The last thing I want is for you to hate me but you are so royally fucked up that I'm not surprised.
I'm sorry that I lied and made you think I was happy when I wasn't.
I'm sorry that sometimes I wasn't lying when I said I didn't want to touch you.
I'm sorry that I couldn't find it inside me to love you.
I'm sorry that I didn't ever want to love you in the first place.
I'm sorry that I don't know how to gracefully orchestrate a breakup, but honestly, who does?
I'm sorry that I continue to haunt you. Please know it's not voluntary on my part.
I'm sorry that all of South hates you, but can you blame them after all this shit?
I'm sorry that I wrote a paper in which you are a character and let people read it. I didn't put your name in.
I'm sorry that I let it go on so long.
I'm sorry that I let it start in the first place.
I'm sorry that I let it die.
I'm sorry that I let you go so far before you let me go, but you haven't untethered me yet and thus I am slowly drowning with you.
I found the "I sowwy" card in my old school stuff while looking for mittens, and I don't know what to do with it. The phrasing makes me cringe. I'm sorry that I let you feel so bad about yourself. I'm sorry that I made you feel so bad about yourself. I feel like it's only fair to burn it, but I keep forgetting and I don't want to set the house on fire. I can't believe you burned the Platypus Love Story. I mean, I can. I believe it, I even expected it. But I liked it. I considered keeping the real thing and only giving you a copy, but I thought that might be tacky. At that point it was...what was it, March? You probably know better than me. And I was past caring, but I was trying to make up for my lack of caring by faking caring. That was a great fake. I worked extremely hard on that fake.
I'm sorry I'm stooping to your level and writing things on the internet. I thought I was above this, but sometimes, in order to communicate, you have to speak a language that isn't your own. And this is your language, not mine. I hope I'm a bit more graceful. I haven't used the word "bitch" yet in reference to you. Or "cunt". That I will not do, and when you did I felt like I'd been hit. Remember when we would talk about language and sexism and riot grrrl? I often think that all that talk meant nothing to you, as you don't apply much of it to your everyday behavior. You aren't really as great of a feminist example as you think you are. I'm sorry that I know how to push your buttons, and I'm sorry that that hurt. But sometimes I daydream about seeing you on the street, having a nice, normal conversation, and then at the end of it making sure you actually look me in the eyes and hear me say "I hope I hurt you as much as you hurt me." And leaving you to think about how shitty it is to read about yourself on the internet.
I am sorry.
I wish I could remember the day that I stopped being happy. If I were to be completely honest, the only times I remember being happy were the times that involved kissing or intense cuddles. Now, that doesn't mean I wasn't happy other times, but nothing else immediately comes to mind.
"I am astounded
by the various kisses we’re capable of.
Each from different heights
diminished, which is simply the law."
So, when your mouth was occupied in ways other than talking and my mind was occupied in other ways than thinking, we had a pretty great relationship.
It's been a year and a day, and I was over it several months in. I have forgotten most of the agonizing I did over fixing little things that just grew under my scrutiny, I have let go of most of the fights I had with other people because of you, I don't even remember the full sting of the times we tried so desperately to communicate but really just ended up passive-aggressively insulting each other. But I never got over how shitty you were/are afterward, and I don't think I'll ever forgive you entirely.
Today a year ago, I kissed you at three o'clock before rehearsal and I wondered if we would last.
I'll give you this one, I will always remember you. Remember that time I told you I didn't want to remember you as the girl that gave me herpes in high school? Well, now I almost wish that legacy on you instead of the one you have now. I really am sorry, and all I feel now is grey. Remember when I told you, on May 26th, that feelings don't always come out as words, they come out as colors? And I broke up with you without really having the words besides "I'm not happy". I guess then I was red-brown, the color of rust or dried blood, and now I'm grey, the color of foggy days and half-remembered memories.
"Yes, sometimes even the false is tender."
But most importantly is this. You said "Fine, whatever. But it better work." At least I hope I can give you the satisfaction that it wasn't in vain.
It definitely worked.
"And the big bruise
from the longer fall looked perfectly white
in a few years.
That astounded me most of all."
~Stephen Dunn, Each From Different Heights
I am in New York and the bill just passed and Pride is tomorrow and I just saw Avenue Q and I am going to see Ani DiFranco with Camille in September.
Life is so wonderful.
I am so so so so angry about this whole situation of straight white men pretending to be inspirational internet lesbians. Like, I'm so angry that I don't have any words for it and I'm just going to let Riese talk for me because she always says things the best way.
HEY LYING DUDES! The internet is the ONE FUCKING PLACE where so many gay girls can feel safe being who they are — unlike real life, where they are often silenced.
Something you wouldn’t know ANYTHING ABOUT, you fucking middle-aged white guy.
CHECK YOUR MOTHERFUCKING PRIVILEGE.
