Giving Up.

I tried.

I tried so hard to let down my walls.  I tried to let him in.  I tried to allow him some semblance of intimacy; as much as I could manage.

But, even though he demanded those things of me, he didn't give me anything in return.

Except friendship. 

And that is not the kind of friendship I generally have with people. 

He will never be as close to me as Churro.  Not even remotely like Oose, Coyote, or Button.  He doesn't understand the way I forge friendships with people.  Not only did he go about it the wrong way, but he also doesn't know how to exert the right kind of effort.

I will never trust him.

Therefore, I'm done trying.


This is why I don't date. 

Sweet November.

This weekend I...


Caught a cold.

Saw the symphony band perform at my school.

Took a writing proficiency test.  Fell asleep on my arm because I wasn't allowed to leave the testing room when I had finished my essay.  Woke myself up breathing heavily.

Saw an opera in San Francisco.  Met Susan Graham.

Got up at noon.

Met a friend for coffee.

Spent the rest of the day in bed trying to get over my cold. 

Watched two hours of Family Guy.


Opera and Family Guy in the same 24-hour span. 

I even finished my homework for tomorrow.  That being said, I'm sure I'll be too congested to sing much in my lesson and I have two weeks to memorize four songs for my juries (basically the final for the lessons you take as a performance major).  So, that sucks.

But, on the upside, I get to see my family for Thanksgiving this week.  And then I get to go home again a few weeks after that for Christmas.  I'm finally starting to miss home a little bit, so I think it's definitely time for a short visit. 

Forever Alone.

Once again, I don't know what I'm doing.

I put myself in a position I know I can't escape unscathed.

I've been telling myself to walk away for weeks so I don't end up getting hurt, but I can't bring myself to do it. I don't know if it's because I am subconsciously masochistic or if it's because I enjoy hanging out that much. Either way, if I had left on Halloween like I intended, I wouldn't be feeling the way I do right now.

Is it worse to hide away your feelings forever, never get hurt, and die alone, or is it worse to open up and let yourself feel for someone, then, as a result, watch with wide eyes while they rip you open to examine your vulnerabilities and randomly wander away one day, leaving all your guts spilling out onto the floor?

I don't want to die alone.

I want to get married someday. Maybe have children.

I want to remember what it's like to know for a fact someone outside my family loves me again. I want to remember what it's like to want to be with someone so much it hurts and know that, at any given moment, they are feeling exactly the same way.

I'm really good at being a girlfriend. And now that I am finally starting to feel as if I might be close to ready to try to be one again, I am realizing that I am probably just too fucked up to do so.

Primal Scream.

I am about one negative event away from a full-blown panic attack.

I am on the verge of tears.

I have no money.

The gynecologist didn't deposit my check (from five weeks ago) until Friday, so my rent check may be short.  And I still have to find a way to get my piano from Santa Cruz to Turlock this weekend.  With no money.  No vehicle it will fit in.  And one day that people will be able to help me.

I am seriously fucked.

And not in a way that is at all pleasurable.

If I had time I would be at the gym right now.  But I don't.  So I'm stuck working and doing homework semi-simultaneously while almost hoping I spontaneously drop dead so I don't have to feel like I'm either going to cry (bad option) or throw up (worse option).

On the upside, I'm so stressed out I don't think I can eat anymore.  The reason this is an upside is that I don't have money for food until Tuesday.

Good thing I bought cat litter before I needed it.  Otherwise I would be training Hunter to shit in the toilet right now.  And to be honest, judging from the retarded way he pees in his litter box, I don't know that he could handle it.

I need to a) get drunk, b) get laid, c) find some woods to unleash primal screams in, or d) acquire a dying rich relative/significant other willing to leave me some money.  Upwards of or around $200 would do.

Thanks.

Fleeing the nest.

Up until two and a half months ago the closest I came to living on my own was the apartment I shared with my ex.  In a way that was more mind than my townhouse now because we were a couple and everything was ours, together.  Here it's more ours, separately. 

I love our house and the general dynamic of it.  I love that no one eats all the cheese I have in the refrigerator.  I love that someone doesn't take over all my space in the bathroom the second I move something.   I love that I don't have to make sure it's okay with everyone if I have guests over. I love impromptu sleepovers. 

I love our liquor fridge.

Don't judge.  We're college students.

(Speaking of liquor, I recently discovered you can put Malibu coconut rum in anything and it will turn out tasty.)

