strange musings of a distracted spunk

At the elephant seal rookery today, I watched these huge animals throw sand at one another, scratch themselves (I didn’t know they could scratch themselves!), and basically lie in the sun. With close to four thousand pounds on their bulk, I was more than impressed at how they slithered across the sand, though it must be noted that four thousand pounds is not remotely a burden when an elephant seal is feeling aggressive.

I listened to them chirping at one another, and laughed out loud at how strange it was to be standing along side the coast and just watching them scratch themselves like contented, lazy slobs.

I came across a sign that said, “Keep a safe distance away; elephant seals can be extremely aggressive and are protected by the Marine Mammal Act. If a seal makes eye contact with you, you’re probably too close.”I nodded my head, wondering how one handles themselves in the case of an elephant seal attack. I don’t know how fast they can move, but I don’t think I’d be much of a match for their two-tonnage. What would I even do if an elephant seal attacked? I envisioned a scene of me yelling, “RUUUUNNNNN!” at all the other visitors, as elephant seals rose up from their glazed stupor, chirping angrily because I dared to accidentally cross the path of an elephant seal.

Not a moment later, I was standing at the far end of the observatory spot, watching pups roll over and closer to what I could only presume was their mother. Sand flew in the air, and they continued chirping. I laughed out loud, softly, when one of the elephant seals looked straight up at me and made eye contact.

I fled back to my rental car.

(Legit writing tomorrow when I’m coherent. Californication was five days long, and extremely well worth it, but there’s only so much water hitting rock that you can ahh and ooh at!)

Several things occurred to me as I was driving on the Pacific Coast Highway (day four of impulsive Californication trip.)

One: It’s really difficult to take pictures and drive simultaneously. I laughed at the irony of almost swerving into another lane because the view was just so damn beautiful and seeing a sign right after that encouraging people to report drunk drivers, which I most assuredly looked like after my slight distraction.

Two: Sometimes, there are scenes that need to be immediately written down or noted or else I’ll lose it. Yesterday, the train went through the backyards of people’s lives and though I only caught the briefest glimpse of a marital distress scene, it was so immediately clear what was going on, no words needed to be heard for me to understand there was a fight. I would drive through valleys of purple and green flowers, rocks climbing out of hillsides as though they were only just waking up from thousands of years of hibernation, and watch the wind dance through grass as though there were a symphony being played by nature and the plants couldn’t stand still any longer. I watched waves crash onto rocks that jutted out from the ocean shore, birds slipping their heads underwater to grab lunch, water streaming down from all angles. I worried that I would forget those memories, because they were so transient; how could I possibly remember all the stories that unfolded today and hope to remember them by the time I had access to a pen and paper?

Three: I want to go kite boarding. Holy crap, was that the most awesome thing I’ve ever seen.

Four: Driving off onto side roads or vista points makes me happy. I pulled off Route 1 to take Moonstone Beach Drive, and sat maybe ten feet away from the water crashing down below me. I ate the rest of my pizza from lunch, and listened to the sound. I stepped out of my car momentarily to take a few pictures. There were seagulls and squirrels, frolicking on the sand. Seriously. Frolicking. I went to take a picture of myself (ah, how I love self-portrait mode), when all of a sudden, one of the squirrels started running towards me. The camera went off just as I looked down and jumped. Attack squirrels? What?

Five: I saw my first drive-in movie theater today. It was yellowed with age, and the field had grown over with weeds. I can’t help but wonder what it must have looked like in its glory. I’ve always wanted to go to a drive-in movie.

Six: There’s a Santa Claus Lane in CA. I was tempted to drive down it, but decided not to, because I had no idea where I’d end up. But I couldn’t help wondering if Santa Claus secretly retires to sunny California when his North Pole tour ends.

Seven: As I watched the water crash against the rocks, I wondered about the passage of time. A rock seems so still, so staunch, but does it not slowly eradicate with years of water pushing against it? The sound water makes as it hits the rocks is almost ear-splitting if you listen closely enough. Who takes the beating? Is it the water that reverberates through sand and wave, circling concentrically further out from the shore, licking its wounds as it regroups? Or is it the rock, who stands strong but loses part of its body every time, crumbling into pebbles, stone, and sand? Am I the rock and GDB the water? Or is it the other way around?

