strange musings of a distracted spunk

Ready for a secret?

Normally, I’m pretty happy with my body image. Normally, I like how my boobs snugly fit a bikini top and how my bermuda shorts ride low on my hips and make me feel sexy. I knew that even if I put on a pair of jeans with a sweatshirt, I would still get looks as I walked down the street, because I am pretty cute. But lately, over the last few weeks, I’ve become victim to self-hatred towards my body.

Perhaps I should start from the beginning. As an overactive, skinny stick who danced five days a week, the biggest complaint I often had was my butt was too bony. It hurt to sit on the ground and other people’s laps. Almost twenty years later, I still have that complaint, but the rest of me has rounded out. I chalk it up to puberty and events in my life that happened when I was seventeen. I didn’t realize how much weight I had gained until post-college, when I was almost thirty pounds heavier than I was when I had entered.

The thing about my body is, I’m not petite and I’m not small boned. I have shoulders; broad ones. They look great in halter tops and spaghetti straps, but they will never look delicate. I’ve got curves, hips that jut out but my stomach tends to be pretty flat; I rock a four-pack pretty easily. I most definitely do not have an ass, but I more than make up for it in the chest region. My legs are muscular; maybe not as muscular as they were when I danced, but my calf muscles are still pretty huge. I’ve been mistaken for a soccer player numerous times.

When everything went down with D last year, I couldn’t figure out how to move out of the zombie phase. One day, a friend suggested I go to the gym with her. I was never a good gym-goer; I felt it was too isolated and too machine oriented. But something clicked that day, and suddenly, I started hitting the gym three, four, five times a week. I would go at the end of my day, after work and class, getting home close to midnight. I felt good about myself, and it showed. The weight I gained in college melted away, and I found myself gravitating towards more feminine clothes, something my high-school and college-self rarely did. But more importantly, I wasn’t mourning the loss of D anymore. I was redirecting my energy to a place where I didn’t have to think, where I could just move and somehow, that blank slate let me move forward.

I struggled a bit when I first moved to California. Living in a strange house where I couldn’t make food or bring home food meant I ate out a lot. And cheaply. When you were only making 800 bucks a month (thanks AmeriCorps!), gourmet meals are not exactly an option. But when I found my apartment, I got back into the rhythm; of cardio, pilates, then weights. I would be at the gym for an hour and a half to two hours, and I felt solid. Comfortable. It helped that a boy loved me, inside and out, even when he was 1800 miles away. For some reason, having someone who thought I was impossibly sexy somehow made me feel even more sexy, which was never a term I would have applied to myself until he came along.

When he and I broke up for the first time in December, I lost the motivation to go to the gym. Sneaks of depression would slither in, and all I wanted to do was go home, curl up in my bed, and zone out with a book or a movie. I didn’t want to think. I was afraid to think, because unlike D, GDB would somehow crawl into the furthest recesses of my mind, even when I was running at top speeds on the elliptical. I wasn’t willing to cry in front of other people at the gym. So I hid from it all at home, where no one could see me cry.

I struggled with my body and him for the next few months. He and I were so up and down, he infiltrated my thoughts so often, I thought it best to find as many distractions as I could. I would go to the gym, but it would only be a half-hearted effort. Finally, when I walked away in March, I started to feel good about myself again. I struggled with how my body had grown softer, but I wasn’t afraid of facing my innermost thoughts at the gym anymore. I still felt sexy, even when it wasn’t GDB who left me messages every day, as much as it was Rebound Boy. I was back in a rhythm. I liked myself and my body.

Of course, that’s when the world shifted again. Remember when I got fired? And had to deal with an asshat of a roommate? And GDB came back? And oh yeah. I traveled for a month and a half. Oh right. And broke up with GDB for good. All in the last two months. Yeah. I’m still recovering from that.

So I’ve taken solace on my parents’ couch, in my bed, eating their food, most of which is not what I would keep in my own house. I’ve seen pictures of myself from Thailand compared to pictures of myself from this past weekend, and something feels wrong. My clothes don’t feel right. My body feels strange and bigger than usual. I don’t feel sexy, at all. I don’t even really feel attractive. I’m putting on my more masculine clothes, hiding my body again, because I’m not happy with my body as it is anymore.

