Though I said or implied it repeatedly in the last five or six posts, this time I know for sure it’s the case. This is the last time I’m going to write to you on here. There was a decent amount of time where that thought would be alien to me, totally unfathomable. The idea that I would not feel the way I did last year, that I would–as much as I can–be able to move on from you…well, I never thought it would happen. You were gone all of a sudden, and that absence was present in every facet of my life; every single minute was accompanied with that phantom pain you’d left behind.
But here I am. It doesn’t hurt as much anymore. It’s been about four months since I’ve cried over you, and even that was alcohol-induced and, to be honest, kind of random. (No, really. I was at a concert–my first, somehow–and you came up in conversation while the opening act was playing. I was maybe three gin and tonics to the wind at that point and, for some reason, standing there in the dark, next to a girl who I cared about in a way I didn’t think would be possible again after everything with you, all I could think about for a few minutes was how much you meant to me. It was just a few errant tears, but it was kind of overpowering.) Before that, I can’t even remember the last time.
I guess I’ve moved on as much as I’m going to; I’ve gained some sense of closure, I suppose. Someone told me in September that you had a new boyfriend–that you’d had for awhile at that point, maybe since not too long after you and I ended–and, to be honest, I was kind of happy for you. That would have destroyed me before. I cannot even imagine. But not anymore. Now…well, I want you to be happy. I want you to have someone who makes you feel good about yourself, someone who makes everything in your life seem just a little more bright.
It should go without saying that I still care about you. You were my best friend, you were there for me through a lot, and I’ll always love you for that. Maybe, years from now, we’ll talk again and you’ll look past how much I hurt you. I’m not holding out for that or anything, but I’m certainly open to it. Though, if it doesn’t happen, I’ll survive. I just want you to know…you had a huge impact on my life. And not just in the obvious way from everything I’ve written here, which would imply it was a mostly negative impact.
That last night I cried over you, the night of the concert in September, I called you afterwards, drunk. I left you a message and, despite not remembering the bulk of it, I remember saying that you were a good person and that you deserve to be happy. I mean that. I’m sorry for how much I hurt you; it was something I never wanted to do, hurt you.
Recently, though, I’ve really missed writing. Doing this helped me in indescribable ways and the clarity that came with it…I’ve missed it. So, a few days ago, I wrote the first entry in a new blog. I’m not sure what the angle of it is going to be yet, I just know I need to do it. It’s going to be strange writing and having it not be addressed to you. Something I’ll have to get used to, I suppose. I predict it’ll still be somewhat…depressing. Maybe not as bad as this was sometimes, but I don’t know if it can be helped. What can I say, I’m a relatively angsty and introspective guy. You know this about me. So, if you ever want to see it (or, more realistically, if anyone else does), you can find it at The Languor of Life.
And, with that, I guess there’s nothing else to say other than…goodbye.
‘Cause if I seem to be confused, I didn’t mean to be with you; but when you said I scared you, well I guess you scared me too. But if it’s love you’re looking for…well, I can give a whole lot more. And if you’re somewhere out there passed out on the floor, Joey, I’m not angry anymore…
For the first time in what feels like a really long time, this one is actually to you. Maybe it’s the last one to you–I feel like I’ve said that about thirty-three times or so now, but…yeah. Seems like it may be really the case this time.
A few months ago, after I sent you that Facebook message and you replied the way you did, I started to harbor a lot of resentment and bitterness toward you. That’s no shocker, I’m sure, not if you read what I wrote to you here. And even though I haven’t been writing, that bitterness hasn’t necessarily gone anywhere. Although I didn’t notice I was doing it, something would happen that would remind me of you, and I would, in what I can imagine must have been a relatively spiteful tone, say something like, “Oh, she hated kids,” or, “She was always like that,” or whatever. I was so angry with you. I said I wasn’t bitter, I was fine, but really…that just wasn’t true.