I love that no one gets bent out of shape if I leave after two AM, come home after three AM, or don't come home at all.  My roommates just call me a dirty hooker and laugh.   

And that's one of many reasons why I love them. 

Sometimes, though, there are things I wish I could talk to my mom about because she always gives the best advice, but I don't feel that I can.  Even though I'm pretty sure I know what she'd say.  And it's not what I'd want to hear.

Then there are things I try to talk to her about because I desperately need help and advice and I get nothing. 

Like the fact that I have to get my piano from Santa Cruz this weekend and I have no money and no way to transport it. 

I miss the days of two years ago when I thought my life was stressful.

Over the Hump... Finally.

I just realized that I hardly think about Bambi anymore.  Obviously because I thought about him.  But I was thinking about not thinking about him, so that only kind of counts.  I think. 

I also realized that when I do think about him, or even if I need to talk about him, it doesn't occur to me to actually call him Bambi anymore.  I had to remind myself to do it when I started typing just so I didn't give away his true identity. 

I feel like that's a courtesy to the people I talk about in my blogs, to not use their names.  Anyone who already knows will know who I am talking about, but any random nobody trolling the interwebs won't.  It makes me feel like I'm doing my part to protect those I love.  Also, it gives me a chance to use the nicknames that I come up with for just about everyone.  And who doesn't want that?

It probably gets confusing when I have multiple nicknames for people, though.  I would guess.

It's three AM and I have to get up at seven.

Awesome.

Not only did I have a bunch of homework (didn't quite finish) and work-work (finished the important stuff) to take care of, but my wannabe A.D.D. flared up big time tonight and I 'tarded out listening to the Yoshida Brothers.  Then my friend told me to listen to City and Color.  On the upside I have some great new music.  On the downside...  Shiny!

I want to go dancing this weekend. 

It smells like garlic outside.  For no reason. 

I mean, I guess that's better than cow shit.  But, still.  I hate Modesto.  I love some of the people I've gotten to know here, though.  And I love being two hours from Santa Cruz and San Francisco.

I still miss my mom and my dog and I miss working and not being a full time student. 

Did I mention I have to get up at seven?  And that it's three now?

I'm just going to fall into the world's shortest coma now.

Curvature.

Between work, school, and the social life I allow myself to have so I don't go crazy, I have no real free time.  And I get stressed out.  A lot. 

For the first few weeks after I moved I would binge-eat as a result of the stress.  We're talking two burgers, a large fry, and a slushie binge-eat. 

But now I'm getting better about that.  In part because I don't really have money to waste on fast food and in part because I don't want to be 300 pounds.  Or even 200, for that matter. 

I was really going to try to lose weight this semester, since I get to be in charge of every bit of food that I eat and unlimited use of the school rec center (which has a pretty nice gym) was included in my fees.  I'm finding that I just can't be bothered to take the time to try really hard.

I work before class in the morning.  I work after class in the afternoon.  I do homework in the evening and either work or try to find time to either be sociable or read.  The easiest day for me to get to the gym is Saturday.  Which I actually do try to do.  I need to get on a better schedule during the week.  I've just found that it's not as important to me as it once was.  I'd rather keep my job.

There are two reasons I know I need to try to go to the gym more.  One is that, while I can't be bothered to try really hard yet, it would be nice to fit into all of my jeans again.  The other is the main reason I actually want to go to the gym.  I want to jog more often because I need to have better control of my air flow and breathing when I sing. 

I know that I will never be 115 pounds again.  I am not a prepubescent teenage boy; I am a woman and I look like one.  I have boobs and a bootay and no matter how hard I try I will never be rid of either.  I will always have hips big enough to enable me frequent wins in that game where you try to knock your friends off balance by popping them with your hip.

I like ice cream and hot chocolate and french fries...  And, above almost anything else on the planet, I love Mexican food.  When I get stressed out I drink empty calories, then laugh and dance most of them off.

I've never really had what I would consider to be an exceptionally unhealthy body image.  But the older I get the more I realize that no matter what I do, no matter how small I actually am, I will never really look small because my boobs will always look big.  There's no way around that...  Until I can get breast reduction surgery, and that won't be for at least another decade.  Maybe more.

I guess it all boils down to this: I am done trying to be something I know I will never manage to be, or, in this case, look like.

I am not beautiful despite my curves.

I am more beautiful because of my curves.