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.

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.

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?

"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.

What Freddie Said

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.

Looks of Regret (Part 1)

THE LOOK by Sara Teasdale
"Strephon kissed me in the spring,
Robin in the fall,
But Colin only looked at me
And never kissed at all.
Strephon's kiss was lost in jest,
Robin's lost in play,
But the kiss in Colin's eyes
Haunts me night and day."

There are a few regrets in my life, but when it comes to those instances of never talking to boys, so many that they can fill a blog up; there are mainly two that really make me wince when I think about them. They make me wince so much, I don’t really want to relive them. But for the sake of a literary grade, I shall try to relive those wounds that have mostly healed.

In the golden age of indie rock, music moved  and lived through my veins.  There were bands in my city every week, from Brighton, from Sheffield, Glasgow, and even San Francisco. My friends and I would show up at TV recordings, impromptu concerts, official concerts, and CD signings at the now defunct Virgin record shops to meet them and get our records signed. I remember one time where I went to see three different bands in one week. At these social gatherings, it wasn’t a coincidence to see the same people.  When I first noticed him, I seriously thought he was a girl. He had black bowl cut hair 1964 Beatles style, wore all black, a black leather jacket with a peter pan collar, with a button of the album cover for the Velvet Underground’s first album near the collar. I didn’t notice him; I was more keen on the band from Glasgow. My friends had stars in their eyes not because of the band’s Scottish accents but because of who I would like to call this anonymous person, Reed.  I instinctively knew my friends were into Reed by their awkwardness and annoying nervous looks. After the show, my friends were all talking about Reed and I was more star struck by the band.

The second time I saw Reed, all I remember was the band , that rocked, and him with his black leather jacket allegedly staring at me, according to my friends. I started noticing him and thought he was cute.

The third and last time that I saw him was quite a night. The famed Arctic Monkeys were playing an outdoor concert, I had met the band, gotten their autographs, and that other side of me seemed to display itself. The band famous for its raucous concerts had me jumping, sweating, and rocking and dancing throughout the night. After the show, my friends wanted to take pictures with the band, so we, along with a whole gang of people waited for them to come out.

From this moment on, all I can remember is me talking very loudly to people all around, I felt like a social butterfly discussing records and bands, a friend whispering to me that Reed was in the back looking at me, me not really understanding but very happy about it and then the incident.

I remember running with my friends to go eat at the local burger joint, me not catching up and as I was headed in one direction, he was going the other way, we both stopped and he smiled.  A very pleasant and friendly smile I saw his eyes, hazel colored, and his very nice face, his licorice colored shaggy hair in his eyes.

What did I do? WHAT DID I DO ?!  I ran away. I ran like a little girl, I ran until I caught up to my friends and really can't remember what happened after that.

What could have happened? I don’t know. He could’ve been my friend. Maybe we could’ve been something more. It might have lasted three weeks, three months, or who knows. I think that was a real low point in my life and if I could do it again, I would definitely change it. THAT is what I thought then.  It’s a bad faded memory now, and I have new regrets (see BLOOMING BULL MOOSE LOVE) but I think this memory is way worse than what I’ve written before because this is just unforgiveable. Unforgiveable.  But why did I do it again?

Ace and Flunk

When I was a kid, I remember every year after school had ended in early June, I always grabbed all my homework, my math worksheets, and tests and threw them in the trash as fast as I could. Like they were going to self destruct or meld into my body if I didn’t throw them out. I wanted to get rid of anything school related (especially math) and delve into summer by hanging with friends, going to the beach, and reading books (yes, I was a bookworm). Now I collect all my college notebooks, papers, and exams.  As I rifled through the 15 page papers, math exams, and notebooks on Anthropology, I perused through my old Political Philosophy notebook.  Looking at my scrawny handwriting on the differences between an oligarchy and authoritarianism, the duality of man’s body and soul, and Hobbes’ political contract; I noticed a tiny scribble on the margin not belonging to Rousseau or Locke. At least I don’t think.

“Look but do not talk

Stare but do not chat

Admire but do not love”

Then it hit me. It had been my philosophy quote of frustration on a particular being in my political philosophy class.