And I mean, not totally without justification, I don’t think. I really do think what you said to me was completely unwarranted. But…I guess what I failed to realize (or maybe refused to accept) was that…you’re entitled to feel however you want about me, even if the way you feel really hurts me. I may want your forgiveness, but that doesn’t mean you’re required to give it to me. I guess in the past few days I’ve been thinking a lot about you for some reason, and I’ve come to realize that, regardless of anything else, I truly was in love with you. I do love you, as a person. And, as such, I want you to be happy. Now, if hating me makes you happier, then…okay. Fine. Hate me. I wish you didn’t. If for no other reason than hanging onto that isn’t really great for you, I wish you didn’t. And maybe, at this point, it’s not hate. Maybe it’s total apathy. I just don’t matter to you, one way or the other. And that’s fine too, I suppose. (Not like you need my permission or anything). If feeling nothing for me, one way or the other, improves your life, then feel nothing. I’m sorry I tried to impose the way I wanted you to be onto you instead of just letting you feel however you felt.
I do still miss you. Not as much as before, not as painfully, but it still twangs every now and then. I think about you still. I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing you at least a little bit. You’ll always be a small part of me that I carry forward. But I don’t need anything from you anymore. I guess, eventually, somewhere along the way, I found some sense of closure. No communication is communicative, you know? I care about you, and I will absolutely always be there for you if you need me, all you’d need to do would be to ask. You won’t, I suspect. Ever. But…you know, you could.
Really, the hardest part about all of this was that losing you scared me. I didn’t know what it said about me, as a person, to lose the one person I loved more than anyone else in my life. I scared you away, and the way you reacted to that fear terrified me. It’s still something I’m healing from, still something I’m coming to grips with to try to understand. But…I’m trying to learn from it, you know? Trying to be a better person as a result, to grow up a little more. Maybe I already have–I hope so, anyway.
In any event…I just wanted to say goodbye to you, I guess. You really had a huge impact on my life, both good and bad, and, like I said earlier, I will always carry part of you with me. And…I forgive you for hurting me. Because I was bitter about that for a long time too.
ily. imy. iwabhfyiynm.
To start, we’re really nearing the end of me doing this, I promise. I’m working on writing somewhere else, somewhere…unrelated to you. I’m only writing to you now because I want…maybe need, to write, and so long as I’m writing here, it has to be to you. I haven’t figured out what I’m going to move on to, exactly, in terms of writing, but I do want to continue doing it. It helps, it makes me feel better, and…this may be dumb, but I feel like there are people invested in me or something. I feel like if I were to just…stop, I’d be doing what you did to me, albeit on a remarkably lesser scale. I’m thinking of finding a way to try to make ad money or something off of it–my financial state is in ruins and, as exploitive as I feel trying to profit from something like this…desperate times, you know?
Anyway. Enough about the medium, onto the message. So, the song. Not to you. Not about you. Well…I mean, okay, it could feasibly be about you, but also everyone. Really, it’s about me. See, I wish…I really wish someone felt that way about me. That, to just one person, I was their person. I know that, for some given period of time, I’ve held that role for any number of people in my life. That, in that moment in time, I was the most important person in someone’s life. But it’s always temporary. “Though I know I’ll never lose affection for people and things that went before, I know I’ll often stop and think about them…in my life, I loved you more.” That certainly hasn’t held true. I’m like…Pogs. Pokemon cards. Fads. A flash in the pan. Something that, at the time, seems kind of awesome but, after awhile, you look back on and wonder what the hell you were thinking–“Why did I derive enjoyment from that?”
See, here’s the thing. I feel sometimes kind of like…like I could just disappear and it wouldn’t make much of a difference. Not that no one would notice–I know my absence would be recognized, people would question it, people would be upset. I’m not despondent enough to think no one gives a shit about me, that I’m invisible. I know that isn’t the case. But…at the same time, I’m not anyone’s focus. I’m not the first person anyone ever really thinks to call, to talk to, to do things with. I feel so much like a consolation prize sometimes. Like a piece of the scenery. It’s really lonely, honestly. I try not to think about that and, for what I think is an impressive amount of the time, I succeed. But then…I get all snap bracelety again, become so integrated into someone’s life, and then, inevitably, fall out of fashion. I’m not denying responsibility here, either. I recognize that I play a part in why people grow weary of me–I give all of myself in relationships and hope for…not quite the same, but at least within the ballpark. I can be exhausting.
