Allergic to Oxygen.

This will be my first spring in California's Central Valley. 

Here is a list of things I've noticed the Central Valley has a lot of:

-Parks.  Like, serious parks.  Everywhere.  I think Redding had four parks.  Now there's a park down the street from me.  In either direction.  And down the street from that park is another park.  Then my university.  Then another couple of parks.  And after those parks?  Corn.

-Tomatoes.  I spent the whole month of September dodging tomatoes on the freeway.  You'd think by now they would have invented some kind of net or something to keep those acidic bastards in the trucks.  But, no.  Good thing they don't eat the paint off cars or anything.  Except...  Wait...  Shit.

-Cows.  Oh.  My.  God.  There are cows everywhere.  It smells like there are cows everywhere.  Sometimes I wonder if the sidewalk ends in a giant cow patty.  In fact, I am thankful every time there is a breeze because it's practically the only time I don't have to deal with the scent of fecal material wafting through the cracks in the window seals in my house.  The only time it doesn't smell like heifer asshole is when it smells like rancid...

-Garlic.  Some days it smells like marinara sauce.  But then the cow butt smell comes back.

-Trees.  Surprisingly.  Because they put them in the parks and at the schools, for one.  But also because this is primarily where almonds are grown.  Fun fact about almonds.  When they are harvested in the fall the trees are just shaken until the almonds fall out.  Secondary fun fact.  All fall my windshield was yellow. 

As a result of the trees now in bloom (thank you false spring; Mother Nature, you are a spiteful bitch), I am now in the throes of probably the worst allergies I've ever had in my life.  I'm allergic to a lot, as far as molds and pollens and things go.  But I think I'd mostly adjusted to the allergens Redding had to offer. 

The trees currently blooming on campus are so beautiful.  On the other hand, yesterday my face was all but swollen.  My eyes were pink and itchy and actually swollen.  My throat has been sore on and off for over a week.  And post-nasal drip is making me crazy. 

I may never be able to wear my contacts again.  And that's unfortunate because I really like wearing those awesome red Ray-Bans I have. 

Here's hoping I find a magical allergy pill to help me through this.  I'm tired of rubbing my eyes and I want to be able to wear make-up again at some point. 

Less than two years till I can move.  Yay!

Happy Alone.

Valentine's Day is just one more reminder of the fact that I used to be in love.  One more day for me to remember what it felt like for someone to love me.  One more day I remember what it was like to have flowers delivered to my office unexpectedly.  One more day I feel lonely.

Except that it's worse.  Because it's also the day many people make a point of turning into a couples holiday.  Partners who fight constantly stop fighting.  And there's always one annoying girl who thinks that it's important for every person she knows to pair up with someone else because it's Valentine's Day.

Even if I wanted to say I was going to boycott I couldn't because everyone I see all day wouldn't be and they'd force me to participate in one way or another.  Plus, saying you're not "celebrating" Valentine's Day has always seemed kind of childish and passive aggressive to me.  As though you're bitter you don't have someone while the rest of the world pretends they do.  It seems so pointless. 

I am not bitter.  Though I am lonely sometimes.  I just miss being the object of another's affection from time to time.  And I don't like the falsified romance of this "holiday".  I'll still put on a happy face
(and maybe my tutu) and pretend I like it as much as everyone else so I don't have to explain my viewpoint. 


Bah, humbug.  And all that jazz.

Late Night.

I started my day off with a NyQuil hangover.  I slept almost ten hours last night.  After falling asleep on my homework for an hour I decided to brave Sunday afternoon little Mexico traffic and venture out to Starbucks. 

(I hate Starbucks.  Mostly on principle.  But also because I love blended mochas and theirs for some reason taste like a powder mix.  Mostly the problem is probably more that I got really spoiled on Dutch Bros.  But whatever.  The rinky-dink town in which I currently reside has three Starbucks.  And NOTHING the fuck ELSE.  What college town only has Starbucks?  That's just mean.)

This also forced me to copy some music I needed ready for my voice lesson tomorrow and otherwise I wouldn't have done it.  So, definitely a wise decision.

Except the NyQuil hangover made my delicious iced white mocha taste like it was sour.  So, that sucked.  Because I could tell it was really delicious.  Before the sour kicked in.  So I got an Arizona iced tea thing and a turkey sammich from Raley's. 

I also had a cup of "decaf" vanilla rooibos tea with cream in it later.

End result:  I have had just enough caffeine that I can't sleep quite yet, but not enough to make me actually be able to focus on reading the 50 pages I still have to notate for class tomorrow afternoon.  I'm pretty much saying "fuck it, I'm going to sleep," but without the actually being able to sleep part.

I think another reason I can't sleep is that I'm thinking.  Of course.  Patty's comment on my last post made me start pondering on Bambi and everything pertaining to that whole mess.

I've pretty much come to the conclusion that we are each other's Kryptonite.  He was my first love.  I was his.  We're like magnets for each other.  We're like fire and gasoline.  Completely attracted to each other, completely combustible.

At least, we used to be. 

I really don't know anymore.  I think the last year has changed us both a lot. 

He called me Friday afternoon and woke me from a very deep and troubled sleep.  I was groggy and don't remember much of what he said, except that he was okay and at his mom's house.  I've never heard him sound so... broken, I guess. 

I've heard Bambi be sad.  I've made Bambi sad.  So sad he wanted to die.  So sad he cut himself, took too many pills, refused to go home to his apartment when I wasn't there.  I've hurt Bambi so much that he talked to mental health and admitted himself to the hospital. 

I've hurt Bambi so much that he should have given up, just like I should have given up so many times.  But he never did.  He kept fighting.  Kept fighting for me.  Kept fighting with me. 