Political Philosophy class scared the hell out of me. Our Professor, which I thought would look like Marx or Edward S. Burroughs, at least was instead a very well dressed slim man with a booming voice who he used to instill fear in us. He jumped on us with questions on Plato and Socrates if we yawned, he randomly asked you on relativism and rationalism if you looked at the door, mobile or someone of the opposite sex. I was terrified. The class as a whole was terrified. What became a full capacity 40 student class soon became the standard 25 by two weeks end.  Thinking back, the first time I met my crush was when he asked if I had a pencil. We were sitting on the floor because all the desks were taken. Horrified by the Prof. I can’t remember my answer but I’m pretty sure I said no because I wanted to listen to the Prof. and write everything he said for fear of the imminent pop quiz that might land any second or day. I had a comrade with me in this class, *Gina*, the brightest and smartest student I’d ever met. She was like me, shy and no boy experience. I can still remember us picking the talent in the class. There were so many guys, every time one entered the stifling classroom, we would just look at each other and decide if they were cute and which one would we crush on the entire semester. 

Among the many, I made the choice of picking a Spanish looking Israelite who drove a bike. Later, I would regret this pick when sitting close to him one class day, would find he had a “tramp stamp.” Turned me off and confused me instantly and just focused on the subject.  “The guy next to you was so hot! He looked like Chris Evans”, *Gina* told me. Which guy I asked myself but remembered it was the guy who had asked for the pencil.  I still to this day do not think he looked like Chris Evans. He had small but kind eyes, short blonde hair, and was very preppy dressed. Maybe the short blonde hair gave my friend the comparison but I thought he was okay looking. My friend *Gina* had picked her piece of eye candy, which would be direly needed in this stress inducing class.  Every class, *Gina* and I learned a little bit more of Chris clone; he was from New Orleans and was an actor getting a law degree. I always pressured her into talking to him, to ask him if he was at Katrina, did he like the teacher, etc. but she always chickened out.

I don’t know when it started, but maybe it was that second day of class when he looked at me the whole class because I didn’t have a pencil or when I wore Madonna gloves with a cloche hat that other class, but I would usually catch him looking at me. Again, the usual standard questions followed, did I have something in my hair? did I have something on my face?, etc. *Chris* pondered for more than a second on where to sit and would sit near me each class. I usually sat in the back and would usually see his eyes catching mine every time the Prof. would take a breather from lecturing. The clock was in front of the classroom so I know he wasn’t looking for the time. I even recall looking at the back myself but nothing was there. I got suspicious. I got suspicious when *Chris* dropped his pen when we were signing up for study groups. I got suspicious when he sat next to me when my friend was absent and informed the professor “May the fourth be with you” which I had been telling my friends.  I pressured my friend to talk to him but she wouldn’t budge. Even when a group conversation came about the preferable university, I couldn’t help noticing he was looking at me, but again it is debate-able to whom he was looking at.  The only time he actually talked to me happened on the day of the final exam in which *Gina* trounced on my words. He asked me what the difference between Hegel and Marx were and of course, my friend answered but kept asking one more question and was interrupted by the teacher and off we went to finish our final exam.

I never saw him again after that day and do I think about him?, yeah sometimes.  I was definitely in a conundrum, liking my friend’s crush but who was at fault here? I blame him because why didn’t he talk to me or my friend? Temporary pledges are a fickle thing. I may have gotten an "A" in that class, but I got an "F" in dealing with guys.

Tale of Woe

COMMENTARY

Junior High Eight Grade English Class. I loved this particular class because my English teacher Mrs. B loved books and reading. I can distinctly remember her having a bookcase in class that extended the lower part of the left wall. In it paperbacks from the 1960s to what was the present, the 1990s; some were tattered and weathered but they seemed to her like treasures with hidden secrets. I admired so much her collection of books, that ever since, I started my own paperback collection that is ever growing with books of Evelyn Waugh, Lester Bangs, and Alan Moore.