Eight: Pismo Beach is overrated. And makes me look like Medusa.

Nine: I like deciding to jump off the highway at random points because I see a sign that appeals to me. I never know where I’ll end up, but dude. I’ve got some frigging awesome pictures.

Ten: What is it with traveling girls’ teams and me? My flight on Saturday held the entire UCSD softball team. Tonight, I’m staying in a hostel with the Grassmont or something College’s girl’s tennis team. It seems I easily attract college juniors and traveling female sports teams. How this is helpful, I do not know.

Ten, a: I love that my hostel just gave me free dinner and will give me free breakfast tomorrow. *dances*

Eleven: There’s a town called Harmony. Population: 18. It’s awesome. (I detoured here.)

Twelve: William Randolph Hearst had a polar bear at his house. The man had far too much money than he knew what to do with. But damn do I want his swimming pool(s).

I’m enjoying this adventure.

Lost:

-Sunglasses

-Hair tie (after multiple instances of losing and finding it throughout the day.) Edit: Literally a minute after I hit publish, I grabbed my laundry out of my aunt’s dryer and my hair tie fell out. This is a magnificent hair tie.

 Found:

-Yellow shorted boy pulling down his pants for a full moon as my train passed by.

-One junior college boy who was very cute and friendly. (Do I look 20 or younger? I always get hit on by juniors in college on trains.)

-One belligerent alcoholic in the seat across from mine.

 Misplaced:

-Green jacket that I adore (in Avocado’s closet.)

-Cell phone charger (on Avocado’s floor.)

 Bought:

-Car cell phone charger. Might not be the best idea to get completely lost and have no phone nearby.

-Ipod charger that plays over the stereo.

-Super cute bathing suit. For the first time in almost ten years of friendship, Avocado and I actually bought the same one. The advantage to this is our days at the Jersey shore are over, so the chance of us wearing the same bathing suit out is slim to none. In the past, we often worried about wearing the same bag or accessories out, since this is more typical of our styles.

-Super cute rolling duffel bag that should fit all my clothes for Seattle, Vancouver, and Thailand. (I am so not looking forward to packing for this one.) On the bright side, it’s so colorful, it’ll be easy to spot in the baggage claim!

 Contemplating:

-Tickets to Vegas this weekend with my twin? We already agreed no getting married, unless it’s by Elvis.

-Why my boss called and said, “People have been asking where you’ve disappeared off to. What should I say to them?” I’m thinking, “Um…you fired me?” is probably not the best response.

-If leaving at 7:30 a.m. to drive on the Pacific Coast Highway is too early, when I’m slightly exhausted and should be in bed by now.

-Can I maybe take the Pacific Surfliner again, and all the way up to San Luis Obispo next time?

-Where my brain went that I’ve somehow become the most disorganized traveler. At this rate, I’ll have packages coming from multiple parts of the world and I wouldn’t even know what address to send it to!

-When to move back to my parents’ and for how long.

-Does my dressing as Carmen Sandiego for Halloween count as foreshadowing?

With time to kill as I waited for flight VX 866 to board, I reached out for the closest book to me. A green plastic cover with spiraled binding, pages tabbed by the week, it’s gone slightly by the wayside over the last few months. It’s funny how not having homework assignments or group projects suddenly make a planner obsolete.

I flipped back to the beginning pages, which started in August. Detailed in my planner were just small words: Toronto. Wedding. Newark-Dallas-Oakland. The end of my life in New York, the beginning of my life in California. I didn’t need details to bring me back to my first time in the Dallas-Fort Worth airport, where I saw a machine composed solely of proactiv. Or the week I spent frantically looking for apartments in the beginning of my sojourn in the Bay Area, each apartment that I saw standing out in my mind in such exquisite detail, I wonder what knowledge gets pushed out of my head for the remembrance of the crown molding in that small apartment on Grant Street.