I won’t say pounds because I try not to go by pounds as much as I try to go by how my clothes feel, but I do want to get back to where my body was. Where I felt tight and fit, where I wasn’t afraid to wear my more feminine clothes because I felt pretty and light, and mainly, where I felt damn sexy. Part of me wonders if it’s because I’ve finally ended something where I felt like the most insanely attractive thing in the world in GDB’s eyes, and am I not able to see myself in that same light? I honestly can’t answer that today. For the first time in a long time, I am taking a break from relationships (if you haven’t heard Alanis Morrissette’s “Moratorium,” I suggest you download it now), from positive reinforcement from guys I find attractive, and from feeling like I have someone I want to dress up for.

I want to dress up for me. But more importantly, I want to feel like I CAN dress up for me, when I am back to being comfortable in my own skin. I want to shed the weight I’ve gained in the last two and a half weeks of being home. I want to remember what it was like to walk down the street and turn heads. I’m not there yet. But hopefully, even though my routine is at best a joke, at worst, a pretense, I’ll get there again.

The thing with moving away for a year is you expect everything to be the same when you get back. You expect the little sister to be the same snot-nosed brat she was for the last twenty years, instead of the more mature and humorous twenty one year old she’s turning into. You expect more arguments and getting stuck in the middle between your bitterly divorced parents, instead of the rational conversations and less badmouthing. You expect your friends to kind of be the same, even though you know they’ve experienced tons of milestones in their own lives.

Moving away for a year also makes you forget how many friends you actually have. I knew I had friends. I knew I had people who were excited to see me. I just didn’t realize twenty five of them were going to come out on Friday night. Had my six usual players been in this part of the country or not a Mets game, they would have been there too. Going from living in Berkeley, where I knew all of nine people that I would regularly see for a once-a-week social life to being in the middle of a bar with people I know everywhere…it’s overwhelming. I forgot how much it hurt to talk that much. My voice was scratchy by the end of the night. Yet it was absolutely wonderful to be with everyone again, because I was reminded of my history with each and every one of them. I forgot how fun it is to just reminisce about silly things with people who have known you for years. I had a little bit of that in Berkeley, when we would create new memories, but this was like slipping into an old sweater and the most comfortable pair of jeans and just being yourself.

I was surprised at how easy it was to hug everyone and fall back into the same patterns. With my life partner, we hadn’t seen each other since November, but we fell right back into almost finishing each other’s sentences. With my Pea in a Pod, though I talk to her every day, having that face-to-face interaction where she knew how I was feeling and having her be there was just really really nice. But perhaps the biggest surprise was when D showed up. I knew he was coming, having invited him, but I wasn’t prepared for the actual interaction. When I gave him a hug (because let’s face it. I’m a hugger now. I have no idea where this came from, as my family is all too happy to share stories of how I would punch them were they to try hugging me, kissing me, or even pick me up when I was younger), he was slightly awkward. But then…he would poke me if he wanted my attention, just like he used to. He ended up being my ambassador of sorts, because outside of Thailand and Avocado, he knew almost everyone there. We slipped right back into our old routine of chatting away and absorbing each other’s attention, and then I would remember there were still twenty four other people there. Needless to say, the whole night was a success.

Then came Saturday. After a lovely brunch, I had a family party to attend, before stopping off at a friend’s birthday party in my old town. I got a phone call. “D is going to be here. Is that okay?” Coming on the heels where I got furtive whispers about, “When did you and D start talking again? I thought you said you would never talk to him again!” it just felt another, “Oh boy.” So I got there. And we chatted. This time, we both tried to redirect our energies towards other people in the room, but quite simply, there was no one there as interesting as us. We caught the whispers and stares and “When did this happen?” We fell back into laughing at one another and just moving around each other to talk. It was like old times, where we wouldn’t plan it, but we’d end up hanging out multiple nights in a row.

And suddenly, it felt all too comfortable. The whispers. The stares. Him poking me and me laughing at him. The ease of our conversation, even when we talked about my now ex-boyfriend and his girlfriend. And suddenly, I felt as though I needed to leave. Because it had only been my first venture out back into socializing the night before, and already I had seen him twice. And I can’t do this again. Are the old feelings there? I don’t know. They were too tied up in comfort and familiarity for me to really ever accurately separate them. So I left, because it was too easy to see this going down the same road. Of the friendship and comfort building up until one day, I decide that he’s the right one for me.