The time had come for us to write a book report on a historical novel. I chose “Wuthering Heights” merely because of the cover, with its psychedelic cover of purples and greens with two lovers made of stained glass holding hands. I still remember the publishing of that book being 1968. I can only remember the basic plot and the knowing of the name Heathcliff but it had brought the Bronte sisters into my world. And until this day, I have not read any other book from the Bronte sisters. All this may change soon.

Whenever I see a good movie that to me, speaks into the depths of my soul, I immediately feel ethereal and happy and then a day or so later complete deep depression and melancholy takes over.  This happened to me recently when I saw the 2011 adaptation of the Charlotte Bronte novel “Jane Eyre” directed by Cary Fukunaga.  I had never read the novel and never knew what the plot was about and the trailer made it seem like a scary gothic love story.  Watching the film I became enthralled on the character of Jane Eyre and her harsh life shown through her face, traces of never knowing happiness in her life. Her wall of protection from cruelty begins to break as she starts feeling something towards the byronic Mr. Rochester with his simple gestures such as putting a flower in her hair and lingering stares, she never budges, never shows any emotion and even when she realizes that someone loves her in her life, she shows sentiment but cannot believe it and thinks it unreal. Enchanted throughout the film, I must admit I even cried at the ending.  I think I swooned a couple of times and loved the wonderful romance of the film, it reminded me of another book that I had read, the ever wonderful “Pride and Prejudice.”  A couple of days passed and the depression loomed in, a gloominess I’m sure “Jane Eyre” and “Pride and Prejudice” fans can relate to. And the source of that gloom was that  I want THAT kind of romance, like in “Jane Eyre” simple gestures that shudder souls such as hand holding, stolen kisses in a meadow, discussions on subordination, (okay maybe not that), but walks in the park and declarations of love and kisses while the wind blows around you.  And the depression looms still because I know that type of romance truly does not exist anymore. Sure, we can dive deep into our Austen and Bronte but sooner or later, we’re gonna have to go back for air, polluted air it might be, but how else are we gonna live?  But must text messages with symbols on it be signs of romantic gestures?

Note: For Jane Eyre fans, I would do what Jane Eyre does in the book and film, particularly in that scene, if you know what I mean (wink wink.) No matter how much it hurt.

Poinsettia Pete

I love parties. Parties in college are my ultimate love. They have different themes, you meet interesting people, and you meet interesting cute guys.  My friend *Fanny* lives on the spur of the moment and her parties stayed true to their theme, from the usual ugly sweater party to a disco party with disco music! This may not matter but once in junior high, I went to a “Decades” party advertising disco balls and Michael Jackson where in actuality was a taupe multipurpose room with a fog machine and terrible late 90s rap. 

Fanny’s latest shindig was a “Christmas in July” party. The dress code was to be jolly and yuletide.  As I entered *Fanny’s house, it was wrapped in red and green Christmas lights, plastic Santa glow statues, silver tinsel on the floor, red ribbon bows all over and “Jingle Bell Rock” playing in the background. The guys were dressed in their Christmas Cosby sweaters or red/green shirts. The girls wore red or green dresses or the usual Santa or reindeer hat with regular summer dresses. I had on a Christmas green sparkle mod minidress that I had never worn and was excited to see my friends from school. I had just seen Inception and was eager to chat about the film on what had been a hot summer day turning into a great summer night.

Throughout the party, there were a-many cute guys, but the one who happened to be allegedly staring at me was Poinsettia *Pete*. Remember that nickelodeon snickcom from the 90’s “The Adventures of Pete and Pete?” He looked just like older Pete but with cuter eyes. He even had the same haircut now that I think of it, with a darker hue of red hair. He was wearing a USC red shirt, jeans and a poinsettia behind his ear.  I found it funny that he had a poinsettia on his ear and it reminded me of pagan Rome for some reason. I remember me and my friends were chatting it up with some guys who I found interesting but no potential for anything. A friend of mine was disappointed that her “Santa” hat fell off so she gave it to me to wear. Me, dressed in Christmas glitter green with a red Santa hat on, I wish I knew how I looked. Cute? Stupid? An Idiot? Whatever I conveyed, I attracted *Pete*. 

