"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.