How dare you, Tom MacMaster, write about being an out lesbian of color in Syria when you are a privileged MARRIED white man who can travel and study wherever you damn well please and are a citizen of America, a country where you, as a straight cisgender white man, have more privilege then we’ll likely obtain in our lifetimes.
How dare you, Bill Graber, write about our struggles for gay marriage as if they were your own when you’re happily married to a woman. How dare you write about DADT as if it was your own struggle when you’ve had a storied, unprejudiced career in the military. How fucking dare you. You’ve done a disservice to not only your community but to the ACTUAL LESBIANS who are writing for your site every day, too.
I think it was probably prophetic that is began in a fight.
Would have been today.
There is a baby spider that isn't all that huge now but it's going to grow up and be very large and I can actually see that is has grown in the past two days but it doesn't come out until late so my mom can't get it because it's asleep. And it stays in the corner of the bathroom so I can just kind of ignore it by now, but then all of a sudden a fucking giant centipede ran across the floor towards my bed. And it was fast and gross and ew ew ew. And also two slightly less scary spiders across the room but I think one of them is preggers so what if we have a billion trillion baby spiders down here and then they grow up and I would actually die. Why do I live in a basement.
I hate spring. All it is is allergies and bugs and sunshine that isn't as warm as it looks. Give me summer already, please.
I am actually ashamed of being this scared of the bugs. Seriously, I don't mind them when I'm outside. I don't even mind them when I'm inside and awake. But when I'm going to sleep and can't watch them I start to freak out a little. And it's not like there's just one. There are now at least four in the general vicinity, and they are more threatening the more of them there are.
I would like to please move away and go to New York or Berlin or somewhere huge where I can be anonymous and start over.
I feel so trapped.
The Wald will probably fix it. It always seems to. And I don't have that much longer until I can start over. Just a year and a few odd months.
I'm miserable for no reason. I had a pretty good day. Tons of piano practicing, good lesson, got school shit done, I dunno. Average day. But I feel so suffocated.
Sidenote: Lost and Delirious was so bad. Oh, god. Paulie was painful to watch. Just...so bad. Like, I tend to like shitty movies, but this one was too much for me even. Ick.
"Don't go over there."
"There. Over there. Don't go in there. They'll want you to, but don't."
Beautiful woman, out drunk on a Wednesday night.
"My boyfriend has a fifteen year old daughter."
"I'm twenty-one, just barely." It's my Palahniuk-ian game I play. A new person, every time. This time, I was born in a small town in Massachusetts, moved here at 16, and take night classes at the U. I teach preschool during the day and I want to be an actor.
"I don't want to go up. Not like you. I don't have the hope in me."
"It's a nice night."
"Where are you going?"
"To 50th, two stops down. I could walk there, but-"
"No. No, don't. The train's coming."
"Do you have any advice for my boyfriend's daughter?"
"Well, have good friends. Don't date people who do lots of drugs."
"Oh, she will"
"I know. I did." Some of my story is true.
"When I was fifteen, I locked myself in my room and pouted." Still sort of true, but my room was everywhere but home.
"She'll hit seventeen or eighteen and be a lot better. I promise."
"Yeah, but that's two whole years."
"You're fine. Sometimes, when you're young, you think you're not fine, but you're fine."
"I am fine. In fact, I'm better than fine. I'm great."
"Good. You're fine. You'll be fine."
"You will, too."
"You're okay, right? I won't have to worry about you?"
"You don't have to worry about me."
The train pulled up, and we sat apart, but still close. A boy with an Arby's bag got on at 46th as I turned on Ani DiFranco. At 50th, she stood up and pulled me in for a hug.
"You're a beautiful person. I love you."
"I love you too. Have a nice night." But she didn't let me go.
"That boy there, he wants you. But be good, be safe."
And then she left.
She was nothing special to look at, she was hopeless, and drunk past the point of caring, but she was beautiful beyond belief.
I know this my fourth post today, but I just needed to let the world know that I have the very best best friend in the entire world. I mean, who else can calm me down in five seconds? Who else will sing Lady Gaga over the phone with me? Who else will talk to me for two hours over the phone, even when there's nothing to talk about?
Okay, some other people can do some of those things. But it's different with a best friend, you know? It's better.
And really, no one else I know ends their phone calls with "Goodnight, love you, bye." It's different love than mom-love and different than girl-love, but it's so real. It's so comforting. I mean, I don't need to be told all the time that I'm pretty or talented or whatever, it actually gets old because most of the compliments I get are so superficial. But when it's real, it's so fucking real. There's something about knowing you earned that love, or that compliment, or that "well done", or that A. Knowing I'm a good friend who deserves love. Who earned love, who is loved. It's so great.
And I reread my letter, now that I've calmed the fuck down, "Ok, so, I just wanted to get a letter to you, reminding you of how dearly I love ya." Thank you.
Thank you, world, for all this love that exists in my life. I just need to tune in more often.