Hello
Sorry I haven't posted since who knows when, my class is done, I got a passing grade and just abandoned this blog.
I have had some blog related stuff happen to me and I just don't really know how to put it in writing and I try and it's never good to me.
So I am putting an end to this blog and I don't know when I'll write on it again, perhaps soon, perhaps in a couple of years but yeah.....I thank blogger for giving me this outlet to talk about my guy problems and illusions.
au revoir!
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Modern (Non) Guilt
During this blog, I may be writing about my regrets and lost
loves but there have been moments in my life when I was okay that I never told
a guy my true feelings. They are completely in the dark about it, think of me
as a friend, and will always think of me as their friend, not that awkward girl
that came onto me and won’t be talking to ever.
One of those guys was my friend *Hansen* who looked
exactly like Indie Rocker Beck Hansen; only take away ten pounds, make his hair
a little blonder and give him black horn rimmed glasses and the bee stung
kissable lips. How a stick figure of a
guy was given those lips Botox wives would envy is beyond me. He could be Beck's son. *Hansen* was one
of the most interesting people I ever met,
one of the nicest people ever and even though he qualified for hipster
status, he never accepted it.
I met *Hansen* in college during those
classes/clubs where your classmates immediately become friends. He was attached
to a girl but had been friends since kid and she was super cool and nice.
Because it was such a long time ago, I can barely remember what we did
together. I get little snippets such as going to eat lunch with him and him
eating what looked like a five pound burrito with all the trimmings. How his
skinniness could consume that baffled me. I always think of him when I listen
to Deerhunter, we would talk about music, our futures, or we would always bitch and moan about assignments and professors,
and we went to Disneyland together, along with other friends.
The semester
ended and we parted ways, I never told him that I thought he was cute and
wanted to jump his skinny bones, but I did get several pictures of us making
faces at the various parties and hotel sleepovers we would attend. Later on, I bumped into him, he had tossed his glasses for contacts and
somehow, he didn’t look the same anymore. He looked ordinary. He looked way more hotter with the Buddy Holly glasses.
We’re still
friends (the facebook way) and he moved away to the Midwest to study. I may see him one day, I might not and yet I don't regret ever not telling him I liked him. I think of it as a little secret of mine. Did I ever think that he was onto me? That's a pretty tough call to make, there are moments when I think he did like me, like when he was emotinally invested to know why I think I had done a crummy job in class despite my high grades and there are other times where I saw him more friend than crush but I am glad to have met him and will always associate buddy holly with *Hansen*.
* Names changed to hide the cute and handsome.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
A trick of fate....
Been absent because I've been writing and re-writing my tale of woe, want to make it absolutely good for me. In the meantime, an old classic by the great band Camera Obscura. Their song "French Navy" is my dream romance (read the lyrics) and the video is another dream romance I want to happen to me. And yet, I have always thought of this song in my encounters with certain guys, I may dislike them later but I will always love the song.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
I'm Burning (Itching, Twitching) for you
This is a simple something I wrote for class a while back, thought it relevant for this blog.
He twitched and scratched and moved around in the leather comfortable seat. He took out his phone every other second and scratched his eyebrows, scratched his shaggy hair, scratched the back of his neck. He crossed his legs, he uncrossed his legs, he stroked his eyebrow with his index finger, and took out his phone again to browse for nothing. These nervous twitches seemed unnoticeable to the people looking for their seats in this high luxury cinema. All but one noticed these ticks and she couldn’t help it was because of her. It’s not that she had a big ego, she had seen this before. She began with the question: why would someone have a nervous tick while waiting to watch a movie? It wasn’t a scary film, it was “The Descendants.”
She had seen this a mile away or at least a few feet away, as she walked to screen seven she saw him walking in front of her. He was her type, the school boyish type, from what her eyes could see, he looked like Ian Curtis. She repeated the word no in her head at warp speed integrating it with “don’t go into screen seven” she repeated this phrase like a mantra until she uttered an expletive as he went into screen seven. She checked her ticket in the assigned seat theater and they were a seat apart. As she waited for the film to start and checked her cell phone for nothing, “occupying” herself, she could see at the corner of her eye his tics. She knew this technique to a tee. She blamed it on her big eyes but she could scope out her surroundings without making her head move. It’s one of the things she found proud of but in reality, her proud ability actually was one of the factors of her loneliness. Why was he doing that? It made her laugh, could it be her? Was it her hair, her stained beige raincoat that she never got to wash because she forgot or the intoxicating perfume that she dabbled on the back of her neck and wrist. She wished she could look to her right, to see more of this mysterious man’s face but her painful shyness got the better of her.