Despite that recognition, I do find myself wondering why someone hasn’t wanted me to remain a more permanent fixture, in spite of my flaws. It’d be nice.
Help, I have done it again; I have been here many times before. Hurt myself again today and the worst part is there’s no one else to blame…
This even surprises me a little bit. I intended to be done with this, with writing to you. I meant for my last entry to be it. Yet…here this is. Well, let’s clear a few things up. I really have nothing I need to say to you. I don’t really have all that much I want to say to you. But I do have things I want to say, thoughts and feelings I want to expel and, unfortunately, I’ve come to learn in the past eight months that this helps me do that more than any other method I’ve attempted. So…here we are.
I met someone a few weeks ago. On Memorial Day, actually. We met and we talked for a few hours, quite easily, and when it was time for us to go our separate ways, I immediately didn’t want to go. I got in my car and wanted to text her as soon as the door shut behind me. Keep in mind, this was kind of a big deal for me; I’ve not been emotionally interested in anyone since you. There was one girl in my class that I thought about maybe asking out, but then I realized I didn’t actually want to do that, I just thought that I should, for moving on’s sake. She was nice enough, I did like her as a person, but I had no real interest in letting her in, finding out about her life, caring about her on a level any deeper than, “Hey, you missed class Tuesday, want me to email you the notes?” That was genuinely it, though; no one beyond her. And trust? Forget it. I purposefully kept everyone in my life at a safe distance. That’s not to say that I didn’t open up and talk about how I was feeling, or listen to other people and empathize with their situations, but…I never let myself go. I never let myself feel vulnerable or exposed. Guard was always up. I let my guard down to this girl within ten minutes. Not that I started pouring my heart out or anything, don’t get me wrong. I just felt…right. Comfortable. Totally at ease. It was terrifying.
At this point, I’d already kind of wanted to show all of this to you, to find out whether or not it would make a difference. I was very reluctant to do so, however. It was a contemplation, nothing more. Well, after talking to her for a few days, spending time with her, I knew I wanted to tell you. I didn’t want you back. I genuinely wanted a sense of closure. I cared about this girl, and I believed there was actual potential for something meaningful to grow out of what we’d already built in such a short amount of time. It seemed remarkably unfair to go any further with the storm cloud that you’ve become to me hanging over us all of the time. Well…over me, anyway. I wanted to give this the strongest chance possible and, to do that, I needed to do something regarding you. So I tried to show this to you.
And, okay, this is now officially all over the place, but do you know what convinced me more than anything? Lightning bugs. I was driving a little after dusk one night, a few days after she and I first met, and I passed this field on a back road devoid of any artificial lighting whatsoever. Yet, it was quite bright. The field was filled with fireflies. Seriously, there were hundreds, maybe thousands–my estimation abilities regarding number of insects are not my strong suit, sorry. But there were a lot, and they lit the field up completely. I slowed down to a speed my grandmother would even consider to be a snail’s pace, and I just stared. In that moment, I felt…well, I guess it was hope. And for the first time in I don’t know how long, something happened to me that I wanted to share with another person, but I had no interest in sharing it with you. I wanted her to be there with me, to see what I was seeing. It was something so small, so…natural, but a bevy of lightning bugs in a dark field made me finally realize there was more to life than you.
She’s an amazing person. She’s made me feel passionate about things again–pretty much everything. She said I did the same for her. Being with her was like…okay, I felt like part of a machine, you know? Like a gear, and my gear teeth were nearly perfectly matched to her gear teeth. Totally in-sync. That’s not to say everything was perfect. It wasn’t. I obviously had issues stemming from what happened with you, and she has a decent amount of baggage herself. As great as things for the most part were when we were together, when we were apart, it seemed like she would run things over in her mind and freak out a bit. Like I was getting too close, becoming too integrated into her existence. She would push me away. But a few days would pass and…things would be good again. Two steps forward, one step back. Not the most ideal way of proceeding in a relationship, but it was progress.
