when there’s a difficult breakup. But when a friend is hurting because of another friend? That’s the worst. I’m afraid I’ve not enough eloquence for what I want to say here today, but the heart twines at the thought of a friend hurting because one of her closest friends is too wrapped up in herself to see what kind of damage she’s doing. How do we address those issues with someone who is so unwilling to acknowledge their self-destruction? I can’t imagine what it was like for my friends to be around me when I was nothing more than a zombie, puppet strings pulling me through the days with little else to go on. But I don’t think I ever asked for attention; I think I was more content to shrink into the walls (a difficult maneuver as the wall and I often collide rather than merge), and to watch others continue living their lives while I worked towards putting mine back together.

It’s no secret that I feel more deeply for my friends than many of my own family. My friends are the ones who know about my depression. About my relationships, about my day-to-day experiences out here. My family knows more of the, “Oh there’s that crazy girl again. What’s she up to now?” My friends will be the ones who stand beside me if I ever do decide to share my life with someone someday, because they know that I will always be there for them, even when it might be detrimental to me. The dangers of loving too fiercely I suppose.

I write this, not because of the hurt I’ve experienced in recent days; I’m moving on. I have another date tonight, where hopefully the blinders of GDB will be off, and I can see this new boy for who he is, and not who he isn’t. I’m looking forward to what comes ahead, though I have no idea what’s in store for me. But right now, one of my close friends is hurting. I can’t see her to know this, but she’s like me. She’s my pea in a pod because when we love someone, we only want them to be happy. When they’re sad, we seek out ways to cheer them up. She goes much further than I do, as I tend to lack compassion sometimes. She absorbs the instability and helplessness that her friends sink down into as they reach further into depression, and as much as I want her to be able to step away and be only for herself, that’s not fair of me to tell her that. She is who she is; she loves so deeply, so fiercely, that her friends’ problems become her own.

It’s about now that the bubble wrap later of no-hurt would suffice quite well. It’s difficult enough to want to make someone smile when there’s so much overwhelming her, but to do so from three thousand miles away is damn near impossible. If I could, I’d send her a plane ticket and tell her, “Just get on the plane, and I’ll take care of the rest.” Friends are the cornerstone upon which we build ourselves, for it’s their support that helps us grow as a person. Our family members play a role, but our friends are instrumental in shaping us. When you find someone who understands so deeply, loves so tremendously, and wants the sky and beyond for you, it’s difficult to not want the same and more for them. How do you console a friend when she watches another self-destruct? For that matter, what do you say to a friend who is hurting herself or himself, and how do you make it so they know you’re supporting them, but not their behavior? I’ve been searching for the answer to this question for several days now, so I could dispense it with wise words and a joke, so my pea in a pod would unshoulder some of the burden she’s held in wanting to help her friends. I can’t seem to find the words. Maybe someone you can.

It’s kind of funny when two of the more significant relationships you’ve had both tell you they’re starting their own blogs and ask for advice.

Both of them know I blog. One encouraged me to enter my writing in a contest his company ran, but refused to read it because he knew some of it was about him. He’s often held that he won’t read anything I write until I’m officially published. I think that was his way of not reading any of the short stories I wrote in college so he could focus more on programming. The other one stumbled upon my blog one day, and only told me about it after I wrote a rather favorable entry about him. It was a bit surprising at first, and I couldn’t decide if I was embarrassed or amused, but then I just decided that it was a part of my life from a long time ago, and we might have differing opinions on how things went down, but ultimately, we did have those shared memories. And obviously, we’re still fond of one another (though he might deign to disagree and instead call me a poppet or some other unwieldy word.) He also instructed that I note that he’s very alluring, sexy, and by all means hot. (His words, not mine.)

