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He misses me. Called, texted, sent emails stating that exact sentiment.
Why aren't I happy?
He's clamoring for my attention and the more he tries to pry and create a place for himself in my life, the harder I want to fight and kick and scream. It's twisted. Don't think I don't already know how utterly contradictory I sound from one moment to the next or how ridiculously mad I come across in these thoughts of mine. I already know how crazy I am, you're just learning this, and he'll learn soon. I'll push you away until you shove me to the ground. Only then, when you break through the wall, the right one will realize I'm terrified. I don't want to fall in love. Loving someone means giving them a level of control in your life and your happiness. I hate that. The problem comes from falling for the wrong person and each wrong person that comes along only serves to fortify the wall. It sucks. I admit it: I fell in love and he wasn't who I thought he was. Name one, there's plenty to tick off the list. I hate the way they treat me and I stay because I think I don't deserve someone who will stay faithful, speak English for a bloody minute, or someone who doesn't ask me to give up everything and move halfway around the world into dodgy prospects. Somewhere along the way I learned I don't deserve someone who holds out my chair for me, holds me close in the night when he can't sleep but lets me slumber, or someone who looks at me as if I am the most amazing thing he's come across in his thirty-two years of life.
Why am I this way?
If only I knew.
Upset and Awake,
Ally McDonat
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I've been sitting here, trying to draft a post, but I had a conversation some months back about privacy and the need for it. No part of the conversation, or who it was with, will be revealed, as requested, but that still leaves me thinking. I lay myself bare on the internet for anyone to read, not that anyone reads it. Here's my naked soul, take a look, no need to comment, but there it is anyways. I'm not always sure how I feel about it, mostly because I don't feel as if I can tell anyone. Very few people in my life know about this journal. A few know, but don't ask (or refuse to imagine) what I write about, talk about, and generally discuss in a rhetorical conversation with the interweb. The reason this is all on my mind is because I'm dating someone and I don't even know how to tell them I have a blog in the first place. You see, I didn't tell the Italian and the Photographer met me through my blog and that's really the only two people I have been serious enough about in the past year (and a halfish) to even want to tell.
No, I never told the Italian about my online journal. You know, in case I wanted to write about him. Yes! I know that's awful and I should want to share every aspect of myself with the one you love, but gosh darnit I need to keep something to myself! I don't know how to give every last little bit of me to one person. Be it a friend, a family member, or the one I'm in a serious relationship. The compartments are seperated, fractal, shattered and bubble wrapped into neatly labelled cubbies.
Dating someone new, for over a month, and slowly integrating our lives into dating only eachother is a complicated transition. It's not that we are seeing other people, because the Professor just isn't smooth enough to run that kind of racket and all his time is spent on me; the complication lies in the fact that we live over an hour apart and we exist on two very different sleeping schedules. Have you ever dated an insomniac? They call at ridiculous hours, needing you, and wanted some sort of human connection with you. It's endearing that he misses me, at four in the morning, and it sure is sweet that he wanted to hear the sound of my voice, but it's not happening. I hate getting woken up from sleep, except on weekend mornings for breakfast or if I get to back to sleep when we're done, and there just needs to be a way to balance this all if I'm going to last in this early relationship.
He is so attractive. Tall, lanky, dark hair, greyish green eyes, and geeky beyond measure. That may not sound so hot on paper, but in person: I melt. It's the little things he does, like reach out and run his hands through my hair when we're at a stop light. When he reaches out and cups my face in his palm or pulls me close to his chest, I fall a little into the abyss. It's a frightening descent and I'm fighting it the whole way down, which is why I'm making the extra effort to keep this intact. I'm so scared I'm going to sabatoge it all to smithereens. He's wonderful and whole, and I'm simply not. It's not that I'm broken or damaged goods, even, but there's some part of me that wonders if I'm meant to love anyone or capable of true lifetime love. The kind of love that pulls you through your family unit breaking up, the kind of love that picks you up only to bolster your own strength. I believe I'm capable of giving that sort of effusive emotion, but giving and accepting are two very different things. I don't know if I can accept that from someone else. What is the catch? Where are the strings? When are you leaving me for the rest of my life? This, this whole kit and kaboodle, is transient. How can you tie yourself to the shore when the tides change? Are they going to rise up and choke the life out of you or remain forever just out of reach? I don't know. I hate not knowing. It instills this deep seated fear that someone is wrong with me, not that I'm paranoid about it. Much. There is so much to consider. He's crazy about me, and for now, I'll take my comfort from that. He'll say he loves me, after a very short while, and we'll see what happens then. Part of me wants to run before he even gets the chance to leave.