There’s so much more to this, more than I’m going to go into, but…I don’t know, I felt like my issues were not really affecting things too much. I convinced myself that I had issues trusting people–not untrue, mind you–but I trusted her an absurd amount almost immediately. Clearly my trust issue wasn’t an issue here; anything that was affecting what was going on between us was from her. Her fears, insecurities, whatever–not mine. I trusted her, so…yeah. I was good on my end.
Except that’s bullshit. Yes, I have trust issues. Strong ones. Somehow, she managed to slip her way around that though and it played no part on what was happening. Great. But really, how could I think that was it? It’s not it. And, because of that total shortsightedness, I was utterly unfair to her. We both said repeatedly that we were trying to approach this relationship differently than we had with other people in the past. I believed that completely. I meant it. And I thought I was. I recognized areas that have held me back a bit before, and I was doing my best to not repeat past mistakes. Sometimes I slipped back, but…hey, change is hard. That’s to be expected. Other areas though…other areas I didn’t even try to change, namely because I didn’t necessarily recognize they were issues.
I have major self-deprecation issues. It’s weird, because I can identify the positive things about myself, really. But then, what happens is that I start to tear down each of those positives because they don’t seem to be enough. I end up overcompensating. I ended up not taking her at her word–trust her though I did–and overcompensating. She said a few times how happy she was I existed, that I was who I was. I didn’t believe that. I didn’t think who I was could possibly be enough for her. And I feel like I needed…I don’t know, frequent validation. Not verbal validation really. More like…I don’t know, I wanted to spend time with her all the time. Not that I think that’s strange or anything; after all, she did make me really happy. When she wanted space though, I would get self-conscious. Like I wasn’t enough for her, like she was reconsidering whether I really was who she believed me to be. So I’d make an issue of it, I would push. And I pushed her away.
That’s just one example. There are more. I’m sure there are still some I haven’t recognized. But…what good does it do me now? It’s too late. She doesn’t want to see me anymore. I scared her off, just like I scared you off. And trust me, I’ve already been told how I’ll meet someone else, there’s plenty of other people out there. I know that. Of course I do. But…that’s always true. She and I could have fallen madly in love and that would be true. She’s her, and, right now, I don’t want to find someone that’s not.
So…yeah, that’s that situation. I keep hoping she’ll call me, text, IM, whatever. I hope that I didn’t drive her out of my life permanently. I care about her and I’d like to continue to try to work through both of our issues, especially now that I recognize how much I contributed to the problems that were there and how much pressure I put on her. I don’t know if she will though. Maybe she’ll see this–I told her about this, about my writing to you, within a week of meeting her. I figured if I was going to scare her away with the baggage that I had from you, it may as well be early on, you know? Didn’t scare her, though. She really is a great person. And the worst part? I do think she actually liked me for who I really was. I didn’t feel like I had to hide any part of myself away from her, and…yeah. I wish I’d recognized that earlier, trusted it more.
And there we are. This is still a bit weird, you know? I feel like I’m writing to you about this because this…I don’t know, this blog (ugh) kind of belongs to you. To just start writing differently, more of a narrative rather than a personal message…I feel it would betray the medium. I’ll have to figure that out.
And I told you to be patient, and I told you to be fine, and I told you to be balanced, and I told you to be kind. And now all your love is wasted–and then who the hell was I? And I’m breaking at the britches and at the end of all your lines…who will love you? Who will fight?
I’ve had nothing to say to you for the past few weeks. No. That’s not true. I’ve had nothing to say to you here recently. A while back, I decided I really have said all I can say; beyond this, what’s here, it would just be repetitive. Unhelpful. I wanted to be done with it. But I couldn’t just stop–that felt wrong. Unsatisfying. No, I still wanted you to see it. I wanted to feel as though I’d done everything I could to get you back, and I knew that writing blindly to the world wasn’t actually doing that. I’ve said a lot here–good and bad–but none of it means anything if you never see it. Would it change your mind? Maybe, maybe not. I tended to suspect the latter, but…I couldn’t know for sure, now could I?