I got to thinking though, as I am wont to do, and realized that somehow, between September when I started blogging and now, I’ve sort of amassed a variety of blog friends. Of people that know my true identity and what I look like and more of my day-to-day activities than I reveal on here. Would that betray my call for anonymity to disclose my identity to so many? Thailand and I intend to do a double homecoming in August, at the end of a cross-country road trip, and there have already been offers of couches and floors throughout the country. But with so many people aware of who I am, do I stop becoming Distracted Spunk and start becoming (name?) I almost feel as though DS is a persona I wear, when I want to cull out the deeper thoughts, the unusual rationalities that purvey my mind, though I know in the context of my A.D.D. behavior, most people would have difficulty believing that (name) is also DS.

It was only a few weeks ago where I met someone new and he took one look at me and laughed, citing me as the most distracted person he had ever met. Yet somehow, I feel as though I find a center of focus through this blog, an ability to sit down and ruminate on just one thing and go from there, something I have difficulty doing in real life. I once explained in a job interview that the more stuff you give me to do, the more efficient I am.

And lookit that, I’m getting off track I think. Really, I guess what I was trying to say is that this blog provides an outlet I never realized I needed. What initially started as a practice in writing every day has become a chance to really dig deep, pull out the thoughts that have been swimming around beneath the aorta and underneath my muscles, and renew life into them with a breath of oxygen. When K first mentioned starting his blog, my immediate thought was, do I link to him? That might reveal my anonymity, and there are so many people who would be upset or feel betrayed or surprised by the existence of this blog, of the realization that as lighthearted and cheerful and friendly I may be on the surface, it goes much deeper.

I mentioned my perception of being fluffy to Jack of All Trades. It seems that if there was a word he would never use to describe me, it would be fluffy. I get that I require a brain, really, I do. But I didn’t think I was incapable of being so surface, but then again, I suppose I do hate superficiality. A walking contradiction to last the ages, I am.

Er. New track. Right. So really, I suppose that there’s a reason I started an anonymous blog. I knew inevitably I was going to write about my depression, about my parents’ relationship and animosity, about my sister (which I still can’t muster up the energy to write), about the friendships I’ve lost and the friendships I’ve gained, about the boys I adored and loved, and the boys who hurt me. I never expected this to become what it has, with so many readers whom I’ve grown to adore and look forward to reading each day.

But then I worry about revealing my anonymity. It truly is such a small world. I often wonder what if I’m reading an anonymous blog of someone who is involved with a man who belongs to another, and I’m encouraging her to get involved deeper, only to realize that that man belongs to someone I know. Or someone else I read. How often do our blogging lives cross paths with our real lives and we never know, because we shroud ourselves in anonymity? What if one of my family members found this blog? How unlikely is it that she would find a blog that links to another blog that links to another one that links to me? Would she confront me? Or would she just share it with other family members, until everything I’ve kept so carefully crafted under a wall of “I’m fine, how are you?” spills out like a vase of flowers shattered onto the floor, my protection discarded?

When I started writing, I chose anonymity because it seemed easier. No self-censorship. But it seems in a way, there always will be a sense of “What if?” because let’s face it. The world is a small place, and that includes the world wide web. Inevitably, the real world and blogging is going to collide. K has found me, my old boss has found me, it’s not unlikely that someone else will find me. I don’t mind sharing my blog with close friends, as they would already know much of these thoughts anyway, albeit much more scattered, but it would be strange to find that someone I don’t know as well has been reading my thoughts and learning more about me than I ever have of them.

Perhaps that’s why there’s a sense of safety in putting our lives out there for one another to read, because at the heart of it, we’re all sharing. What does it become when one is just reading, and not sharing? Does anonymity lose its place? Does the power of blogging weaken? I find I’m left with so many questions, and really, all my exes wanted to know was “How did you get started blogging?”

I found Waldo tonight.

Or rather, he found me.

He called to tell me he was downstairs, but when I opened the door, no one was there. I walked past the scaffolding of the restaurant they’re constructing next door, and saw a boy in a red and white striped shirt with glasses and restless hair walking towards me and waving. They always said he was where you never expected to find him.