I wondered if I was displacing my feelings for GDB onto D; as though he were the brief interlude during this year and a half we hadn’t seen each other. Is D the Harry to my Sally? I don’t know. I don’t want to find out. I’m glad we were able to spend time in each other’s company, and see that we still have that same ease of comfort, playfulness, and interactions with more awkwardness, but I think…this isn’t a path I want to head down again. What it means, I don’t know. I just know it’d be too easy to make the same mistakes. How is it that everything really can change and yet nothing change at all?

1. I started this blog.
2. I got published. Twice.
3. I kicked a boy out of bed.
4. I tried changing the world.
5. I hugged a cactus in Arizona.
6. I went to Seattle and Vancouver.
7. I stepped in two oceans and one sea.
8. I quit one job and got let go from another.
9. I found joy again in taking a pen to the page.
10. I didn’t have any emergency trips to the hospital!
11. I took a dance class with Taye Diggs, who clapped me on the shoulder.
12. I walked away from the one person who often made me feel the most secure.
13. I met some amazing people, yet I always end up on the opposite coast.
14. I moved cross-country by myself, to a place I had never been.
15. I road tripped from San Diego to San Francisco.
16. I had a bike go all transformers on me.
17. I found a softer, more reserved me.
18. I learned I have awful travel luck.
19. I went to Thailand and Japan.
20. I realized my own strength.
21. I lived the same day twice.
22. I moved. Five times.
23. I fell in love.

Here’s to year 24; may it be as enlightening and exciting as 23.

10. My roommate streaking past my bedroom door when he realized I was up and he was naked and on his way to shower. I had to stifle my laughter, but that’s one hell of a way to start a day. Especially one’s last day in an apartment!

9. Pushing my boxspring down two flights of stairs and wishing I could surf it down the stairs a la Princess Diaries. I blame a narrow hallway and ever-multiplying dust bunnies from the carpet that had regenerative growth syndrome for hindering my stair-surfing opportunities.

8. Getting a phone call about a job interview opportunity back in New York for a job I was super interested. Can’t make the interview, but it still makes me feel good about my future prospects.

7. Selling every last piece of furniture I had and making a profit on all the furniture I got for free when I moved in. All that cash in my pocket will go a long way in the next few weeks.

6. Asshat roommate giving me back my $650 security deposit. Whoo!

5. Leaving a completely empty room, with the blue phone on the wall. I still secretly hoped it would ring for me, just before I left, but it never did.

4. Dinner at McGee’s, with her and J, which will be my temporary residence for the three times I pop back into San Francisco before flying home.

3. Accidentally breaking the battery pack of my vibrator when I tried to remove the batteries. I banged the whole thing on the windowsill, the battery pack fell off, the bunny ears started twitching, and I couldn’t figure out how to keep it all in my hands because damnit, that lube is slippery. If America’s Funniest Home Videos were rated X, I’d walk out with that ten grand prize easily

2. Taking yet another lovely bath to wash away all the dirt, grime, and sweat of packing, moving, and cleaning. Though it was slightly disturbing as there were half-naked and unattractive construction workers arguing loudly right outside my window. Why is it that I’m always naked when the construction workers are right outside my window? Is there a special “DS NAKED!” spotlight, like the Batman signal? Seriously.

1.5. Fitting everything I own that was left into two suitcases, a small duffel bag, and a backpack with room to spare. I am clearly an expert packer. But what’s up with this new rule that each passenger can only check one piece of luggage for free and must pay for any additional luggage? Baaaahhhhh.

1. In less than twelve hours, I will be on my way to Seattle, Vancouver, Thailand and Japan.

Ready? Set? Go!

Jazz music wafted into the air, slow notes languishing upon one another, dancing on elevation of keys. For the second time in two days, and the second time in the year I’ve been here, I entertained. We sat on my floor, trading stories of doctor horror stories, pending engagement (theirs, not mine) and just enjoying each other’s company, something that hadn’t been done in a long time. For the first time in what feels like years, my ribcage hurt from all the side splitting laughter where there would be that moment of silent comprehension and then as the joke became clear, we would crack up.