And part of me can see the rest of my life spent by his side.
Halved,
Ally M
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I hate pressure. Like everyone else, I'll let you put the pressure on so hard until I shove you back with an extra kick to the ribs, for good measure. That's one aspect of my personality that I wish wasn't there, but despite all the deep breathing and pretending to be patient I will take the proverbial stick you insist on poking me with and whollop you with it. There are better ways to handle any situation. I just don't know any. That's not true, I know them, but knowing and utilizing said techniques are at opposite ends of the reality spectrum.
So, when I'm pinned to the bed and getting kissed, and darn happy about it, I'm happy staying at first base. I might edge towards second, but that pitcher has the ball and I don't know if he has a mean streak a mile wide or a bum arm. What is so wrong with waiting?! It's as if our society doesn't know how to wait anymore. Are we simply obligated to jump into the sack after three dates? How he describes it, the entire process is the chemistry. If there was chemistry, I would have jumped at the chance the very first night. No way, mister. This girl is holding all the cards and I'm sure as heck not laying down a straight until I know you don't have a flush. Until then, all you could have is a pair of pairs. Losing hand, that's all I've got to say about that. I have the bloody cards, why would I lay them out?!
He gets angry. Which is manifested frustration. Taken out on me. I couldn't be happier! He's seriously foaming at the mouth, and the best part isn't here yet. Oh man, I sound terrible, but holding out is important to me. Not important to him. Really not important to him. At least, if last nights argument was any indication about that. He likes me. He's dying to get into my pants, but he likes the rest of me too.
Happy,
Ally M.
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I'm too wore out to even write.
Sunday night I fall asleep on my date, luckily it was on my own couch and during some lame movie, but the next thing I know I'm tucked into bed and he's holding me close. One arm slides from my exposed shoulder to my elbow, only to trace the path again. He's whispering in my ear, words only meant for me, and in that moment I realize he's wonderful.
He tucked me in.
I haven't had someone do that in a very long time.
Holding me close, he woke up a little while later so I could lock my front door and promised to text me when he arrived home safe. "I'll leave it unlocked." I muttered, cranky to be woken up. "That's not safe, Ally, and you know it." He cares about safety protocols? Oh, that gets my heart skipping.
I still can't get over the fact that he tucked me into bed.
More than Lust,
Ally
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After much discussion, strawberry shortcake, and a sit through of 'The Village' settled down my temper after the weekend. It doesn't help that I was still coming down from my Friday. It took extreme amounts of effort to hold my remarks back, especially those of a vitriolic nature.
"Will you come to my soccer game?" He asked me before I leave for home. Excited that he wanted me there, but totally playing it cool, I bursted out with "I'd love to!" I know, I'm so coy.
He tells me when and where and Wednesday finally trudges it's way through the week and arrives at my doorstep. After the close, but not close enough, game he comes over and doesn't hug me. No wait, before you say anything about the lack of affection, please note he is sweaty from just playing an hour on an indoor field. It's a sweet thing, at least I'm choosing to think so, but he reached down to hold my hand. His touch send shivers up my arm, mostly because holding hands with him is a sensual experience. He holds hands the way I do: using your thumb to trace across the other person's palm, slide your hand away to let go only to pull tight, or just a simple twisting of the wrist to rub my palm across his. Except, after the first time we held hands, he does it back! I find this very surprising, because most people touch others the way they desire to be touched. Does he want to be touched the same way I do?
The night progresses and I'm being kissed, the way I like to be kissed, and it brings about this nice haze. No thinking, just kissing, and he stops kissing me. I look up at his, my head nicely cradled in his hands, and he just looks at me. Serious moment time.
"I think we should do it."
Apparently, laughing at a guy when he says that hurts his feelings.
"I just think we should be intimate, Ally."
Yeah, laughing at that follow-up statement: not much better. After the laughter finally subsided, I managed to form a sarcastic reply. Shaking my head, I kiss him, and start to head out the door. It's already late and there is an hour between us. He finally gets upset.