Waldo had responded to an ad I put up on craigslist looking for a roommate, now that my roommate has announced he will be departing Berkeley at the end of April. At first I panicked; I only have another four and a half months left on this side of the country, what if I can’t find a roommate and have to move? Especially as it’s going to be summer and all the college students will be fleeing Berkeley in favor of warmer climes, summer jobs, and summer drinks. But after putting an ad up on Saturday afternoon and getting over twenty responses in one day, I felt assured that I could find someone. With the help of my cheerful friend Dan who is always up for a good time, we began the roommate hunt.

The first person to show up was a power lifter with a shaved head; he also had no neck. When I saw him standing outside my door, I almost jumped, and I’m pretty sure Dan did too. The roommate-wanna-be declared he ate lots of food, which would prove problematic for my smaller-than-normal refrigerator (which come to think of it, might actually be smaller than him.) After a few minutes, despite his troll-like stature, he turned out to be much nicer than we had expected. He works as a waiter by day and club bouncer by night, and noted that he was pretty low-key. A story about a guy who wore a puffy coat outside the club and traded it for a sports bra, leather chaps, a headband, and legs glued to a stripper pole as he gyrated and contorted beneath the club’s spotlight had Dan and I doubled over in laugher, and I said I’d be in touch.

When he left, Dan and I remarked on how much nicer he seemed, but neither of us could totally picture me living with a power lifter. Incidentally, I’d be a bit afraid to live with someone who could easily compete against Superman, and as there are french doors with no locks that connect the two bedrooms together, it could be a bit sketchy. On to roommate number two!

Waldo found me. Or I found Waldo. Waldo also has no personality. He just nods and smiles and whispers (I guess they forgot to give him a voice in the books), and only moments after I found him, he disappeared again. Perhaps I’ll see him again someday at the West County Fair, behind the hogs pen. Perhaps not.

Once again, Dan and I sat around, playing with my new camera that I just got tonight, taking pictures, and more. I warned him that the next prospect was supposedly a model, and that there would be no ogling allowed.

There was ogling all right. Just not of the “Holy crap she’s hot” kind. See, the elf princess somehow made her way across multiple lands, having suffered at the hands of multiple fates and been a second mother to her kin after some tragic story. She looked up at me, with her wide blue green eyes and her slightly larger than normal ears and said, “Ask me anything. I’m blunt.” Yet she volunteered no information, asked no questions, and bowed down to me upon her departure. A nervous tic joined her (perhaps it was an invisible creature I could not see, warning her of unspeakable dangers? Such as those of a deaf redhead?) and her blond hair billowed down to her waist. The multiple piercings only belied the innocence of her eyes and left me utterly befuddled. As she left, Dan turned to me and started laughing again.

“I think the weight lifter is the best one we’ve seen so far tonight.”

The guy who was supposed to arrive at 6:00 called just then and asked if he could come by at eight. Dan and I said sure, and went off on our merry way for pizza and some beer. A half hour later, I was thoroughly tipsy on half a glass of beer and neither of us could stop laughing long enough to carry a coherent conversation. We marveled at my sudden inability to hold my liquor, made fun of my penchant for nerds, and disturbed the table next to us. All in all, a good time.

I somehow managed to sober up a tiny bit in time for the last prospect to show up. I might have encoded a fairy-tale spell in my ad, because the guy who showed up had red eyelids, as though he had just gotten his eyes dusted with deep red eyeshadow. Vampire, much? It seems only slightly suspicious that he asked to swing by after the sun had set. He spoke with an accent, at which point Dan took over translating, and I’m not entirely sure what he said other than he liked the size of the room, it’s much bigger than most apartments in downtown Berkeley, and also, he has a cat. It somehow was related that he wanted the bigger room, “For my furniture,” he said. A coffin? A place to commit unspeakable acts against humanity? He had perfect white teeth too. A bit unnerving, to say the least. Moments later, he left, and I was back to square one.

“Do you know anyone who knows anyone who’s looking for a place? You might be better off that way,” Dan suggested. “There’s a lot of weirdoes in Berkeley.”

I looked at him and started laughing. It seems the biggest success of the night was capturing a picture of me during my tipsy phase; a rare moment indeed. Roommate hunt, part two, coming to a blog near you soon!

I’ve never been on this side before.