The music provided a background to what will definitely be one of my favorite nights in a long time. Why is it that it’s only when one is leaving that the earth conspires to make everything seem beautiful and lovely, after putting one through so much emotional trauma? My apartment glistens with its quirks and charms, and I think of how much I’ll miss the sunlight streaming through the bathroom window, lighting up the bath and making my baths in a clawfoot bathtub ones that I sorely needed. The kitchen with the oven I still have not bothered trying to learn how to use because it’s from the 1940s is a testament to all things old fashioned that I love. Even the construction zone outside my window, where I used to wake up naked and find construction workers leering at me in through the window while I stood in front of my mirror trying to decide what to wear before I noticed them will be missed.

I am ready to say goodbye, to this, to so many things, but I’m not. I want another day. I want a few more days. I want more days of this, of sitting on the floor and laughing, eating grapes, apples, cheesecake, whatever we can find that will help empty out as much as we can before it all gets turned over to McGee. I want more days of sunshine, of meandering down streets with McGee and Skylar Blue and Not Mary and all the other wonderful people I’ve met out here in the past nine months; I got so lucky in being able to meet such amazing people. I want less days of running packages to UPS to be shipped back east, thousands of dollars worth of clothes in a single box. I want more days of actually being able to walk around my room, no longer cluttered by all the furniture that it once held, hiding the narrative that would unravel my story.

It feels empty somehow, and almost too big now with all this space. There are moments when I lay catatonic, unable to do anything because I am so exhausted from the poor sleeping, from the overactive dreams, from the packing, from the lifting, from the moving, from the $400 bill I’m being charged to cancel my cable service, from the medical bills I just received for no reason, for all the money that moving requires, not to think about traveling.

I haven’t even wrapped my mind around the fact that tomorrow’s my last night here, in this apartment, in Berkeley. That Friday morning will see me get on the fourth plane ride in a month, having taken a brief respite this past weekend to stay in one area. That come Friday, my address with the quirky “__24 and a half” will no longer be mine. I’ll be back to a perfect Court, the residence of my parents, where my bills and mail will pile up for a month while the East Coast not-so-eagerly awaits my return.

There won’t be a bar outside my window. There won’t be jazz music wafting into my room, or even marching band music, which was the soundtrack for a conversation I had with GDB several weeks ago over webcam. It’s hard to have a serious conversation when the band outside sounds like it’s about to break into a rousing rendition of Stars and Stripes Forever, made more so by the irony of it being at one of the best places to get beer in town. There won’t even be an odd neon blue phone on my wall anymore - not that it actually works, but I always imagine that one day, it will just start ringing, and on the other end will be the fairy tale life one always imagines one is due.

Why is it that life always pushes us into a crossroads before we’re actually ready for one? It’s so hard to pretend to be strong all the time. Part of the reason I look forward to all this traveling is because there’s no time to think; there’s only time to do.

I will miss this place. I will miss the memories I’ve made here, the laughter I’ve had, the friends I’ve hugged and said hello and goodbye, the hills I walked and the streets I tripped over, the laundromat with the homeless people stripping down in front of me, the Tibetan protesters and the tree huggers, the radical Berkeleyan neighborhood, the walks down as the sun sets upon the Golden Gate Bridge, far off into the distance and the bay gleaming below, the crappy drivers and the awful BART, the bubble baths, the huge library, the high schoolers hanging out on every corner when school lets out, the absurdly long lines in Walgreens at all times of day, the amazing French bistro a few blocks down, the random Victorians only a few blocks away, all the little nooks and crannies that you find on Shattuck Avenue, and more. I will miss Berkeley.

But most of all? I’ll miss those quiet nights, with or without laughter, when I could write, jazz music lilting the air around me, instantaneous in its relaxing effects, as though all it took to soothe the uneasy world was a calming balm of saxophones and guitars.

Last week, I watched water fluctuate in gradients, mountains rise up from the road almost out of nowhere, hairpin curves and bathing-suit less boys. Seagulls were shameless and squirrels motioned to attack. Redwoods soared beyond measure, I hiked in flip flops and socks because I forgot sneakers and it was cold, and I tucked everything aside for five days.