I don't know what she had to have to done to finally break him, but it must have been terrible.  (Part of me still thinks he's faking just because he's trying to fuck with me.  I really just don't know yet.)

The Bambi situation is complicated and confusing.  Usually when I write about it it's because I'm trying to figure something out.  Frequently I'm realizing something as or after I write.  But this is the heart of the matter.

If he could be sober and responsible and love me for the person I am today as opposed to the scared kid I was four years ago, I would talk to Bambi again.  I would probably consider being close with him again.  If there was a way to repair all the trust both of us have broken between each other, I'd do it.  I am fully aware that he can be dangerous and unpredictable; so can I, to some degree.  I would just need to see that he was able to control himself and not be physically violent. 

The thing is, I compare everyone to him.  I hate that I do it and I don't want to.  But I do.  No one loves me like he did.  I mean, no one treats me as badly as he did.  But no one treats me as well or is willing to know me as well as he did, either.  And I think he may have found one of the few women on the planet who could treat him worse than I did. 

I think a lot of the times I've written about him on this blog I've been upset with him in one way or another and that definitely makes things sound pretty one-sided.  I'm not saying he didn't treat me like shit because he did.  He really, really did.  I'm saying I don't think I've made it very plain how badly I treated him.  That in no way justifies the things he did to me.  But the things he did to me don't justify what I did to him, either.  And nothing justifies the cycle. 

I think in another life Bambi and I are the couple from The Notebook.

But in this life we just could never get it right.

Losing Steam.

Churro recently discovered the joys of sitting on the couches in the living room with the rest of us.  Mostly because his mom gave him her old laptop when he went home last weekend and now he doesn't have to be in his room to be on a computer. 

Even though he probably could have used his iPad.  Laptops are still better.  Every time I touch an iPad I feel as though my hands have been coated in KY and it's going to fly out of my hands and shatter into no less than a billion pieces before it even hits the carpet.  Which totally makes sense.  Because iPads are constantly breaking apart.  On carpet.

My other roommate actually has a Mac, too.  But since everyone else was downstairs with a laptop, he dug out his netbook and decided to join us.  It's actually been a pretty week as a result of this.  I feel like we're actually connecting with each other instead of just living together. 

We had a few hours between classes today, which provided me a window of time during which I was able to catch up on a couple of blogs I've been missing in the last few months.  And it gave me a chance to write a post!

So, hello, there!

This year continues to be kinda weird.

Last weekend I went on another waxing expedition with Oose.  This time was not nearly so bad.  Or strange. 

We went to a different place this time and the waxer wasn't quite so...  OCD, let's say.  She was younger and really comfortable talking with us about anything.  Which is good.  Because we tend to lack any kind of boundaries. 

She also didn't touch my anus, so that was a big plus.

This makes it sound as though I wasn't particularly fond of the waxer we had last time, which isn't true.  I just wasn't a fan of what I paid her.

The difference between first and second wax was so extreme that I didn't even need Desatin this time.  Or frozen peas.  And my yoni was actually pretty soft.  I'm so used to shaving that I still expect to have prickly hair nubs poking at my skin trying to escape and be all itchy and unsightly again.  But it just doesn't happen.

Waxing is awesome.


In other news, I heard from Bambi again this week.  He said he was leaving his girlfriend because he didn't think he could "take it anymore."  He also emailed me a video of her trying to get through the bedroom doors he'd apparently locked himself behind.  It was like that scene in the original version of The Haunting where everyone is locked in the den and the doors start bending in. 

Then she called me to scream at me.  I'm guessing she lifted my number from his cell phone.  After he got it the second time I changed it after I left him, I just didn't deal with changing it again.  I wonder if maybe I should change it now, but then I'd have to give everyone I know my new number and, on top of that, I'd have to learn a new number myself.  Not exactly on my list of things I want to have to deal with this semester.

I guess my ex's crazy ex isn't either.  So, we'll see if she calls me to yell at me again.

I know I shouldn't be worried or even care about him, but I can't help it.  I don't want to be involved in the situation but I also don't want him to die.  I've come up with three potential possibilities: 1- He left and now doesn't have a phone or computer, so that's why he can't tell me he's not dead.  2- He is dead.  3- He ended up staying with her and just isn't talking to me because she doesn't want him to.

I have a feeling it's option three.

I think that makes me sad because it means he's trapped with her like I was with him. 

If I want to be completely honest it also makes me a little sad because I don't want him to love anyone but me.  But I don't want to be completely honest because that makes me selfish and it also probably means that deep down I'm always going to have feelings for him.

Which makes me feel like shit.

Yay.

Okay.  I'm going to deal with the pile of laundry in front of my desk that makes me look as though I belong on an episode of hoarders.  And do some homework.  And maybe take a nap.

Definitely not in that order.

And So It Continues.

Sometimes I genuinely fear that neither of us will ever be able to have a relationship with someone else without cheating on that person with each other. 

I hate cheating.  And I'm afraid of him and of the idea of being with him.  As I should be, judging by our past together.  But neither of us has dated someone else since we met without cheating on that person.  With each other.

It's not that we want to cheat.  Neither of us condones it in any way.  It's as if we just can't stay away from each other.

It's not fair that I should finally should start to feel as if I'm really healing and he choose that moment in time to contact me.

It's not fair that he should tell me he misses me.  That he's thinking of leaving his girlfriend.  That he still loves me. 

It's not fair that I will always love him. 

And it's not fair that a few words in a message from him cause me to relapse this much.


Why is it that love either makes you feel completely wonderful or completely defective?