Of having to say goodbye, forever, intentionally, a text message the last communication we’ll ever share. Usually I was on the receiving end, rather than the delivering.

There was a time where I thought he was my present, my future. Now I know he’s only my past.

I couldn’t wait for him to contact me again, not after the last time we talked so many truths unfolded, of betrayal, deception, lies, replacement, ultimatums, and more. How do you stay friends with someone who hurt you worse than the boy who once sent you a message saying, “We are not friends anymore?” I knew that it would eat at me, knowing that even though he knew I was unhappy with him, and didn’t trust him, he would still contact me, wanting us to be able to talk, wearing me like a trinket on the necklace of ex-girlfriends turned friends.

I told him where he had once complained my wall was too high for him, he knocked it down, and managed to hurt me so deeply in the process that I didn’t think I could ever trust him again. He said he understood that. But he doesn’t, not truly. Waving contradictory statements like a flag, it became clear to me that he decided at one point that he wasn’t good enough for me. And in the process, he became not good enough for me. Yet he still wanted me, and to some degree, I imagine he still does.

But when one is reduced to “super-intellectual with a great pair of tits?” Or made to feel like almost a year’s worth of relationship was a farce? I know that he cared for me on some level. Just not enough. And I deserve more than that, much more than that. There were a few days of seething fury, of requiring Tylenol PM and hours of television to drown out my churning thoughts. Finally there were days of blankness, knowing that the fury was subsiding, but fearing the day he contacts me again. Because I can’t fall back into it, especially with someone who won’t ever understand the degree of hurt he doled out. He does seem to realize that he is on the side of hurt, rather than hurting, but not to what extent.

For when I finally told him I couldn’t be friends with him anymore, he said, “A bit extreme, but okay. I’ll respect that. Consider this the last time you’ll ever hear from me.” A wave of relief washed over me, knowing that i had made the right decision, that he still didn’t get it, that I would just be the girl he loved (maybe?) for a year, but a thing of the past. I felt more sorrow for the fact that we couldn’t make it work as friends, that he didn’t respect me enough to give me the ending I deserved than I did for the loss of our relationship. I’ve placed a barrier there now, making our relationship a thing of separate memories rather than shared. And as painful as it is to know that I had to do that, I still know it was the right thing.

Because now I can move forward. The last chain has been broken, the last bond severed, the last form of communication destroyed. Where once was only happy memories and smiles are just apathy and anger. I know there will be days where I think of him fondly. Just like I know there are days where I recall memories from my time with D, or K. Conversely, I know I won’t ever forget what they had done to me, though the anger may have turned to disinterest. Someday, he will become that too. Relationships can change. I accept that there may come a day where he reaches out or I reach out, curiosity more than care. I don’t know how my exes grew to be my friends, but they did. I wish I could say never, but I can’t, because if nothing else, life changes constantly around me and I never seem to get a say in how it goes.

I keep finding scratches in the most unlikely places, as though I’ve been taking out my anger at him on me in my sleep. I’ve enough emotional scars and I don’t want more physical ones, not from this. I’m hoping by delivering this final message, on my terms, for my needs, the scarring will fade, the anger will dissolve, and my life will go on. I never thought I would say without him, having been committed to him longer than I’ve committed to anyone else in the past. But it is just me again. And I’m ready to see what else is out there, what else I might find that he would never have given me. Because it truly is time to move on.

She sat in the plastic waiting room on a Saturday morning, wondering about the heartbeat in her stomach. Did it have a heart yet? Or was it too early?

It was only a week ago that she had started feeling different. That her breasts had begun to feel tender. Aching. Big, when they had never been big. She had called out of work twice this week, unable to tolerate the thought of serving people food without wanting to throw up. As it was, she had dropped pounds overnight. Her already too-big clothes felt even bigger.

At dinner on Thursday night she pushed away the steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup, her stomach doing a strange loop de loop. When she excused herself from dinner, her mother looked at her strangely, unsteady, wondering.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” her mother asked.

“Nah,” she said. “There’s just a stomach bug going around school.”