I didn’t worry about what I would do what I got back. I didn’t worry about what would happen with GDB, though we did have a discussion during my trip that opened new doors, but leaves things as open-ended as ever. I didn’t worry about how I would get the five remaining pieces of furniture out of my apartment and all my clothing and books home. I just drove. My shoulders began to ache, helmed at the wheel, and I would pause every few hundred yards to stop, run out, snap a picture, admire the breathless beauty of the Pacific coast, especially in Big Sur, before finally heading home. I watched sea lions play in Monterey Bay. I slept better, more soundly than I do in my own bed, where my subconscious infiltrates my dreams with thoughts of everything I have to do. To say the last time I slept well was Wednesday night would be truth; and only because I was so exhausted from exploring coastal California so intensively. Since then, my dreams dance with a future that still wavers with that same boy in Chicago who can fulfill my needs so well, yet walks a fine line between being my love and being my friend.

You would think that the world would give it a rest.

I went to my office on Thursday, cheery with the knowledge of all the travel I had planned. It became clear that my bosses had explained my leaving as my decision, saying, “She’s moving on.” They sought to assign me new projects when I was only in to finish old ones. They even asked me to put my dentist appointments on Friday down as sick leave, when I technically didn’t even have to be in the office that day, or ever again after they told me I wasn’t a good fit. By the way, showing up to the office with the right side of your mouth numbed out on Novocaine is one hell of a way to make an exit. I felt a bit like a 40’s film star, speaking out of the left side of my mouth. I should have said, “Take this cigar and smoke it, kid,” but alas, I waved and said, “Bye!” The impulsive trip up the coast somehow made it manageable for me to walk into my office, not take the sympathetic look one of my former bosses gave me personally, listen to my boss jumble her words as she said, “I really appreciate you coming in; I realize how awkward this must be,” and have the wherewithal to reply, “I’m not awkward at all,” and even allow them to take me to lunch. No hard feelings? Check.

Leaving somehow felt more freeing than it did when I left in tears just a week and a half ago.

Yet in that same week and a half, the hits keep coming. My tuition bill made an appearance, asking for almost five thousand dollars that I certainly don’t have. My grandfather landed in the hospital for the fourth time this month, and is having surgery tomorrow, a surgery that has me racked with guilt for making plans to travel instead of flying directly home to be with my family. My stepgrandfather has been sedated for the last week because blood stopped traveling through his intestines; a man who is almost 90 and has been a cigarette chimney and a beehive of Coca-Cola activity for most of his life without a single effect.

You would think that the world would give it a rest.

My bags are getting packed, the furniture emptying out. All that’s left are toiletries, about 20% of my clothes, and four books. The electronics are slowly dissipating as buyers exchange me their cash for my used toaster oven, television, space heater. And yet, I worry. I worry that I won’t be able to find a job when I get home. I worry that somehow, this month of irregular communication is going to end up hurting me more than anyone else. I worry that I’ll land down in Thailand and get the phone call that I need to come home. I worry that somehow, going home is going to lose the me that I’ve found in the last year. Where I become wrapped up in family obligations, commitments to friends, jobs, school, and the time that I had to write, to think, to reflect, to regain the little sanity I had is going to dissolve. That my writing will change as my voice changes as my habits change because I’ll return to a fast-paced lifestyle that keeps things zooming and zipping.

How do I make the world stop turning again?

Crawling into my bed, pulling the blankets up to my waist and sinking down into my soon-to-be-sold mattress, I can’t help but sigh. The exhaustion of going to work to clean up shop after five solid days of traveling will be nothing compared to what’s in store.

Next week, this bed will belong to someone else. Next week, I will officially live out of a suitcase for a month. Next week, I say goodbye to my lifestyle in Berkeley, only a transient visitor. It’s strange not having an address to recite anymore. It’ll be stranger still to see the pile of bills awaiting me at my parents’ house when I finally arrive.

But for tonight, while this bed is still mine, I’ll wrap my arms around the bear my father brought home from Boston when I was seven, snuggle myself more tightly within the layers of blankets, and enjoy the last few nights of living on my own.

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.

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…