As the reader, you might think that this girl must think of herself as the fairest of them all. Far from it. She noticed her beauty but believed it only attracted stalkers and perverts. She believed her beauty really came out at night. When she washed all her make up off, or was out in the cold night at some concert as the frigid night air gave her the illusion of cheekbones and the soft man made light gave her an ere of night loveliness, mysterious and mischievous that if someone described her the next day, only good things would come out of their mouth. In the day however, she looked at herself and like the last soldier with his white flag waving in the wind, she gave up on improving her face and mechanically either put on liquid eyeliner or crayon.
The ticks minimized when the previews began and as he relaxed while he laughed at some dramedy film coming out in May, as the film began,she abandoned her thoughts and got involved into the story. As the sniffles became rampant around the room,she couldn’t help but smile. She wasn’t crying but the last time she had heard and seen bawling in a theater was when she watched “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.” As she sneaked a peek to her right, she could see “Tic” guy trying to take something out of his eye, there was nothing there, but it was just a manly way of trying to stop the tears from coming into his eyes.
As the film reached its end, he took a small notebook, writing something, as she looked in his direction, he seemed like a cute studious guy but why was he writing in the middle of the film? The film had come out months ago, the reviews were already written. As the film ended and I got up from my seat,she quickly left as what could be seen from shadows him following me, she entered the ladies room and mentally put him to the ever growing list. Another “one that got away,” another story to tell to someone when I feel sick of myself and want some pity, one of many. And of course the questions that would linger for I don’t know how many months would come into my head: what was he writing? Why did he have those nervous ticks before the movie but not during? Was it me? was it not me?
He twitched and scratched and moved around in the leather comfortable seat. He took out his phone every other second and scratched his eyebrows, scratched his shaggy hair, scratched the back of his neck. He crossed his legs, he uncrossed his legs, he stroked his eyebrow with his index finger, and took out his phone again to browse for nothing. These nervous twitches seemed unnoticeable to the people looking for their seats in this high luxury cinema. All but one noticed these ticks and she couldn’t help it was because of her. It’s not that she had a big ego, she had seen this before. She began with the question: why would someone have a nervous tick while waiting to watch a movie? It wasn’t a scary film, it was “The Descendants.”
She had seen this a mile away or at least a few feet away, as she walked to screen seven she saw him walking in front of her. He was her type, the school boyish type, from what her eyes could see, he looked like Ian Curtis. She repeated the word no in her head at warp speed integrating it with “don’t go into screen seven” she repeated this phrase like a mantra until she uttered an expletive as he went into screen seven. She checked her ticket in the assigned seat theater and they were a seat apart. As she waited for the film to start and checked her cell phone for nothing, “occupying” herself, she could see at the corner of her eye his tics. She knew this technique to a tee. She blamed it on her big eyes but she could scope out her surroundings without making her head move. It’s one of the things she found proud of but in reality, her proud ability actually was one of the factors of her loneliness. Why was he doing that? It made her laugh, could it be her? Was it her hair, her stained beige raincoat that she never got to wash because she forgot or the intoxicating perfume that she dabbled on the back of her neck and wrist. She wished she could look to her right, to see more of this mysterious man’s face but her painful shyness got the better of her.
As the reader, you might think that this girl must think of herself as the fairest of them all. Far from it. She noticed her beauty but believed it only attracted stalkers and perverts. She believed her beauty really came out at night. When she washed all her make up off, or was out in the cold night at some concert as the frigid night air gave her the illusion of cheekbones and the soft man made light gave her an ere of night loveliness, mysterious and mischievous that if someone described her the next day, only good things would come out of their mouth. In the day however, she looked at herself and like the last soldier with his white flag waving in the wind, she gave up on improving her face and mechanically either put on liquid eyeliner or crayon.
The ticks minimized when the previews began and as he relaxed while he laughed at some dramedy film coming out in May, as the film began,she abandoned her thoughts and got involved into the story. As the sniffles became rampant around the room,she couldn’t help but smile. She wasn’t crying but the last time she had heard and seen bawling in a theater was when she watched “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.” As she sneaked a peek to her right, she could see “Tic” guy trying to take something out of his eye, there was nothing there, but it was just a manly way of trying to stop the tears from coming into his eyes.