The night went on with Christmas covers by the Muppets, Kinks, and Run DMC. The usual craziness of people chatting, dancing, and making out in public happened as always. All this time, *Pete* would just pass by me, eye-ing me as I could see from the back of my eye as I chatted on. I still speculate that he may or may not have noticed me but a piece of evidence I vividly remember was while chatting, *Pete* and his friend climbed the roof of the house to take a look at the far away skyline. Everyone was cheering and as I waved at them,*Pete* waved back and suddenly my skills as lip reader came to me unbeknownst.  “Who’s that (something)?” I heard his lips say to his friend and he in reply said, “One of *Fanny’s* friends.”  He said either “Who’s that Girl?” or “Who’s that Person?” but the point being   they probably were talking about me. Probably. Where did  I F it up as they say? The time came for him to leave and it’s all a little blurry (because it hurts to remember) but all I can remember are fragments,him saying goodbye to *Fanny* then coming back to talk to my guy friend, apparently they had talked during the party, and then another painful memory of him just standing there, looking cute with his possibly fake poinsettia, looking at me, waiting for me to say something. It was perfect, “Hey I like your poinsettia!” simple compliment that could’ve started something; he’d compliment me looking like Christmas cheer and the story writes itself. But not for Hope, he went again to *Fanny* to say goodbye and left.  Last I heard he went to study in England. My friend *Fanny* who could never stay in the same place, went off to conquer the southwest with her charm, and that night as the cops came to shut the party down because we played Bing Crosby a little too loud, all I could think, how I still think whenever I see poinsettias during Christmas time, how stupid I was for not talking to him. There really should be a diagnosis for my predicament.

*= names changed to spare embarrassment and to protect the innocent and cool.

Blooming Bull Moose Love

Did you know that Teddy Roosevelt started a third party?

 You may not know this but I learned in my Political Science class, there are such things as splinter parties. You undoubtedly know about populist parties like the Libertarian or Communist Party.  You know about third parties which are actually single issue parties like The Green Party. And then there’s the splinter party which usually splits off from one of the main political parties. Teddy Roosevelt started the Bull Moose Party in 1912 and it took more than part of the vote. It bit into it. It took 27% of the vote- that’s 4.1 million votes. The Bull Moose Party didn’t last for long and is a small footnote in the history of America, but I will always remember that tidbit thanks to one cute dude.  It’s funny how certain things stick with us because of people we’re smitten of and in my situation, sometimes people we never even talk to.

 My college political science class was a bore. Although the professor meant well, his/her ramblings usually were so confusing that at times, you understood more from the text than from the lecture. And yet *Teddy* brought that class to life for me. From kindly correcting the professor on what cops can and can’t ask for when they stop you in your vehicle, to asking about the jurisdiction of standing committees and Rules committees, to putting in his two cents of judiciary cases and their outcomes. I’d seen these guys before in my class, only they were discourteous nerds who rudely corrected the professor and got turned on by solved logarithms as they sat in the front row. *Teddy* sat in the back, at the row of desks that faced the wall, hidden and yet comfortable with asking questions. He looked like the typical All-American jock, but he actually had a brain. I always admired his intelligence but never had the nerve to say, “Hey, You’re smart!”. How WOULD a guy react to that?   Who knows, one day, I went the guy approach.