"Why are you always walking away from me? You don't call me during the week, you barely text, but when we're in person you're everything that I want. You can't pick up a phone? Why can't you see that I want you to be my girl? And why do you still have your profile up?!"
There are so many things I can't tell him. I walk away because I don't know how to stop running and I'm looking for the person who can make me. I don't call because I like him and want him to make the extra effort for me. I see it, but I don't know if I believe it after his 'I think I'd rather just be friends' text and consequent retraction of the statement due to a mis-text blunder. (Was it really meant for another person or is he just a manipulative black knight?)
I answer the only one I can: "It's still up because no one has asked me to take it down."
Boys are Dumb,
Ally
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"Do you want any snackies?"
Wait, did I hear that right? Did he actually use the word 'snackies' in my presence? Umm... No, I'm not interested in any junk food.
"I normally have to have snackies. The full tub of popcorn and jumbo soda."
Is it just me, or is it completely weird that a thirty-two year old man refers to movie theatre popcorn as 'snackies' because I'm thinking that's nigh to deviant behaviour. That's all I'm saying. He is one step away from asking me to call him papi, and I'm not swinging for that. The previews begin and the BeeGees fill he darkened room and he starts disco dancing in his seat (with me, by the way) and the movie starts.
Here are the movie rules:
Drinks are allowed.
Popcorn is a rare exception.
Talking during the previews is encouraged.
Talking during the movie isn't.
It's simple and an even number. What more could you ask out of a list (any list, really) but especially a list of rules. Most of that is courtesy or my own tricky relationship with popcorn. Those little kernals all in the teeth just drive me up the wall. Therefore, I rarely eat it.
The Forbidden Kingdom is about forty-five minutes too long, but this does not forive the transgressions:
1. Don't reach over and try to steal my nose kindergarten style. What am I? Seven?! No sir, leave the childish games to the kiddles. I like my nose where it is, even if I don't always like it.
Not just once, but a whopping three times I pushed his hand out of my face during the movie. Apparently, only when shot the look of death did the message get through. It just doesn't make sense.
5. Talking during the movie! Did you forget to read the rules posted above? No excuses! Don't talk during a movie, when we are in the movie theatre. When we're at home, it's a terrible movie or I have seen a half million times, chat away. When it's dark, hushed, and we're surrounded by people? It's time to use your silent voice.
It wasn't even topics or comments relative to the movie. That just upsets me. The movie was a terrible excuse for cinema as it was, but when you add his chatty tendencies, I was ready to leave. It wasn't just annoying for me, it was rude to everyone else around us, even if he was using his inside voice.
Snackies? That's just creepy coming from a thirty-two year old man. I don't think he's grown up yet and I can't stand that. I need a grown up in my life, not a little boy obsessed with computer animation (what he happens to teach at a well known university) and soccer.
Immaturity,
Ally
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Well, what do you think?
I'm thinking, it's an interesting question, and I've never been to one before. It'll take up my entire day, and that's what I pause about, because that's a long time. A whole day? Plus, there's lots of other things that girls do, like having to find a dress, shoes to match, what to do with their hair. Can you see home complicated this gets?
I'm not wearing a hat.
It's a lot less awkward when a hundred other people are wearing hats too.
Now that I've said I'm not wearing one, I'm too stubborn to change my mind.
Too stubborn?
If you think you can change an Irish heart when it has made a decision, by all means.
What if I bought you a pretty one, to match the dress?
What dress?
The one you'll wear.
I didn't say that.
No, but I would bet your Irish heart already decided to wear one the minute I asked.
Oh, he's good. He's real good.
So, Ally, what would you like to do this weekend?
I dare you to make my weekend plans. (Big step for me, giving the decision away.)
Challenge accepted. Be ready at seven.
What are we doing?
I'm making the plans.
Which entail?
For starters, I'm going to rent a hotel room.
I'm not staying there with you.
Who asked you?
But you're getting a room!
It's a two hour drive to you, I don't want to have to make that drive home at midnight.
Oh. That makes sense. See you at seven.
Hey, Ally?
Yes?
Are you excited about going to the Kentucky Derby?
Very.
Good. I'm excited too.
I'm still not wearing a hat.
We'll see.