So I decided I was going to tell you about it. When I made that decision, I wanted to pick up the phone right then and there, send you here as quickly as possible. I didn’t though. You were about to start finals and I didn’t want to cause any unnecessary stress that could feasibly distract you. So I waited. Patiently. You got home, and I waited still. I figured I’d let you get settled in a bit. Then I finally called. You didn’t answer–shocker, right? I left a message, telling you in broad strokes about this. I didn’t expect you to listen to it. I knew you wouldn’t, actually. So, a day and a half later, I sent you a Facebook message. Twenty minutes after, you replied.
Let’s see, where to begin…oh, I know. How about, “Fuck you.” I read what you wrote to me–clearly without having read the message I’d sent, mind you–and I won’t lie, I was really upset. You continued to treat me like I was some kind of monster, total scum of the earth. Yes, I was upset. I drove around the state that night, blaring my radio, running what you’d said over and over in my mind. How could you think those things about me? How could I possibly have screwed up so badly?
Well, you know what? After considering it further the past few days, I realized something. I didn’t screw up that badly. Oh, I screwed up, no question. I’m not trying to escape responsibility for my actions, my behavior. But to warrant the reaction I’ve received from you? No; not that badly. And with that realization, I was forced to look back on everything I’ve believed the past eight months. “The girl I loved so much couldn’t do this to me.” I’m sure I said something vaguely similar to that to you on here before–maybe exactly that, I don’t know. And you know what? It’s true. The girl I loved couldn’t have. The problem, though? The girl I loved? Didn’t exist.
You weren’t lying. You never really did love me. For so long, I was crushed by the thought of that. I was so hurt that I was potentially never worth your love. That’s not right, though; it’s the completely wrong perspective. You’re incapable of it. You told me over and over again how you’d never loved anyone like me, how you kept everyone at arms-length, you never really let people inside, even your best friend. You never let me in either. Maybe you tried. Maybe you wanted to be more…human, I don’t know. Or maybe you were just curious. I don’t know. All I do know is that, in retrospect, everything you ever said to me was clearly a load of shit. What I finally realized…that doesn’t mean I wasn’t worth your love; it means you were incapable of giving it. And that just makes me sad for you.
I’ve reread what you sent to me a lot since the other night. And with every reading, I get more and more annoyed. With you, yes, but mostly with myself. You are…an immature child. So overly melodramatic–and that’s coming from the guy who’s pined away for you for months, writing to you anonymously for the entire world to see. You lie to yourself. It’s not even a question anymore whether you do–you do. It’s clear from what you said. You’re “afraid” of things that are utterly ridiculous, things I told you that you had no reason to be afraid of months ago. If you even are afraid. I tend to think you’re not. I read what you said, and it’s just a total guilt trip. “Oh, you’ve utterly fucked up my life for good, blah blah blah.” No. I didn’t. Your life really doesn’t seem all that fucked up, honestly. From what I’ve gathered, you’ve had no trouble blithely keeping on. It’s only this terrible thing when you’re talking to me, when you’re trying to make me hate myself for what I’ve done to you.
But you know what? I didn’t do all that much. Yeah, I got upset and wanted to kill myself. Screw you if you think I wanted to do that to you. How selfish are you? I was in so much pain, I was so screwed up, and you turned it into something all about you. You told me you loved me and then you turned your back on me. Who the hell does that? Who, when the person that they supposedly love so much is in the emergency room because he’s suicidal, decides to just never speak to him again? I’m not the one who’s the monster here.
So…I’m done with this, I think. Writing to you. You’re not worth it. You’re incapable of any real kind of commitment, of truly opening up to someone. You never let me in, not really. Maybe I got further than anyone else, but that’s still not in. It’s truly all just a waste of time and energy. I still care about you. I still, on some level, love you. That may sound absurd after everything I’ve just said, but…you were important to me, even if I wasn’t all that important to you. I did let you in, completely. And what we had, what we were, even though it wasn’t as real or meaningful as I’d thought at the time, still meant the world to me. So, yes, I care about you. I probably always will, at least a little. But I’m not entirely certain I give too much of a shit about you anymore. About whether you’re in my life. About what you think of me. You want to think I’m this terrible person? Go ahead. You’re wrong, really. And moreover, you should take a serious look at yourself in the mirror.