It was a Tuesday and three days prior, I had volunteered at a friend’s function where I met actors who got me out of my shell and their spontaneity and outgoing ways rubbed off of me. When I arrived to class, my adrenaline from that day was still operating , a friend of mine even said I was “glowing.” I certainly felt different, I felt like doing something brazen, but what is brazen for a shy girl?
Ever since I’ve been in college, I have always gotten “stared” at. This could be because of my overwhelming ugliness or a slight “attractiveness” I must have.  I never like being stared at, but with this almost drunken unabashed feeling, I decided to do what guys had been doing to me: staring. The victim: *Teddy*.  *Teddy* sat at his usual spot, and I sat across him, two empty desks between us. Splinter parties was the topic and he of course mentioned Teddy Roosevelt’s Bull Moose Party and its brevity. I of course stared at him, that lingering stare  (not that STALKER stare I’d been a victim of) and repeated this gesture about twice, I knew I had gotten his attention when I saw the back of his eye wondering  in my direction. At the time, I believed I had freaked him out. He was probably thinking “Is there something on my face?” “Did I say something?.” My brazen self could not resist this, I wanted to laugh out loud but had to wait until I was on the Mass Transit reminiscing what had happened a mere hour ago. I had done what guys had done to me, freak me out, made me self conscious, and wonder what the hell they were looking at.  I had fun and was saddened that this adrenaline rush wouldn’t last. By the next class session, the “daring adrenaline potion” had run out and I was back to my old, depressed self. I sat wherever I could, it was a full class, which was unusual. *Teddy’s* original seat had been taken and he had to sit in another seat. We were a seat apart that had been taken by someone. I didn’t have a good angle to stare at him but wondered, would he look at me back? Would the experiment be successful or not?  The test subject’ response was positive. He did. I really didn’t know how to react and neither did he. As the semester passed, our usual seats were taken by other people and we just didn’t have a good angle to steal looks. Did there ever come a time where we could’ve spoken you may ask? well yes there was and I F%$*&* it up.

Our professor almost always was absent, and one day, I had come out early from my previous class, went to the ladies room to look what I have been called “my cutest.” In I go, and it would’ve been the perfect serendipitous meeting, we both see the class is cancelled, we complain on the professor’s recent deficient absences and off we go into the sunset talking about our first pets and what our fourth grade English teacher’s name was. Alas, for me encounters like that don’t exist. As I went into look at the sign at about approximately the same time as he, his friend came in to ruin the party and I easily slinked away into the red colored brick wall. As for classroom looks, this went on and off, one class session he didn’t even bother looking at me, from what I know anyway. Other class sessions, I could tell *Teddy* was looking at me and there was one instant where I saw him when he was looking at me and he looked away. So this was all very confusing. I think the climax of this tale came at when else, the final exam.

The final exam consisted of three essay questions, murder on your writing hand, but hey them’s the rules.  I knew that this was most likely the last time I would ever see him, so I decided to take looks from Kate Middleton and wore a sun dress, black cardigan, flats and ray ban black sunglasses. I must have come in with the wind blowing in my hair or the sun shining on me because he took notice. We were both a row apart, he with his friends, me with my notes and textbook, the row between us was full of students. I had given up, I was done, I took out my  metaphorical white flag, whether he liked me or not, I didn’t care, I was here to study for my exam. *Teddy* has a loud awesome, demagogue like voice and I didn’t want to hear it. I put on my mp3, cranked up some rocking Radiohead and some furious Hives, going over what the difference between inherent and implicit powers were, how a bill becomes a law until the professor arrived. When the professor did arrive, I was ready for the exam. The exam began and as it closed in to an hour and a half, the row between us had gone and left, I usually looked at the clock and stretched my hand as I went further to write more about the legislative or judicial branch. As I was writing, at one point, *Teddy* turned his back and just blatantly stared at me. Throughout the exam, he stared at me, acted nervously as I stretched my hand and glanced at the clock, I knew he wanted me to look at him. All signals pointed to yes, the control tower gave the all clear signal and I did not do anything. Even as he wanted me to look at him at more than three times, I didn’t do anything. I finished my exam and left. I didn’t look back, I didn’t do anything and I hate myself for it.  I’ve always wanted a relationship, a companion to talk to, to have fun with and when I get the chance to have this with a guy I actually am attracted to, I refuse it.

 In the beginning, I felt happy knnowing the experiment was a success, but when the reality set in, I became depressed. I thought of him when I watched “The Daily Show with Jon Stewart” or when regular news talked about inherent powers, executive orders, executive agreements, or standing committees. Friends tell me that:
1. If you had looked at him, he might’ve looked away
2. If you had looked at him, you might’ve smiled and then what? You’d be accused of cheating because it was a final exam.