Each page recalled another memory, another moment. There was the time GDB said, “You’re my girl, DS,” and the elation I felt knowing it was just us, transcribed in my planner for anyone to see with just, “You’re my girl,” and a smily face. There was the day I chose to leave my AmeriCorps position, for good, a mixture of sadness, disappointment, frustration. The words “Left AmeriCorps” seem insignificant, but somehow managed to recall in me the same feelings I had the day I made my decision to officially quit. Even words that recall a weekend event somehow brings up memories that would have been left slighted had I not brushed past a word or two that jumped me backwards in time and back into the snippets of my mind. It’s a bit like Dumbledore’s pensieve, letters on a page that grasp you behind your navel and pull you right back into a memory.

I read through the simple journal of my year, filling in blanks where they were needed, smiling here, sighing there, nodding with the knowledge of how it has all thus transpired, a sage in my ignorance. When I looked up, it was almost time to board.

A few hours later, with slight mishaps at the airport (would there ever be anything else with my favorite, but slightly un-timely Avocado), it came up in our car ride back to her apartment in San Diego. We discussed briefly the happenings of the past week, shaped in the scope of the last year, and I explained to her my recent revelation. She immediately understood exactly what I meant; her planner is slightly more fancy than mine, and involves different colored markers for different aspects of her life, but it still captures her life in mere words. “It’s so strange sometimes to go through my old planners and remember exactly what happened on that day, regardless of how many years ago it was,” she said.

I looked back in my planner, to see if I had documented this past week and this coming week. Apparently, I had the forethought to write, “Fired!” on April 23rd, a day that sent my entire world in a tailspin as I knew it, when it was already majorly out of orbit. I also had the foresight to write exactly where I would be this week, a bit helter skelter at best. When I woke up on Friday morning, I didn’t exactly know what I was doing this weekend. Friday afternoon, I had a ticket booked one-way to San Diego. Friday night, I had a rental car booked, a hostel booked, and tickets for a train, and a few sites to visit, with a preliminary map made of the Pacific Coast Highway.

Nervous? Yes. Slightly terrified that something’s going to happen and I’m going to disappear in the middle of Big Sur? Just a bit. But somehow, having confirmation numbers, flight numbers, times, and more reassure me about not knowing where I’m going in a month. I still haven’t figured out how or when I’m getting back to my parents’ house in Central Jersey, soon to become a devotee to the sun and surf of the Jersey shore. I figure, as long as I know what time to get on the Pacific Surfliner tomorrow afternoon, the rest will happen. I’ll fill in the blank pages of June, July, and August slowly but surely, something to look back on when I do my spring cleaning to find smily faces, stars, small notes to myself from the past, and the incredible understanding of knowing that I made this all happen.

Yeah. Life sucks, sometimes. I think I can clearly attest to that. But more importantly, what are you going to do about it? I got the ball started rolling. I’m more than curious to see where it goes.

Dad: I want names, addresses, and phone numbers of every place you’re staying.

Me: Okay. Thailand says his address is Beach Hut #2, Apartment #3.

Dad: Beach….Hut….Was that number two you said?

Me: Dad. It was a joke.

Dad: Oh. That was funny. You know, women disappear and go into sexual slavery all the time in Thailand.

Me: …Oh god.

A year ago, if you had told me I would someday live in California, I would have laughed at you. A year ago, GDB and I were still circling each other, looking for the chinks in each other’s armor where we could slip through to endeavor forward on the march of relationship being. A year ago, I had a job where I read all day, and then went to class, and while class was getting on my nerves, I loved my job. A year ago seems like a mighty long time ago.

It seems funny to me that the last few weeks have found me struggling with different things. Rebound Boy. Student loans. GDB’s reappearance and subsequent announcements. My asshat of a roommate. Missing my social life from home. Wondering if I was still funny if I never laughed anymore on this coast. Figuring out what I need to do to make school work in the fall. Working overtime and stressing that this wasn’t a job I could do forever. What did I want to do? Declarations of love. Declarations of apathy. I’ve been bending every which way I can, and yet the hits still keep coming.

I taunted fate last night. “What else can you possibly do?”

Apparently, fate always has the last laugh.