We'll see? What kind of response is that? He must have something up his sleeve that I don't know about. All I know is that we need to find a white sundress, pronto, and maybe a cute straw hat with a ribbon. Shush. I don't need the fuss about changing my mind. I might be stubborn, but I know when to concede the point.
Bonnets,
Ally M
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There are days that the world spins the wrong way, earthquakes rock my midwest apartment before dawn, and I need a fight. I need to someone to fight, someone to fight with me, someone to fight for me when I can't think outside of my own temper. And, when I inevitably, wind up replete and exhausted from the scuffle, I want that same person to just hold me close to his heart. The way a man does when he loves you, by placing his hand around your head and pressing your ear to his chest in a primal desire for you to hear his heartbeat. The way it beats steadily into your own hyponotizes. The way he smells like a winter's day, haunts your senses when apart. Or, the way he looks at you that warms your skin like the summer sun.
When I walk in the door and burst out into the angry tears I have been choking back the entire day, the man I want to be with has to know what to do. Don't panic and begin to say or do anything to stop the tears, just pulls me close. No, I don't have any overwhelming desire to discuss, in minute detail, the timeline of the hours passed. I simply need to release what is bottled up, for a few minutes, and I'll control it all again. Just, for a few minutes, hold me tight. Except, I don't have that person. I looked at my phone and couldn't think of a single person I could call to fix my bad day. Do I not have a person? Someone with eight best friends ought to have one person in this world, right? He never answers his phone, she's wrapping up her final design thesis, he's moving across the country with his wife and two dogs, and so on down the list until I reached the phone number for Outback Steakhouse. That was one depressing moment.
No wonder I'm single. I can't even let my gaurd down for a moment, because what if -what bloody if- that is the moment they hurt me. Maybe, I'm not meant to have love. That all encompassing love for another person. Dating world, you suck.
It all started this morning with a predawn earthquake.
Aftershock,
Ally
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A long time ago I asked someone what it was about me that made me so beautiful. What I thought he was going to say was something flattering about my small waist, abnormally long legs for a short person, or my pronounced cheekbones. These are the things I find beautiful in myself, of course he would think so as well, and notice exactly what I wanted to hear.
Instead, he told me something I wasn't expecting.
He said when I smile and I'm truly happy, my nose crinkles and I giggle. It's what I was when I was myself that was beautiful.
The conversation was something of an eye opening statement at an odd time of the day. But, what about everything else that I listed?! How could he just forget all of those? He didn't but those weren't what made me truly beautiful to him. For him, it was a girl who could be herself and laugh at herself tripping over her jeans.
I'm just looking for someone I can be myself around. Some one worth letting the drawbridge down for, because I'm not letting anyone walk through my walls. I bought a dragon with my tax refund and I'm not letting it go to waste.
Someone, once a upon a time, wanted me for me. Now, we're just looking for a repeat performance from the universe.
Universe? You owe me.
Pay Up.
Cashing In,
Ally
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| 2008-04-12 11:09 |
| Wait, What? |
| Public |
| Home |
| Amused to Bits |
| Typing keys and my own madness. |
| dating, dirty talk |
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I can't sleep. So, instead of sleeping, I'm posting. It's nice like that since Script Frenzy pushed me right over the edge into writer's block. That's fabulous. Just lovely for the imagination to freeze up like that. It's as if everything else is pushing me to write about the crazy datingness instead of a pretty screen play reminiscent of Alias in a post apocaliptic world. Really now, my dating life is far more interesting than that.
So, the professor comes down for a date. We talk, laugh, and I think we're getting alone great. We go back to my apartment to watch my favorite show, but he's two seasons behind and instead of watching the new episode (which still annoys me) the two of us awkwardly intertwine and start the dvd. He cares less about watching the movie than kissing me and while he is admittedly a better kisser than I have recently experience he suddenly starts catching my bottom lip in his teeth and giving a little bite. Once, I could probably handle. Thirty million gajillion times, or something close to that number I lost count, later my bottom lip is swollen and tender. Then, he started the waltz every guy does when he wants to get hot and heavy.
That ain't happening.
He coyly slides his fingers along the edge of my sweater half a dozen times or so; testing the waters. No objection was given, which is silent permission to slide your hands a little further up to the lower back. They stay there for a few tense minutes and then slide their way to the clasp of the undergarment. I pull back and he tells me how badly he wants to "feel me undulate under him."