And you know what? Grow the hell up.
The problem with trying to shut you out of my mind, to the best of my ability, anyway, is that sometimes you’re just there. I don’t know how long ago, I said that you disappeared from my News Feed; did I ever follow up on that? Well if not: it wasn’t permanent. You still show up; actually, things show up about you now that I don’t think I saw before. But whatever. Facebook isn’t exactly breaking new ground at this point, though. You’re there, I see you talking to people, it hurts, whatever. Old news, really.
What bothers me is that I’m really trying to not think about you so much. I’m trying to forget you–to the best of my ability, anyway. I want to be able to accept that you aren’t coming back. The more I distract myself, the less I think of you, the more unlikely it seems that you’ll want to talk to me again. I just can’t get it through my mind, though. You keep coming back. Maybe part of that is because of this. I still write to you; I still acknowledge the possibility that you’ll read this. That you’ll give a shit. Even though you so clearly don’t.
It’s been over seven months. I’m living my life the best I can right now; I’m not sitting around moping over you. You’re in my mind, that much is probably obvious, but I try to fight you out now; I didn’t before. But you’re too strong, your memory seemingly permanent. You refuse to go anywhere. I wish the you in my head could match up with the real you in terms of how easy it is to walk away from me.
People kind of suck. That’s a broad generalization, I realize, but to some extent, it’s true. Whose fault is that, though? Is it their fault? Or is it mine? Not that I’m to blame for anyone else’s actions, that isn’t what I mean. Are my expectations too high? Sometimes I think they are. Sometimes I think that having any expectations of other people at all is a poor way to live my life. It’s funny, because I recognize how damaging expectations can be in most arenas; if there’s a movie I’m really excited about, for example, I go in expecting it to be terrible. Utterly disappointing. That way, if it isn’t terrible, if it has any redeeming value whatsoever, I’m able to enjoy it–it’s surpassed my expectations. So are those actually expectations? Is “I expect this to be terrible” any different than “I expect nothing one way or the other”? Would I be less disappointed in people if I tried to think this way about my relationships, not just pop culture?
What’s that really accomplish though? Is it healthy? Have I asked too many rhetorical questions in the last three minutes? (Yes.) If my expectations for people are negative, if I expect them to disappoint me, to be sort of shitty…will I be happy when they do that? “Well, at least they did what I expected them to do.” That seems…I don’t know. If I set the bar that low, what’s the point? If I expect to just always be near the bottom of someone’s priorities, does that help the feeling of dejection because it’s expected? It seems like it may just make me a doormat. “Treat me however you’d like, I expect the worst from you, you can’t disappoint.”
So what about the other? No expectations. Blank slate. Let’s ignore the fact, for the time being, that I don’t remotely know how to cleanse myself of any and all expectations, to just take things as they come along without any sort of anticipation. So, presuming I could magically start doing that…I don’t know, it seems sort of apathetic. I don’t know why, necessarily; it just seems very passive.
None of this makes any real sense, I’m sorry. It also isn’t about any one person in particular. It really isn’t even about you, I don’t think. I’ve had a general feeling of malaise the last week or two–though it was briefly dispelled Monday night, but that’s a topic for another time, I think–and I don’t know why. I think I’m tired of feeling unimportant? Like I’m…a consolation prize. And maybe that’s more my own issue than anything actually going on in my life, but regardless, it’s distressing. Since I’ve been feeling this way, there’s been something of a hollowness inside, something different than the emptiness I’ve felt since losing you. That emptiness hurts. This, though…it’s just nothing. I was at a store earlier today that sold balloons, and one had escaped from the pack. It was blowing back and forth between two huge fans, both set up on shelves close to the ceiling. It was like a real-life game of Pong, and…I stared at it for what may have been a few minutes. Because that’s how I feel. Like I’m just sort of floating back and forth between nothing, with no real control over where I’m going. And at any given moment, I could just pop; that would be that. And…who really gives a damn when a balloon pops?