I left my office this morning at 9:30. After arriving at 8:30. In that short hour, I managed to send out a few e-mails, schedule a few meetings, and get fired.

You would think I would have better been able to control myself. But there’s only so many times you can hear, “We’re not sure if this is the right fit.” I heard it once before, with AmeriCorps when they couldn’t decide if they wanted me to do more or less, and when I tried to do what they wanted, I failed anyway. I heard it again today, when they said, “You’re fantastic and we love having you, and you’re great at all the things we didn’t hire you for, but you’re not so good when it comes to the things we did.” Meaning, I suck at copying, filing, calendaring, and other basic administrative responsibilities.

I almost laughed. Am I being fired because I have a brain and prefer using it? Maybe it’s because the one day I called out sick last week after working overtime multiple weeks in a row, they panicked and thought I didn’t order their lunches. Am I being fired over lunches? This is almost absurd.

Yet tears still clogged up in my eyes and no matter how I tried to hide them, the red around my now turquoise colored irises gave them away. I was offered tissues. I was asked, “Do you want to talk about anything?”

Is there ever anything to talk about when you get fired?

I left, after it was disclosed that I could stay home for the next two weeks and they would still pay me anyway, until May 7th. I went home. I called my parents. The first time I’ve ever been fired.

On one hand, this solves the whole roommate asshat problem.

On the other hand, what am I going to do between now and school in September?

I cried. I texted my closest friends and e-mailed the ones who could maybe show me some hope. I realized, I now have four months of nothing to kill. So I thought about it.

What if I go to Thailand? And visit my best friend who has been living there for almost a year now? (And try to convince Lisa to get her passport and meet me there?) What if I do the famed drive down the California coast line, scarf blowing and wind in my hair? What if I stay with Avocado a few days in San Diego? And visit friends in L.A.? What if I extend my trip to Seattle to include Vancouver and spend more time with Princess Pointful? What if I drive back across the country in someone else’s car, just driving to see the lands and not necessarily even the sights? I learned in Arizona that I can happily gaze at a cacti-grown landscape for an hour without a single comment, admiring the beauty of such a stark land. What if I make this the road trip I’ve always wanted to take, my laptop my only companion and my thoughts centered on the scattered white lines of the road below?

Suddenly, the paycheck seemed insignificant. My passport flaunted its empty pages, with lands I’ve always wanted to but never have been. It still stings to know I couldn’t make it work here, after everything I’ve somehow endured. But somehow, having this physical escape from the shackles of this life that I constructed here suddenly makes all the difference in the world. Calmly, rationally, I posted all my furniture on Craigslist. I put together my list of things to do before I move. I made some tentative plans for the summer, feeling my way towards some form of income.

It’s not about California or bust anymore. Admittedly, I am hesitant to try my hand in a new city, but I am reluctant to make New York my safety. She should never be anyone’s safety.

In the gears of the landing wheels of a plane, the churning of a bus’s wheels, the quiet rev of a car’s engine, I don’t expect to find any of the answers I’ve been looking for. I know things are going to remain unsteady for a long time, wish as I may it weren’t. But I will find adventure, words on lined notebook paper inspired by my journeys, temporary escape from the things that have weighed heavily on my mind, dancing wind chimes upon a Pacific breeze.

I may not be leaving for a few more weeks, California, but you showed your teeth. And somehow? I know no matter what happens, I’ll land on my feet. Slightly worse for the wear, perhaps a bit battered and bruised from all the curveballs I’ve been hit with since moving here, I’m looking forward to leaving you behind. My story is meant to continue somewhere else.

What is it they say, go big or go home

I went big. I’m going home.

I may make a road trip out of it if anyone wants to offer their couches or floors, I may just do a blog-cross-country experience.

One Month Ago

As I walk back to my room, finally relaxed from a long soak in the clawfoot tub after all the latest battery and assault my heart has just taken, Roommate stops me. “Hey DS. I just wanted to let you know I’m moving out at the end of April.”

Heart stops. “What?” I say.

“Yeah, I got accepted into this program in Atlanta. I’m not sure what I’m doing after then, so I’m going to move out.”