As the film reached its end, he took a small notebook, writing something, as she looked in his direction, he seemed like a cute studious guy but why was he writing in the middle of the film? The film had come out months ago, the reviews were already written. As the film ended and I got up from my seat,she quickly left as what could be seen from shadows him following me, she entered the ladies room and mentally put him to the ever growing list. Another “one that got away,” another story to tell to someone when I feel sick of myself and want some pity, one of many. And of course the questions that would linger for I don’t know how many months would come into my head: what was he writing? Why did he have those nervous ticks before the movie but not during? Was it me? was it not me?
Saturday, September 29, 2012
"What HAVE you done?"
So with my tales of almost love, you’d think I’ve never had the guts to do anything remotely physical with a guy and that I wear hooded sweatshirts with those elastic pants everywhere I go. That I never asked a guy out or told a guy I liked him.
As I have mentioned before, there are moments in me where I do things I never thought I would’ve done. Things that when I look back on specific moments, I still can’t believe I did it. But I have asked a guy out but called it “hanging out.” Unfortunately for me, I didn’t know that “hanging out” meant “date.” I was shot down but I believe it was because the guy was in actuality a jerk who I doubt is even human or even a man.
I have also asked for a guy’s number. Still don’t know how I achieved this. I remember talking about Indiana Jones with him, then saying I wanted to tell him something but I couldn’t tell it to his face so he turned around. I told him I liked him and he gave me his number. As I walked away, I remember wanting to rip it up like in the 1996 film “Swingers” where Vince Vaughn’s character gets a number from this girl and tears it up proving to his friends that he got it. I felt that the action of ripping it up was like a “yeah, I did it negative conscience!” but I didn’t. After making an excuse to see a movie, I figured he was nice but he killed his grandmother too many times when I emailed him to hang out, that I gave up. I saw him again at a shopping centre, among a crowd of people and he saw me, but thankfully the throng of people was a perfect getaway. Hopefully I was a reminder of what he had done. It’s best to just say it plainly, “no thank you but I’m flattered.”
I wrote about *Mork* in “Hold My Hand please” on how he was the first guy to hold my hand. I remember hugging him a lot and he was the first guy I gave a massage (just his shoulders) and I sort of kind of had a date with him. I remember watching a film weeks ago called “An Unmarried Woman.” It was from 1978 and the film consisted of a woman and her reaction to getting a divorce after her husband tells her he’s in love with someone else. She goes through the dating game and has lunch with a guy her friend set her up with. There’s a scene where she and the guy are talking and she saying it wasn’t a date and he saying, “If the guy buys you lunch or dinner, it’s a date.” So then I thought, I guess I had a date that time years ago with *Mork*. I remember us talking and going to the cafeteria, him telling me to choose anything, I getting a cheeseburger and soda, and him getting a salad and paying for it with an AMEX card. Then I remember him wanting to see me take a bite out of the cheeseburger. That was weird typing that but since I liked him, I am going to write that off as a date.
As for the rest of the things I did, I’ve asked a guy to kiss him (didn’t happen for religious reasons (laugh), I’ve sat on a guy’s lap which was very uncomfortable, and I’ve hugged numerous musicians from the United Kingdom and the U.S. Listing all my “accomplishments” or “mid-failures” as I like to call them, sometimes I think I’m writing about a clone that looks exactly like me but is outgoing and fearless. So yeah, I have gone to where many women have gone before, but I always get an abnormal result, or non result.
As I have mentioned before, there are moments in me where I do things I never thought I would’ve done. Things that when I look back on specific moments, I still can’t believe I did it. But I have asked a guy out but called it “hanging out.” Unfortunately for me, I didn’t know that “hanging out” meant “date.” I was shot down but I believe it was because the guy was in actuality a jerk who I doubt is even human or even a man.
I have also asked for a guy’s number. Still don’t know how I achieved this. I remember talking about Indiana Jones with him, then saying I wanted to tell him something but I couldn’t tell it to his face so he turned around. I told him I liked him and he gave me his number. As I walked away, I remember wanting to rip it up like in the 1996 film “Swingers” where Vince Vaughn’s character gets a number from this girl and tears it up proving to his friends that he got it. I felt that the action of ripping it up was like a “yeah, I did it negative conscience!” but I didn’t. After making an excuse to see a movie, I figured he was nice but he killed his grandmother too many times when I emailed him to hang out, that I gave up. I saw him again at a shopping centre, among a crowd of people and he saw me, but thankfully the throng of people was a perfect getaway. Hopefully I was a reminder of what he had done. It’s best to just say it plainly, “no thank you but I’m flattered.”