So, you know how I essentially went without sleep for…I don’t know, an entire semester, pretty much? Maybe more? Yeah, good times. Well, in the past week or so, seems my body wanted to go the opposite route. Instead of being able to sleep only two or three hours a night, I now sleep…incessantly. Last night, for example, I went to bed around three or so. I didn’t get out of bed until four this afternoon. Thirteen hours? I mean…really? And it’s been like this every day. I sleep ten to fourteen hours, wake up, and then within an hour, I’m tired again! And it isn’t like I have a job or any real responsibilities right now, so I tend to just go back to sleep. It’s ridiculous. I’m not entirely certain, if given the choice between the little sleep I was getting before and the massive amounts of sleep I’m getting now, which I’d choose. At least when I wasn’t sleeping, I felt productive. Now I just constantly feel as though I’ve wasted an entire day.
I’ve been intentionally neglecting to mention this until now, but I went off of my meds a few weeks ago. Also, I’m inclined to say that you can’t intentionally neglect to do anything. But, I digress. I didn’t actually intend to stop taking them; it just sort of accidentally happened. See, I ran out of pills in the middle of finals. I intended to call in the refill and pick them up after one of my exams, while I was out anyway, but I continually forgot to call Costco. By the time exams were over, it was immediately time for me to start packing and move. The pill bottles got put in some box, so I didn’t have the information I needed to call the refills in anymore, and by the time I finally found them…yeah. I don’t really feel any different. Not in terms of mood, anyway. I’m wondering, though, if this swing from insomnia to fatigue has something to do with that. I do intend to go back on, really; part of the reason I haven’t is because I’m kind of ghetto poor right now. The thought of putting fifty dollars out for pills that don’t seem to do much is really disheartening.
Speaking of money, I do potentially have a job lined up. It’s actually pretty funny: I may end up being a process server. I seemed to win the guy over when I told him that I’d studied the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure and knew the rules governing service of process. He emailed me back and was like, “The fact that you even know such a thing exists puts you at the top of the list, honestly.” He’s out of town for the holiday weekend, but I’m supposed to call him on Tuesday. The pay is decent, so long as there are a relatively constant number of documents that need to be served. I mean, really, I’d be getting paid to drive around and listen to music, with a few pit-stops to drop off some paperwork every now and then. Doesn’t sound too bad to me.
Finally…I recognize that I’ve been kind of emotionally distant the past few times I’ve written to you. I’m sorry. I’m really trying not to lose my shit, and I’m kind of afraid that if I think about you and how I feel about you fully, I’ll do just that. I just need some time to ease into being around so much that reminds me of you. I’ll get used to it, I’m sure, then things will go back to normal.
I know I said that one of the reasons that I’ve been writing less is because of how much everything here reminds me of you, and how I try to hide from you in a way, ergo, no writing. That’s very true. Another part of it, however, is that I’m in one of those phases where no music really…speaks to me, I suppose. I’m not in the mood to listen to anything, nothing seems meaningful (nothing new, anyway), and, well…lame though this may sound, I’ve been having a lot of trouble coming up with songs for this. I’m an idiot, though, because sometime in the past few months, the way I wrote to you began to change. Not thematically or emotionally or anything like that, but…structurally, maybe? No. Procedurally. That’s the best way to describe it, I think. See, when I first started this, I would just start writing. I’d sit down, type awhile, read over what I’d written once I’d finished, and then I would begin the somewhat arduous task of scrolling through iTunes to find the song that best fit what it was I was trying to express to you and expel from myself.