“So I guess that means I need to find a new roommate, huh?”

“Yeah.” Roommate turns to go back to his cooking, casual and apathetic as can be.

I freak out. Living in a college town is not exactly the most profitable enterprise during the summer. Especially seeing as we live in a relative construction zone, behind a crowded and noisy bar that plays live music late into the night, I didn’t think I would get anyone. That I would be forced to cough up the rest of the rent for both apartments, when his apartment is more than mine, and I’m so caught up in student loan debt, credit card debt, and my regular bills that I would more or less drown.

Like any normal person, I immediately post an ad up on Craiglist, hoping I’ll at least get a nibble or two. Imagine my surprise when by the end of the week, I had more than fifty responses. I was thrilled. I might be able to find a new roommate after all!

Three weeks ago:

Roommate hunt #1 begins. I begin to think there are no normal people in Berkeley. Roommate stops by, the day after Roommate hunt #1.

“I was thinking,” he says. “I’m not sure if I want to come back to Berkeley after the internship, but I’d like to have the option. Also, I know you’re moving back East in August, and I thought maybe it’d be easier if we do a sublet. Instead of transferring everything into your name or someone else’s name, and worrying about a rent increase because the apartment’s been rent controlled for the last three years, you could just go pay me like you have been, I’d do a sublet, and you can find someone who can move in for the summer, or can stay beyond the terms of the sublet and take your place once you move out.”

I pause. I think. Technically, this idea makes sense. It would work for me.

When are you moving back?”

“If I move back, sometime in mid-August.”

“That should work out fine, because I should be gone by then.”

“Okay, well let me know how that goes.”

During Roommate hunt #2, I’m able to offer people the option of lease or sublet, explaining that I will be moving out in August, and my current roommate may move out for good or may move back once I leave. I meet Awesome Cat girl, we hit it off. Things are great. I offer her the apartment.

Two and a half weeks ago:

“Hey Roommate, I was just wondering if you had a chance to figure out your details, such as when exactly you’re moving out, so I can let Awesome Cat Girl know she can move in and such.”

“Yeah, I’m moving out mid-May.”

“Wait, what? I thought you were moving out at the end of April.”

“Oh, that was only if I was moving out-moving out. If we’re doing the sublet, I’ll leave when my flight leaves.”

“When’s that?”

“May 20th.”

“So you’re now moving out at the end of May is what you’re saying.”

“Yep.”

“Okay.” Fuck. What if Awesome Cat Girl wanted to move end of April? Then I’m screwed. Again. *slight heart attack*

I call her. “Hey, Awesome Cat Girl. Here’s the deal. Roommate wants to stay till mid-May. I know I told you end of April, but I guess he changed his mind. Are you okay with that?”

“Yeah, no problem. I’m not in a rush, I just want to live someplace I like with someone I like.”

“You are fucking awesome.” *huge sigh of relief*

One and a half weeks ago:

“Just so you know, I need a bigger deposit to cover the cat,” Roommate says to me as I’m walking into the kitchen.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, technically, we’re not supposed to have a cat in the apartment. But when I spoke to the manager, she said it was okay. But I don’t know how she’d feel since it’s not my cat. So if you can ask Awesome Cat Girl to give me a bigger deposit, I’ll hold onto that and if the cat doesn’t scratch anything up, I’ll give her her deposit back.”

“Why would you give her her deposit? Shouldn’t that go to the landlord?”

“Nah, I have your deposit also. You would get it back from Awesome Cat Girl when she moves in. That’s how it always goes.”

“Why would you have my deposit?”

“It just makes things easier.”

“Uh….what? Okay. I’ll talk to her.” Fucking mother fucker. How many times is he going to come up with this bullshit? Make a fucking decision and stick to it!

“Hey Awesome Cat Girl. Roommate wants a deposit for the cat, just to cover his butt.”

“Is the cat not allowed?”

“I thought it was. But the lease technically says it’s not. But when Roommate was planning on getting a cat, he said it was okay with the manager. So he just wants a deposit to make sure things are copacetic.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s fine. As long as I can bring my cat!”

This girl is officially the most awesome girl ever.

