I've always said that riding out being alone is okay ninety percent of the time, and really really insanely difficult the other ten percent of the time.
this is my ten percent.
it's about to be my first night in the fort. so I figured I'd write a while first, and then run the extension cord up there so I can watch a movie on my laptop before I fall asleep.
so, yeah. the ten percent. I can make gratitude lists and go to extra meetings and inherently be okay, be not freaking out, or having a difficult time with anything in particular - but some nights, sending the wrong words to the wrong boy seems like it would be a good idea. because it's all that funny thing some of us can default to, like, I know I need to be alone, but please hold me for a while. cats are good at it, the, "please get very, very close to me so I can ignore you whenever I get a chance" thing. it's the same vein as the egomaniac with an inferiority complex, you know, all those riddles and rhymes we speak. leave me alone. hold me. I need you next to me and I need you to go away, simultaneously. stay, lie to me, just don't leave. and on and on and on.
I want to send big epic letters. I want to wake up to body parts, to arms wrapped around my insides. and the thing is, I've got all the love in the world at my fingertips. right here in my apartment. I can tell kristin I need her at any minute, any second, even a very inopportune one, and I know she'd be there. I can go to a meeting. I can nap with chacha. and it all works, the way spending eight dollars at goodwill works just as good as spending two hundred dollars at target does when you've got the itch to shop. but in these moments, I get all tangled up, and I think a date / bedmate / Boy / Guy / lover / whatever would ease my ache. and it won't. just like the big shiny toy, when bought for the wrong reasons, doesn't do a fucking thing. it's a break, at best, to be followed by still more ache, plus remorse. no thanks.
this will work. writing will. waiting will. we will. you are me, and we are all together.
and all around me, I get giant looming signs and examples of everything I don't want. the coworker of a friend who presses on past what she knows is right. the people back in new haven who are too afraid to tell each other the truth, so they make things up and play charades with each other, always hoping, never revealing anything. the boy who second guesses good enough. the world, this apartment building, a sea of voices as I come up from the laundry, four or five single apartments to a floor, like the end of a movie. always wondering. always hoping. the guy with a five-figure stereo and a mean wife. the list goes on and on.
my particular fave in these scenarios is the one where everyone watches each other set themselves on fire, and lies. ignore that which may be uncomfortable in the slightest, be sure to compliment the jeans. don't be a friend, win the popularity contest and ruin some lives. and then deny, blame, and pretend some more. this is a particularly localized epidemic in connecticut, I've found, or at least in some social circles (which I guess exist everyplace) where it's easier to save face than it is to man up. I know it well because I've been guilty of it, and I don't know about anybody else, but I am in this - my life, that is - to grow. to push. to do work. to improve. and sometimes, that means crying myself to sleep. alone. sometimes it means saying the quiet part out loud, and making people mad. forgoing what I want for what I know I need, putting aside pleasure for happiness. and I know that all relates to me, and not anyone else, but dammit, I'm not going to tell you how cute your new top is while your flesh is smoldering in front of my face. friends don't let friends drop the fucking ball on that level. I do a lot to further myself, and I suppose I have the expectation for people around me to do the same. or at the very least, not be pretending, and pretending that nobody is pretending. man up. just like the people on missed connections. say it. do it. tell the truth. because I don't want to be lied to, or coddled (well, within reason, I think we all need some coddling sometimes), so I don't like to lie, or coddle.
I am perpetually misunderstood on this point. it's not about living some perfect, mistake-free life. it's about owning it, to whatever degree "it" is. I am jack's stupid decisions. I am jack's pile of mistakes. I am jack's lonely bed.
I am victoria's rant.
but really. I don't know if I'm making sense, but I get it, and I know what I mean. I suppose that makes me demanding and unreasonable, all east coast and unapproachable. and I don't give a shit. there are enough situations where games start happening without extra games on purpose, without purposefully creating them. like how I have enough crazy all by myself without bringing in anyone else's. I may have less belongings than you could fit in a rich guy's bathroom, but I need an airport van for all the baggage I'm dragging with me half the time. we don't need more shelves, we need less shit.
I am victoria's ad on craigslist for excess emotional baggage. serious inquiries only.
so, yeah. I pick abrasive. I choose truth over roasting marshmallows on a stick over the embers of the fires you start any day of the week. especially if I have to tell you how nice you look while we get the perfect golden texture in the process.
I am victoria's annoyed, sad, let-down, broken heart.
I am sleeping in the fort tonight.
I am everything I've ever wanted to be, even just the beginnings of some parts, but still.
I am nothing I don't want in any bad, unfixable ways.
xx
VVB
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