She had known by Tuesday afternoon what was wrong with her. Forty minutes of driving to guarantee her anonymity. Seven and a half minutes at an unknown pharmacy, searching for the right test. Pink, blue, she just wanted one that would say yes or no without any addition or subtraction necessary.

Her backpack slung over her shoulder, she slipped into the bathroom of the fast food chain next door and unearthed the slim package out from under her AP books. Her homework planner showed a missed tutoring meeting and dance practice later; a graphing calculator determined where x met y; a bunch of delicately folded notes from her friends worn from multiple readings; and four pens; two blue, one green, and one black. Her bag laid down, the package open, she peed and she waited.

It was not an easy feat to get out of the house on that clear, sunny Saturday morning. Her mother demanded to know where she was going. She pleaded; begged her mother to just let her go. Her mother railed against her and finally said what neither of them wanted to acknowledge. They departed in tears, her mother to the master bedroom, and she to her boyfriend’s car.

It never occurred to her that it would be so close – but time may have been disguised by her overworked mind. She expected to see picketers when they pulled up – almost wanted to in the absence of faith. Instead, she only saw the gray cinderblock, simple and deceptive in its manner. Once inside, it was just like a regular doctor’s office, but with nervous boyfriends, husbands, and an occasional mother in the awkward room. They were all there for the same reason, but no one said why.

She saw girls, tears streaming down their faces, and looked away.

Finally, her name was called, after an hour of waiting. She felt her boyfriend turn to her, but her path was beyond a gray door, to back rooms of unspoken wonders. To a room where she pulled up her shirt and shivered at the cold jelly on her stomach. The sonogram told her six weeks, too early to know the sex, too soon to feel guilt. It can’t be real if it doesn’t have a gender.

She thought back to six weeks ago, to when she lied to her parents and told them she was sleeping over her best friend’s house. She had anticipated a night full of candlelight, rose petals, love lasting ever after. But really? She only wanted to know what it was like to spend the night in her boyfriend’s arms.

Another room demanded a three hundred and sixty dollar fee to be a seventeen-year old girl again. The price is always higher to become a statistic. Her feet tapped a nervous song as she counted out the cash, grateful she worked for tips.

Once more into another waiting room, this time with only women, who sat in cheap cloth robes hiding what no one wanted. High school girls, crack hos, college co-eds, mothers who said they just couldn’t have another one. One girl said it was her fifth. They chatted about the beautiful weather and their boyfriends and their children while pretending they weren’t silently judging one another. “How did you all get here?” she wondered.

It would be just this once – just to allow her to graduate from high school, follow her deposit to college, live a normal life. When the women became silent, she watched the television in the room, half following Oprah’s conversation, half watching the words float off the screen like bubbles over her head. “When will it be over?” she asked a missing god. The waiting was the worst part.

Her name was called. Finally. Finally.

She jumped up and walked to the side room where a nurse waited, relieved that she no longer had to wait. She sat on the examining table, her feet in cold stirrups, the general anesthesia working its way through her system, the doctor asking, “What’s a nice girl like you doing here?”

She watched herself shrug and smile sheepishly, no longer in her body, floating away on clouds, away from the doctor’s white-gloved hands and sympathetic looks, away to a place where bliss truly was ignorant, aware that this wasn’t the moment she lost her childhood, but the moment when she most certainly said goodbye.

If I were a color, I’d be somewhere between citrus orange and magenta red, puffs of anger enhancing my pigmentation.

If I were a word, I’d be rivers of profanity, starting with fuck fuck fuck, fuck you you fucking motherfucker, and I never curse.

If I were a fruit, I’d be a bruised peach, from the imprints of you on me and the hardness beginning to jade my core.

If I were a grammatical mark, I’d be a comma, for all the run-on sentences due your way; question marks are unnecessary when the answers are pointless.

If I were a car, I’d be leaking fuel near the ignition, a flash yet incendiary, just a blaze still simmering under the hood.

If you were a color, you’d be putrid green, muddled and confused, wanting to jump out when you’re better off mixed in with vomit.

If you were a word, you’d connote the essence of dumbed down intelligence, a fine “huh?” to you too.