What do you mean laughing at that isn't an appropiate response?
Really now, undulate? Is that some sort of erudite dirty talk?
Later that night I recieved a text: I think I'd rather just be friends with you.
Big Surprise.
Still Laughing,
Ally McDonat
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How did your date go with the vegetarian? Someone asked me that today and the way my face crinkled up in frustration should have been indication enough, but apparently additional clarification must have been necessitated by that same look.
Here's what happened:
I take him to my absolute, hands down, no contest, shut the door, there is no place better than The Spoon on a Friday night. Tasty food, no rush like there is at most places, and every Friday is an Irish jam session. Oh yes: two violins, two drums, a lute and an accordian and it rocks my socks right off. How could you not love food and live music?
Well, I met someone who doesn't. There's enough wrong with him already and I'm planning on telling him that I don't feel any romantic chemistry between us. There just isn't. My skin crawls thinking that I'm more masculine than he is and I'm a girl! I'm a girl and I don't get my nails done every six weeks, by my freakin self. What a weirdo.
So we're sitting down an dinner and he tells me he's such a different person now than he was three years ago because he used to have panic attacks all the time, used to smoke, and if I had met him six months ago I still wouldn't have recognized him. My curiosity was piqued and I inquired as to what was so different six months ago that today he is a completely different person.
He's an alchoholic.
He doesn't think he still is, because he's sober, but he's very mistaken. My cheek starts tingling as a reminder and I raise my hand to cover it. The vegetarian goes on to tell me about his weekly therapy sessions (which I'm probably now the subject of), the drug use, the drinking and how he isn't even in a program for any of this. Just quit, cold turkey, all the stuffs and hits up Bhuddist mass every Sunday and therapy ever Wednesday. So, I nod and tell him I need to use the restroom.
As soon as I'm out of sight, I flag down the waitress, pay the ticket and then really run to the restroom past the bag of flour. (No really,flour, didn't I tell you this place was a little off the wall?) Poetry in sharpie rings out to me from the walls and I call the one person every little girl can call in times of dire emergency.
In the most innocent tone I can muster, I take a breath when he answers the phone.
"Daddy?"
"You dead yet?"
"Not yet, but I might be soon."
"Who is it tonight?"
"The vegetarian. Daddy, he's an alchoholic."
Neither my father nor I want me anywhere near that type of person. I'm not saying those people are bad souls doomed to enternal torment, but good isn't exactly the word I would apply to this entire situation. There is an entire protocol sent in place for emergencies such as this, I've been trained aplenty, but this is the first time I have ever used it in the middle of a date.
"Here's what we're going to do. Listen up soldier."
"Yes sir."
"Has the bill been paid?"
"Yep. I did that ten seconds before I ran to hide from 'What About Bob.'"
"Bob?" He laughs at my joke, we have very similar and twisted senses of humor. "Good girl. I'm going to call in five, pretend it's your mother and she's sick. You'll have to leave soon, immediately is better, but soon will suffice. Under any circumstances do not allow him to follow you. Understand?"
"Yes Sir."
"Where are you?"
"The Spoon."
"On Sixteenth?"
"That's the one. Oh, Da, I had their fetucine alfredo with chicken. They used baby spinach leaves this time, you remember last time it was carrots?"
"Really? Sounds better than those carrots. Remember the escape plan?"
"Yes. We've been over it a million and one times."
"Again."
"Sixth, College, Kirkwood, Third, Walnut, Fee and Seventeenth."
"That's my girl. Now, go sit down."
The plan unfolds just as it should have. I weave my way out of one way streets and pedestrian traffic, all the while watching my rearview mirror. There is just something about being a military daughter of a protective father that sets you on edge and behind a wall until you know you're not going to be hurt. There are so many protocols to follow, especially those concerning safety and dating. It is so important to be safe when dating people you barely know and I just cringe when my friends talk about their dates picking them up at their apartments for a first or second date. It's as if they can't even comprehend what potential danger lies in the the dark or behind those nice green eyes they rave about. No! That is not how you are supposed to stay safe in this crazy world.
Wait, now I sound either paranoid or very cautious. I'm choosing cautious, less stigma.