Sometime, however–and I don’t know exactly when–I changed how I did this. I went to iTunes first. I would spend an hour or so playing random pieces of songs that seemed promising until one struck a chord with me, until I heard something that was able to vocalize how I was feeling. It was…almost lazy, in a way. Instead of just taking what I was feeling and putting it on the screen, it was like I was taking a shortcut–find the song, match the lyrics. Now, that isn’t what I did, not so simply stated, but…a little. It kept me on-point. But it also took away some of that stream-of-consciousness style I started with initially. Everything I’ve said here has been totally honest in terms of how I was feeling when I wrote it, but there have certainly been some that were more honest than others. (Can you tell I didn’t pick a song first this time?) Staying on-topic is the opposite of why I started this. And, really, it’s impossible to go off-topic when writing to you. There isn’t a topic, you know? The point is to feel like I can get out what I would want to say to you if you were still in my life, and I…well, I said everything to you. I told you everything. It’s all fair game. Pigeonholing myself before I even start is just dumb. That’s not to say I won’t still do it, mind you, but I’m going to do my best to write first, pick a song second.
So, with that in mind, the whole “telling you whatever I would want to tell you normally” thing, here’s something I think you’d find interesting. I’ve decided that I feel kind of uncultured. I really want to expand my horizons a bit; I love to read, I always have, but I’ve always read modern stuff. I could never get into most of what would be considered “classic” literature; I’m much more comfortable with a Stephen King book or something. But that’s so…limiting. There’s no excuse as to why I can’t get through any book; I mean, seriously. “I’m bored”? That’s such a cop-out. The summer before my Senior year of high school, I was supposed to read all of these books for AP Lit. I read some of them, but not too many. I bought all of them though; I’m big on planning to complete all the work I’m supposed to do, not always huge on the follow-through. When I was packing my office before I moved, I came across a stack of those books, pretty much untouched but for the dust. And sitting on the floor surrounded by cardboard boxes, that’s when I had that realization, that by telling myself I couldn’t get through Anna Karenina because I thought it was boring is really just doing a disservice to myself. So last week sometime, I came up with a…summer reading plan, I guess you can call it. I’ve come up with a plan to read one book that’s nonfiction, then a “classic,” then something popcornish–wash, rinse, repeat. My first nonfiction book was Eats, Shoots & Leaves by Lynn Trusse. It’s about punctuation and how poorly it’s used today, and how to use it correctly. Is it sad how much I love punctuation? Actually, no, you wouldn’t think so; you were also a fan of proper grammar. She would hate my frequent use of ellipses, by the way. Anyway, I’m about to start Anna Karenina tonight–we’ll see how long that takes. I don’t know what my fun book will be–deciding in advance kind of takes the fun and spontaneity out of it, I think. I do plan on reading a lot of Fitzgerald, though; I figure he’s your favorite author, there must be something I missed when I was bored by The Great Gatsby junior year.
So…yes. That’s what my summer has consisted of so far. I’ve applied for jobs, heard little back, and the few that I have heard back from have been sketchy. Like…really sketchy. Damn Craigslist. I really need money, though, my bank account is dismal. It’s quite sad.
And…you get home in a few weeks. Fingers crossed…(no, I’m not 100% certain what I’m crossing them for, but use your imagination, I’m sure figuring out what I’ll be hopeful for won’t require too much effort).
I talked for hours to your wallet photograph and you just listened; you laughed enchanted by my intellect. Or, maybe you didn’t…
I haven’t written to you in awhile. I’m sorry; it isn’t because I haven’t been thinking about you. It isn’t because I haven’t missed you. It…well, I guess it’s because I’ve been very cognizant of the fact that you’re not reading this. That these actually are (oh no, I’m regretting this before I even type it…) messages to nowhere. (Yep, that regret was warranted.) I don’t know. It still helps. It still makes me feel better. It’s just…right now, this moment, it feels slightly emptier than it did before.
Another part of it is that it’s incredibly hard to not think of you when I’m home. I actively hide from you, if that makes any sense. It was easier at school, but here…I just feel surrounded by you. My family finally became displeased with my mattress just kind of chilling in the hallway leading into my bedroom, so I kind of had to set my room up. It’s different now than it was before; the bed lives somewhere new now, and the futon is where the bed used to be. It helped a little bit, honestly. Still, though…you’re just so wrapped up in this house for me. This entire place, really. I wonder how I’m going to be when you get home next month. Should be…interesting.