I agree with them but another friend told me that my consolation prize was that if he was into you, he might be suffering too, regretting he never spoke to me. I think if that is true, if he thinks or suffers for just one microsecond, at least I know I’m not alone in this painful regret and wish to just see him again.  To get a second chance, but sometimes I think fate gave us, or me, so many chances, I doubt it would spare one more.
*= name changed to spare embarrassment.

Hold My Hand Please

Sometimes I find myself saddened that I haven’t had my first kiss never have been a valentine to someone or had a prom date. For Hope Lesh, these experiences are always skewed. I’ve never had a first kiss before but I’m sure the average girl probably had it at summer camp, during the junior high school dance, nope not me. Legend has it that the first time I kissed a boy, he bit my lip so hard that I ended up crying and running for the teacher. I have no recollection of this but my mother tells me I was four or five years old. I shudder to think what’s gonna happen when I really get kissed….in 2056 or when I lose my virginity in 2070. But a notch that I have accomplished in the romance world albeit miniscule and insignificant unless you were 12 was that I have held hands with a guy. I forced him into it but that still counts right? I and my friend, which we shall call *Mork* were new editors at our university newspaper, we were ready to give out assignments. I was very excited to finally give out orders instead of being one of two writers who wrote the entire paper. I had a crush on *Mork* and for reasons I will not disclose right now (maybe in another entry), we couldn’t really pursue anything but I always wanted to rebel against timeless traditions so I always tried things with him.  Introductions of editors were starting and I basically feigned nervousness and asked him to hold my hand to calm me down. I can still remember that he was hesitant to hold my hand but he did it anyway. Hesitant because of what kept us apart or hesitant that he was indulging in a forbidden fantasy he should not indulge in? I like to think the latter but I’m probably wrong. I am still astounded that a shy girl like me can do things like that. It’s like an out of body experience. Did I really give *Mork* a neck massage when we had nothing to do? Yes, I remember but where the hell was shy Hope when this was happening? Did I feel anything at this hand holding? Not really, I felt kind of numb and nothingness. Did the Beatles’ famous pop song “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” help? A little.  Every time I hear it, I do think of *Mork*.  Now I wonder if I was able to trick someone into holding my hand, how am I going to trick someone to kiss me? I’m no Selina Kyle so I’m projecting first kiss in…..yeah…….2056.

Introduction

Oh Dear. How to Begin…

Lately I’ve been wondering do animals feel shame or heartache? Do they ever have lovelorn thoughts and suffer in agony for the love they cannot have?  It has been noted that Animals be they of the aviary kind or the meat eating kind always fight when necessary for the female and the dominant male that wins gets the girl. What happens to the loser? Does he pine away for the female still, thinking up break up poems in his language as he wanders the African Savannah or Icy Tundra?  Do they re-think that moment over and over, saddened at their broken dreams lying like abandoned gnawed bones? 

Last time I checked, most animals don’t have those feelings we have. If this is true, then we humans should either be grateful or hateful of these emotions.
This blog is here to highlight the regret, shame, happiness, regret, love, whimsy, regret, bliss, mostly regret of one girl in her non-dating life but ever present missed connection world.
If you read this blog, laugh from it, pity from it, learn from it, don’t do the mistakes I did, and if some things come out in a slight comic nature, it was unintentional.

Here We Go.

REAL BLOG NAME (LONG VERSION)

TO ALL THE GUYS I’VE EVER LOVED .....…..not really, I didn’t have the nerve to talk to you and I don’t know if you were looking at me or the sky or someone else and I didn’t want to look like a loser talking or looking at you when you probably had someone else in mind to talk to and look at and what if you already had someone? Or Rejected me? That would’ve crushed me so I just didn’t look at you but if you did, I’m not an arrogant snob, have you ever read “Pride and Prejudice” by Jane Austen? I’m totally Darcy in that book, may look arrogant but was looking at you when you weren’t looking. Is that what they call stealing glances? Anyway, as Will Smith a.k.a. the Fresh Prince of Bel Air once said, “ I noticed you noticing me; so I just want to put you on notice that I noticed you too” That’s how I felt but I’m a scaredy cat but I’ll always remember you as the one who got away who may or may not have liked me and that I’ll never know the answer and I’m okay with that. I guess…................