Crazy World,
Ally M
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The waiter comes by and notices that there are two menus at the table and one person.
"Are you waiting for someone?", he asks me. I smile, brightly, to cover my own annoyance and insecurities and then I tell him the truth. "I haven't decided if I've been stood up or not yet, but may I have a diet (because sugar is bad for teeth) soda in the meantime?" He perks up, "Well I'd sit down and eat with you, but I'm on shift at the moment." I laugh, it was sweet, and he headed away from my table. Within ten minutes the date calls, hopelessly lost in a small College Town, and as I guide him to the pub my cute waiter drops off appetizers, soda, and a wink. When my date finally arrives, flustered, I'm annoyed beyond words and while I fake smile, inside my inside voice wasn'tsaying very nice things. Luckily, it was my inside voice, but sometimes I confuse the outside voice with the inside voice and say what I'm thinking without a filter. The waiter shoots me a look when the guy orders a light beer and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. My date is lanky and awkwardly nervous, which I find endearing and eventually shed the initial annoyance and plastic smiles. At the end, I'm genuinely laughing at his jokes and when he suggest two cups of cocoa, I accept. Walking down the streetm side by side, he doesn't make a move to touch me for at least three blocks.
Slowly, and a bit tentatively, fingers intertwine and steps time into one another with the occasional glance at the other. We find ourselves sitting down on a green apple green picnic table looking up into a night sky.
"You are so cute." I crinkled my nose at this makeshift compliment.
"I don't want to be cute. If anything, I want to be attractive or alluring or addictive."
"But if you're cute, then you could be mine. All the rest are illusions."
I nod, understanding his sense of logic. "Fair Enough."
Arms encircle my waist, pull me close and in my ear he whispers "You're cute, little one."
Oh and my,
Ally M
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I get a message over the double blind match.com email system and the moment I see it, I cringe. It's someone who works for the same company I do and while we're in completely different parts of the building with completely different jobs, I'm not interested.
It was late, I had just finished a date with the Law Student, and there was a part of me procrastinating writing him.
Do you see that? The procrastination? What was I thinking?!
The next morning, I'm jumped middle school style at my desk.
FPG(formerly the prettiest girl in the office): I've heard a bit of gossip about you! Someone in the back has a crush on you.
Me: Yeah, he sent me an email over Match.
FPG: So?
Me: So, what?
FPG: Do you think you'd ever...
Me: No. He has kids and I don't date smokers.
FPG: Oh come on! It'll be great! He's so shy, Ally, that a date would really help him out. Besides, it's not like you're serious with anyone right now. Right? I mean, he is seriously, like, such a nice guy. You'll like him.
Me: FPG, You know, I don't know. He just wrote me last night and I'd really like to handle this like any other match date.
She nods, smiles, and it all seems to be okay until five minutes later she comes back.
FPG: I don't think his feet are going to touch the ground all day!
Me: Why?
FPG: Don't worry about telling him you'll go out on a date with him. I took care of that for you!
What? No note with a box to check "Yes" or "No" or "Maybe" just her lies?!
Luckily she walked away before I could kill her. Murder, people! This woman needs to be put out of my darn misery, because goodness knows I hate the drama. This, right here, is why you don't pee in the pool. (I mean, there are hundreds of reasons not to, this is a metaphor for dating. My father's, by far, is the funniest and filthiest one I've heard to date.)
When I get home, I've already recieved an email that reads like a yappy puppy at my feet.
Hi! Did FPG talk to you today about me? Here's my cell number, the number of tattoo's I have, my entire life story, and please date me, Ally!
How did this happen to me?! How on this blue Earth, did this happen to me? Better yet, how do I get out of this gracefully? Because, right now, from where I'm sitting, I'm stuck.
Hates Immaturity,
Ally
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| 2008-04-04 17:32 |
| Agenda |
| Public |
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Tonight:
Date with vegetarian.
Tomorrow Morning:
Omlette with the Inquistorial Squad.
Tomorrow Night:
Martinis with the ladies and their male may or not be closetted best friend.
Sunday Morning:
Watching fracking BSG. And nothing else.
Sunday Night:
Date with the professor.
Busy Girl,
Ally M
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| 2008-04-01 21:47 |
| Script Frenzy |
| Public |
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It's that time of year again.