One week ago:

Jack of All Trades is over. We’re watching a movie. Roommate’s girlfriend cackles, a la Fran Drescher. I cringe. He looks at me. “Wow. You weren’t kidding about how bad it was,” he says.

I notice there have been dirty dishes from Roommate piled in the sink for the last week. His girlfriend has slept over on average 4-6 nights a week now. We are out of toilet paper. We are out of paper towels. The toilet often has pee and floating paper in it. Not mine. I generally make a habit of flushing.

“I can’t wait till he moves out,” I sigh.

Yesterday

Awesome Cat Girl and I talk about upcoming move. We’re super excited. Whoo! Roommate sends us both an e-mail.

“I’ll be moving out on May 22nd, so Awesome Cat Girl, you can move in after then, but you don’t have to start paying rent until June 1st. DS, if you can be out of the apartment by August 8th, you don’t have to pay any August rent.”

What? I thought his flight was May 20th. How…what? And August 8th? But I can’t leave until August 23rd, as I’m planning an event for my job on August 22nd, that evening. What?

I come home and pass out, exhausted from taking an early morning flight from Tucson back to Oakland, and then going straight to work without recuperating.

Tonight

I pass Roommate on the way to the bathroom to get ready for bed, intending to make an early night after this week’s stress and zombie-fication. I have bubbled. I am content and calm, and had joyful conversations not involving boys.

“Hey, Roommate. Where did August 8 come from?”

“I always said August 8.”

“Um….no. You said mid-August. If you even came back.”

“I don’t know when I said that, but okay.”

“Well…I can’t move out by August 8th. I have to work until the 22nd, and I will need a day to gather all my stuff together, as I am going to be working overtime the entire week or two leading up to the event.”

“I guess Awesome Cat Girl will have to move out for two weeks, until you move out.”

“What? That’s not fair to her.”

“Well, can you go somewhere for those last two weeks?”

“Are you kidding me? I know all of seven people in the Bay Area. A few of them are moving in July. No, I can’t go somewhere else. And I’m not moving out two weeks before I move across the country! You know more people around here, can’t you find somewhere to live for two weeks?”

“It’s my name on the lease. If you want me to set this up as the agreement, then these are the terms. If you don’t like it, you can either get the new lease taken care of with a rent increase, because it’s been stabilized due to my having lived here for three years, but I don’t know if the landlord will let you keep the cat, or you can both move into the apartment across the way, or you can just move out.”

I stand there, completely flabbergasted, growing more and more furious as the conversation builds. I’m also growing more hopeless. How many hoops am I going to have to jump through, just to stay in my apartment until I leave?

I realize that I don’t want to live with this jerk, ever again. He’s become increasingly disrespectful, and I’m tired of the games. Of course, my landlord has an Asian accent, which is not easy to understand in person, let alone over the phone and I have no e-mail address at which to contact her to price out these options of negotiating the lease in Awesome Cat Girl’s name and subletting from her.

Do I:

A) Move out two weeks early and live out of a suitcase again, much like I did the first month I moved out here, making my life in California a full-circle (but hopefully without the anti-semitic crazy old bitch I first lived with?)

B) Try to re-negotiate a lease with a woman I can’t understand and hope that she lets us keep the cat and lets Awesome Cat Girl become the primary leaseholder, and me a sublet until I leave in August, and kick this fucking asshole roommate out?

C) Suck it up and search for another sublet option, who moves out when he moves back out, and deal with him for the last two weeks that I’m in California?

Fucking A.

Update, 11:15 A.M.: It’s all over. I’m leaving California. Guess that takes care of that.

First off, I’d like to clarify one thing. There have been moments where you have made me giggle, clap my hands delightedly, and grin until my face feels like it’s going to break.I don’t doubt this will happen again someday. There are moments where I feel like I’m one of those movie moments that were someone else to view me, they’d cringe from the sappiness. There are also moments where I wake up in the mornings, completely content with where my life is at and who it’s with at the moment.

But over the last few years, I’ve learned a few things from my experiences with you. You all know how to be mighty big assholes from time to time. Even when I don’t have feelings for you or care much about you, you still know how to get right up in there and make a few tweaks that have me all up in a storm, arms flailing around, ready to pound down on anyone who dares come near, man or woman.