If you were a fruit, you’d be a watermelon, indecisive in your patterns, swollen with water and little else in the name of substance.

If you were a grammatical mark, you’d be an ellipses for all the things you assume without digging deeper to find, deceptiveness the key to your reality.

If you were a car, you’d be the runaway offender, uninsured and unready to play the game of truth.

There’s something weirdly romantic about deja vu dreaming. You know, the kind that keeps you stringing along no matter how many times you disrupt the dream by waking. As though your subconscious has a story to tell but it’s not finished when your body says it is. The arm can stretch, the blankets can curl, the limbs can untangle, but once those eyes shut, the dream returns to finish itself into completion. A black and tan dog leaps into my arms, happily licking and yapping, his name Clancy and in complete and utter adoration of me. A gleaming white house, with candles along the multi-storied backyard deck, several swimming pools and a hammock the site of my contentment. A search for the perfect home for a family looking to move, more wealthy than my own, but still warm and caring. A fight with my sister in the apartment above the store where I applied for a job, as though all the years we’ve been living apart have become reduced to fighting for the front seat of mom’s car once more. And still, each time I wake, the arm reaches out, the mind wonders where the alarm clock went, if I’m late for work, why isn’t it vibrating under my head? Is it too soon for the sun to rise? Or is it just a cloudy and rainy day, antagonistic to the weather man’s forecast? A moment’s worth of casting around for a sense of time yields itself back into slumber, the arm now sliding down back under my cheek as I settle in for another round with the same dream.

It was also the worst night of sleep I’ve had since the days of hyposomnia, which ended about a year ago. I don’t miss those days, of taking Tylenol PM and waking up six hours earlier than it promised me I would on the directions, leaving me to watch infomercials and Nick-at-Nite into the wee early hours (back when it still played shows from the seventies and early eighties rather than the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and Home Improvement.) But lately, I’m finding it more and more difficult to fall asleep, depression beginning to take hold of me like a young batter who forgets to let go of the bat after he swings. Granted, right now is a particularly stressful time, where I’m in search of a second job, a new roommate and/or a new apartment, trying to make plans for the return home in the fall, make plans for travel arrangements in the spring, get used to a life that sometimes feels foreign to me with such a big element of it missing and no longer there for easy comfort. I can analyze each and every segment of my dream, broken up into parts, but I already know it immediately translates to what’s going on in my conscious life. Sometimes I wish my brain would give it a rest, constantly churning and turning and thinking of all the things that need to be done, even when all I want to do is draw my arms and legs close together, curl up on my side, and sleep peacefully through the night.

I’m hoping that it doesn’t come to Tylenol PM. That my therapy sessions ended last July, and will remain on the east coast with a counselor who is no longer there, having left to finish her degree. I should be able to deal with all of this on my own; I’m surprised at how hard all of this is hitting me, but at least I know I’m dealing with it, unlike I did a year ago. My sister sent me a text message a few days ago, asking if I’d read the new Shopaholic book. I said, “Yes, why?” “There’s a character named Jess who when you ask her how she is, she says “Good,” and nothing else. It made me and mom think of you.” I don’t want to be such a monochromatic person; I wish I knew how to better explain that there are so many layers to me that if I were to unwrap myself for their viewing, they’d be overwhelmed with everything they saw.

Sometimes, I think if I did write a book, how shocked my family would be to realize how much I’ve done, how much I’ve learned, how much I’ve experienced, where I’ve been and where I won’t go, my thoughts, my concerns, all the things they assume are there but locked under layers of “Fine.” I think my subconscious must be screaming, clamoring for attention from others because it’s so attention starved from all the years that I’ve ignored it that there will always be a constant battle of it trying to break free, even though I am only now just learning how to nourish it and feed it and take care of it so I don’t become a shell of a girl, the same shell I was more than a year ago. I don’t want to go there again. But I feel myself slowly slipping away, sleep evading me like it did once upon a time ago, the blank radiation of seen but not heard television shows more a source of comfort than myself to my undernourished subconscious.