I wrote about *Mork* in “Hold My Hand please” on how he was the first guy to hold my hand. I remember hugging him a lot and he was the first guy I gave a massage (just his shoulders) and I sort of kind of had a date with him. I remember watching a film weeks ago called “An Unmarried Woman.” It was from 1978 and the film consisted of a woman and her reaction to getting a divorce after her husband tells her he’s in love with someone else. She goes through the dating game and has lunch with a guy her friend set her up with. There’s a scene where she and the guy are talking and she saying it wasn’t a date and he saying, “If the guy buys you lunch or dinner, it’s a date.” So then I thought, I guess I had a date that time years ago with *Mork*. I remember us talking and going to the cafeteria, him telling me to choose anything, I getting a cheeseburger and soda, and him getting a salad and paying for it with an AMEX card. Then I remember him wanting to see me take a bite out of the cheeseburger. That was weird typing that but since I liked him, I am going to write that off as a date.
As for the rest of the things I did, I’ve asked a guy to kiss him (didn’t happen for religious reasons (laugh), I’ve sat on a guy’s lap which was very uncomfortable, and I’ve hugged numerous musicians from the United Kingdom and the U.S. Listing all my “accomplishments” or “mid-failures” as I like to call them, sometimes I think I’m writing about a clone that looks exactly like me but is outgoing and fearless. So yeah, I have gone to where many women have gone before, but I always get an abnormal result, or non result.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Friday, September 21, 2012
Looks of Regret (Part 2)
Those who don’t remember history are doomed to repeat it someone said.
It’s a true statement in my opinion but sadly I have repeated it and in history class no less.
After my idiotic act on Reed, I promised myself I would never do that again. Never run away like a little girl. To smile, to say words like “hi.” I think I can recall doing smiling exercises.
I had transferred to a new college and as I put on a happy face at all my classes; everyone was very introverted which was strange for this introvert trying to be an extrovert. After a couple of months, I gave up on the friendliness and became the shy girl I usually am, going to my seat and listening to the lecture. My favorite class during that semester was the History of the U.S. from World War II to the present. The professor seemed to relish talking about Vietnam, Kennedy, Reagan, and the G.I. Bill. His voice was booming and his little anecdotes of college sit ins and Vietnam protests interested me and the class. As any good class, it was full of students and with all the vibrant discourse, I stayed pleasantly in the shadows, writing notes and getting top marks on my essay exams.
Whenever I see someone staring at me, directly staring at me, I always think that they’re staring at someone else, and they usually are but this guy was staring at me and he did it in the most funny way and I acted like the snobby bitch. I distinctly remember staring straight and never looking right, where he always sat. I remember every day, he would run in, five minutes before class to drop his backpack on the desk next to me or his drawing pad, as if marking his territory to try to get my attention.
He wasn’t exactly a class clown, but I remember him usually raising his hand and having a fun debate with the professor over the Toyota Prius and its lack of speed. The time when I was able to look at him, he was very cute, nice short hair, honey hazel eyes, and I always remember him wearing something grey. When I could sneak a peek, I would see him drawing on his sketchpad. One time, while waiting for class to begin, I drew a little figure on my notebook and as I drew, I remember seeing him drawing, albeit more professionally and him pausing, looking at what I was drawing. I think I was sketching a crazy bearded king. The only other memory fragment I can recall was looking at my shoes and his shoes trying to move closer to mine during a lecture.
I still don’t understand why I didn’t look at him and say hi and instead acted as snotty bitch-ella. I can also remember one moment where a fellow student in the back looked at him and then me with that knowing look as if we were together or something.