If you feel sorry about something, that’s one thing. If you feel as though you should apologize to smooth things over, that’s another. Why is it that you, as a gender, are so prone to apologizing for things without understanding why you’re apologizing in the first place? For example, Rebound Boy. Telling me that you didn’t really understand that wearing a condom was a part of the whole, “I don’t care if you sleep with other people since we’re not dating, but at least be safe and honest about it,” discussion does not get you out of jail free. Furthermore, contacting me to apologize and then saying, “I just didn’t want you to think I was some asshole player,” when the point is, you were? If nothing else, you’ll always remember me as the first girl who kicked you out of her bed. When you told me today, “I still can’t believe you kicked me out of bed. That’s never happened to me before,” I thought, “Get used to it kid. I’m sure I won’t be the last.”

Why bother apologizing at all? If you fucked up, and you feel bad about it, keep it to yourself. I’d rather you leave me alone and let me think of you as a jerk. Maybe in a year or two, I’ll be too focused with some other idiot who either doesn’t know how to keep it in his pants, forgets that he’s supposed to be the male and whines I don’t need him enough, the distance is too much (incidentally, an excuse Rebound Boy gave me today because South Bay is too far from East Bay? What? Talk to me after you do a Chicago-Berkeley distance) or expects me to demand a relationship from him after a week of dating. I don’t work like that gentlemen; if you want me, you need to know well enough how to hold my hand as we begin the negotiation dance so that I might just take down this wall that I have up.

I’m not going to be that girl who asks you, “Are you my boyfriend?” The very word doesn’t exist in my vocabulary for a reason. Hell, I might not even say, “What are we doing?” until about a year in, and I’ll just refer to you as my person in the meantime, and quite possibly, thereafter. You need to respect that I’m an independent fucker who will do things when I want, how I want, and if I really like you, I’ll ask you to do it with me. But I won’t rearrange my life for you, unless I think you’re damn well worth it. As of this point, only one of you has ever made it that far. Also; giving me a time line? Saying you want children by the time you’re twenty-eight, when I’ll be all of twenty-seven? My body runs in the opposite direction of a clock. Don’t bother imposing one on me.

I am a kick-ass girlfriend, when I get around to being a girlfriend. I’m also an awesome fuck buddy - as long as you’re safe, do what you want to do. Just treat me like I’m the only thing that matters when I’m around, and I’ll do the same for you. But now that my sexual health has been compromised, check it out boys. The boobs? They’re going underground. I know you’ll miss them. They’re damn fine specimens of what real breasts should look like, gentlemen.

For that matter, what part of man break did you not get, men? Why is it that when I want nothing to do with any of you, that’s when you break out the olive branches and declarations of love?

I’m tired of you all saying, “You were amazing. I had a good thing, and I don’t know why I ruined it. I fucked up. I made a mistake. You were pretty cool. [Insert variation of how awesome I am here.]” I’m tired of you saying “I know I lost a good thing when I screwed things up with you.” I’m tired of being lost, period. You know where I am boys. I was never that difficult to find in the first place.

But please. Respect my need for a break from you, without any apologies, without any desires, without any words that are guaranteed to make me go back on all the promises I made to myself and find me wanting a future that I had already said goodbye to. Please just let me make it through a day, without heated tempers or tears or words that I’m not sure I mean anymore but want to mean. Please just give me some time.

I don’t doubt that in the future, I will look forward to spending time with you again, and will admire how well I incorporate your lifestyle into my own after years of fierce independence. I love running my hands through your hair when you look at me, just after you’ve kissed me. I love how you can sometimes nuzzle your face in my shoulder and make me jump by breathing cold air on my bare skin. I love how you’ll sometimes say something so ridiculous, I can’t stop laughing and think I might fall over. I love how getting a text message from you will make me grin ridiculously, to the point where I’m not sure my face is altogether there anymore. But today? Is not that day. Until then, please. Keep your space, and I’ll keep mine.

Respectfully,

distracted spunk.