I'll post, sporadically, but I promise I will post. Currently my dating scene has been referred to as "The Harem." Who knew so many men found me attractive?
Sweet,
Ally
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I need out.
I just can't. I can't do this another day.
This whole get up, get dressed, and pretend to be like everyone else when every cell in my soul is screaming to get out of here and find my place in this world. I don't know what I'm doing with my life. Which breaks my heart, because I'm starting to even doubt my own love of writing. Just because you love something doesn't mean you should do it the rest of your life, and working towards a degree in Creative Writing seems ridiculously counter productive. Just write, and I do! I write constantly, but I'm stuck right now. I don't know where to do, what to do, and this entire stagnant feeling I have is rising up to choke the living daylights out of my hopes and dreams, or mutating bright thoughts into darkened misery. I'm not okay. I need out.
I need out. I need away. I need a life of my own. Not a life bent to the will of my loving famiy, because while I do love them, they want and need me near. I've acquiecsed, as I promised, and now with my obligation fulfilled I find myself struggling. It was all mapped out, but then I left the person it was all planned with. No more plan. No more bloody plan. I don't know how to function without a plan and whilst I'm scrambling to put together a new one, this drowning feeling wraps around me and chokes it all out. No plan A, B, or even C. No lists to be completed. Just an empty sheet of paper looking back at me, taunting me.
I need a plan.
Panic and Tears,
Ally
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About three months ago, I was told my baby bother was going to be living with me for the summer, by the baby bother. Not asked. Told. Told, people! Gracious, because I am the oldest, I assured him I would be happy to have him for three months over the summer.
1. My parents are moving and my little family unit is busting up.
2. I thought this would help both of us adjust to this change.
3. He's the baby, for crying out loud, you trying say "No" when you're the oldest child.
Three months pass and I don't hear more any more information concerning the sacrifice I'll be undergoing and the change in lifestyle that I will be having. Drying out my apartment, keeping real food in the fridge, closing to the door to my bedroom when getting dressed and all those sorts of little things you do when living with another living being. I should probably add "buy pajamas" to that list. The least he could is tell me when he'll be staying with me, right?
No. Heck no. It's just my job to sit there, shut up, and smile. Oh, and buy groceries because there isn't any food in the apartment. Not just chick food either, I need to have real stuff in there, because who eats baby greens? By the way, what are baby greens? I mean, I eat the stuff, but I have no idea what kind of plants are in there, even if they are organic.
When, finally, I get the chance to speak to the bother about this all, he treats me like I'm an inconvenience. It quickly alters into a cataclysmic conversation with his final words: "Don't even pretend like you care about me, Ally. We both know you don't."
Huh.
Really, now.
I don't care? I don't bloody care?! I used to check your homework while cooking your dinner and then take you to soccer practice or scout meetings. I don't care?! Gosh, I sure have a funny way of showing it. It is ridiculously obvious that I don't care, especially after I bought half a dozen boxes of thin mints for the child. Oh, and renting him a mustang for the prom, that just screams 'Indifference.'
Twerp.
I'm an only child now. I get to be a little selfish, socially awkward when it comes to sharing, and as time goes on I think I might be an orhpan. Just me, the sole remaining McDonat. Off to break into this world like it was a box of somoas.
I consider all obligations to stay in this town dissolved, before the contractual agreement would have reached completion. May is only two months away, but March will do just fine. Furthermore, this altered state lends a change of venue a favorable outcome.
I need the heck out of this College Town. And fast.
Escape,
Ally M.
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In my defense: He's got a nice voice and we all know my propensity for redheads.
If you're a redhead, I can't help but notice you! They all catch my eye in one way or another. When it's little kids, a little part of me melts and wants to have one of those adorable little bundles. I don't want kids, but a minature redhead makes me want to have kids. That's not entirely true, little blonde headed girls who look like me as a kid make me want to have kids too. Dang, I was cute.
Back to my story:
So, can we postpone our date to Thursday so I can get a manicure and pedicure?
Except, here's the thing:
I'm NOT the one who said that!
I can look past the not eating meat, the being a broke student, the addicted to coffee bit from being a barista at starschmucks, the owning of cats, and I could care less that he's a bhuddist.
I can't take the mani-pedi thing.
Out There,
Ally
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