He wasn’t the only one competing for my attention. One thing I dislike when it comes to guys getting my attention is preppy arrogance. A preppy arrogant guy was also interested in sitting next to me or around me. I am most certain this person was vying for my attention because he straight up turned around to look at me for like what felt like 5 minutes then turn around in his seat. It was creepy but believe it or not, I've experienced creepier. When the professor talked about Vietnam, Preppy Loser said his dad was some general or coronel in that war; when the topic of Reagan and the 80s came up, he talked about his father being good friends with him and being in the white house blah, blah, blah. It didn’t impress me. Around this time, the artist with his sketch pad wasn’t showing up for weeks. I grew worried. Then one day before class, I saw him enter and head directly to the professor, he stared in my direction and I foolishly looked away. “Too bad, it’s your decision,” I heard the professor say with a disappointed face. “Maybe next year, I’ll be back,” the artist said with his interesting accent. The professor said ,”sure,” like he had heard that line before in his lifetime. And as the artist left the classroom, he held the door for preppy loser to enter. The end of the semester consisted of the prepster trying to get my attention and I hating every moment of it. I seeked solace in the Strategic Defense Initiative and the Bill Clinton Presidency.
Thinking about it now, I think it might have been my punishment for what I did. I wish I knew his name but even the professor couldn’t pronounce it. His last name had more than 3 syllables if I can recall.
I guess I get stupid when a guy I’m attracted to pays any attention to me. In the end, I become portrayed as a snobby stuckup.
It’s a true statement in my opinion but sadly I have repeated it and in history class no less.
After my idiotic act on Reed, I promised myself I would never do that again. Never run away like a little girl. To smile, to say words like “hi.” I think I can recall doing smiling exercises.
I had transferred to a new college and as I put on a happy face at all my classes; everyone was very introverted which was strange for this introvert trying to be an extrovert. After a couple of months, I gave up on the friendliness and became the shy girl I usually am, going to my seat and listening to the lecture. My favorite class during that semester was the History of the U.S. from World War II to the present. The professor seemed to relish talking about Vietnam, Kennedy, Reagan, and the G.I. Bill. His voice was booming and his little anecdotes of college sit ins and Vietnam protests interested me and the class. As any good class, it was full of students and with all the vibrant discourse, I stayed pleasantly in the shadows, writing notes and getting top marks on my essay exams.
Whenever I see someone staring at me, directly staring at me, I always think that they’re staring at someone else, and they usually are but this guy was staring at me and he did it in the most funny way and I acted like the snobby bitch. I distinctly remember staring straight and never looking right, where he always sat. I remember every day, he would run in, five minutes before class to drop his backpack on the desk next to me or his drawing pad, as if marking his territory to try to get my attention.
He wasn’t exactly a class clown, but I remember him usually raising his hand and having a fun debate with the professor over the Toyota Prius and its lack of speed. The time when I was able to look at him, he was very cute, nice short hair, honey hazel eyes, and I always remember him wearing something grey. When I could sneak a peek, I would see him drawing on his sketchpad. One time, while waiting for class to begin, I drew a little figure on my notebook and as I drew, I remember seeing him drawing, albeit more professionally and him pausing, looking at what I was drawing. I think I was sketching a crazy bearded king. The only other memory fragment I can recall was looking at my shoes and his shoes trying to move closer to mine during a lecture.
I still don’t understand why I didn’t look at him and say hi and instead acted as snotty bitch-ella. I can also remember one moment where a fellow student in the back looked at him and then me with that knowing look as if we were together or something.
He wasn’t the only one competing for my attention. One thing I dislike when it comes to guys getting my attention is preppy arrogance. A preppy arrogant guy was also interested in sitting next to me or around me. I am most certain this person was vying for my attention because he straight up turned around to look at me for like what felt like 5 minutes then turn around in his seat. It was creepy but believe it or not, I've experienced creepier. When the professor talked about Vietnam, Preppy Loser said his dad was some general or coronel in that war; when the topic of Reagan and the 80s came up, he talked about his father being good friends with him and being in the white house blah, blah, blah. It didn’t impress me. Around this time, the artist with his sketch pad wasn’t showing up for weeks. I grew worried. Then one day before class, I saw him enter and head directly to the professor, he stared in my direction and I foolishly looked away. “Too bad, it’s your decision,” I heard the professor say with a disappointed face. “Maybe next year, I’ll be back,” the artist said with his interesting accent. The professor said ,”sure,” like he had heard that line before in his lifetime. And as the artist left the classroom, he held the door for preppy loser to enter. The end of the semester consisted of the prepster trying to get my attention and I hating every moment of it. I seeked solace in the Strategic Defense Initiative and the Bill Clinton Presidency.
Thinking about it now, I think it might have been my punishment for what I did. I wish I knew his name but even the professor couldn’t pronounce it. His last name had more than 3 syllables if I can recall.
I guess I get stupid when a guy I’m attracted to pays any attention to me. In the end, I become portrayed as a snobby stuckup.
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