trivial pursuits, or It’s Not Stalking If It’s On The Internet
No, I’m not talking about the hypothetical occasional facebook-stalking of my ex. (which never happens.)
Or my sick obsession with The Superficial. (seriously, what is with that? I can’t stand shows like The Real Housewives of Atlanta/OC/Trailer Trash and I really judge people who watch The Hills or anything affiliated with MTV or VH1, but that site is strangely addicting. perhaps it’s his scorn for… well, everyone that amuses me.)
I am referring to my newest internet crush: she (cleolinda) says brilliant things. Things that answer all the questions to life. For example, that bad boy obsession that all girls have, but are somehow unable to properly explain?
2) Girls like bad boys: Believe it or not, this is actually tied to Point #1. I’ve held this as a general theory for a while, so listen up, nice guys (or Nice Guys), but maybe not for the reason you’d think. I actually don’t think girls like a guy who treats them bad. But I do think they–we–get off a little on the idea of changing someone for the better, or the idea of having the power that someone loves us so much that he’ll change or sacrifice something for us. (I don’t have the patience for fixer-uppers in real life–if I’m going to be with you, I want you to be a fully formed, fully actualized self before I get there–but I’m a sucker for the trope in literature.) A nice guy doesn’t need to change, and, most importantly, he’s already nice to everyone. How do you know that you’re special if he treats everyone else with as much kindness and respect as he treats you? The “bad boy” type, though? He may range from simple, garden-variety jackhole (hello, Sawyer!) to appalling psychopath (hello, Dr. Lecter!), but you know he loves you because he’s completely different around you. You are an exception to his very nature. This is how “villain” ends up drifting towards “antihero”–Dracula, the Phantom of the Opera, Spike on Buffy, fanfic!Draco Malfoy–but you even see it with straightforward heroes: Mr. Darcy and Mr. Rochester are both cold, prickly, withdrawn types until Lizzie Bennet and Jane Eyre arrive, respectively, to bewilder and melt them. That’s the fantasy. (Note: this is not a comparison of quality.)
It’s true! This is your answer, boys who are constantly confused by our compulsion to, as Chandler put it, “date leather-wearing alcoholics and complain about them… to you.”
Of course, most girls end up making the mistake of dating that type. Then, when they meet a truly Nice Guy, they don’t quite know what to do with them and usually end up heading for the hills. (He opens the car door for me, Mom. Who does that? I’m breaking up with him tomorrow.) (no, I do not have personal experience in that area at all.)
I’ll see you guys later; I’m busy catching up on her deep and philosophical musings.
And reading Growing Up Cullen.
saint_renegade: let’s talk about Edward during most of new moon
saint_renegade: when he was away from bella/his family
oxymoronassoc: JAUNTING ABOUT
oxymoronassoc: BEING EMO
oxymoronassoc: IN SOUTH AMERICA
saint_renegade: you know he sent long letters to emmett/rosalie
saint_renegade: just weeping the whole time
saint_renegade: talking about his great woeoxymoronassoc: he’s chilling, sparkling, under a mango tree in the amazon
oxymoronassoc: hoping to get eaten by a snake or whatever
saint_renegade: I AM A BOTTOMLESS PIT OF SADNESS
oxymoronassoc: I DESERVE NO LESS THAN TO BE STRANGLED BY THIS ANACONDA
saint_renegade: just lying there sobbing for days at a time
oxymoronassoc: the locals think the forest is haunted
oxymoronassoc: or that there is a cow
oxymoronassoc: slowly dying
oxymoronassoc: in some quicksand
oxymoronassoc: I HAVE SCARED AWAY THE LOCALS
oxymoronassoc: THEY COULD NOT BEAR THE SOUND OF MY ANGUISH
oxymoronassoc: NOW I MUST BEAR THAT BURDEN TOO: I AM A SOCIAL PARIAH
yeah. will my life ever be normal again?
The Storyteller… chapter 11
A/N: I’ve had a general sketch of where this story should go for a while, but it’s been slow going. It’s picking up a bit now, so I should be posting (somewhat) regular updates. (of course, now that I say that, who knows what’ll happen.) Thanks again for your reviews; they truly make my day!
Chapter 11
Wendy stretched, smiling sleepily, her arms above her head. She’d had such a delicious dream. It had been so difficult to sleep at first, but as she finally dropped off, she could have sworn that someone had been with her, lulling her to sleep with his steady breathing and soft touches to her hair. She slid her hand to the place beside her, only to find that the sheets were cold. Strange, I could’ve sworn…
The doors flew open with the now-typical flourish that preceded Smee’s appearance. She sat up in bed, blinking as he carried in a tray of questionable-looking porridge and a steaming cup of… something. But what caught her attention was the fact that he was accompanied by the Captain, looking as pristine as ever. She was suddenly aware of her tousled hair and the fact that she was clad in only a nightshirt—his shirt. Wendy hesitated, then drew up her chin, refusing to be intimidated by his mere presence.
“Good morning, Red-Handed Jill,” Smee said cheerfully as he placed the tray on the bedside table. “Did you sleep well?”
She smiled gratefully at the friendly pirate, realizing that she was hungry. “Yes, thank you.” She turned to the Captain, and offered a smile in truce. “Thank you, Captain, for the use of your quarters. It was quite kind of you.” And, she realized in surprise, it had been unexpected. Their discussion the night before had certainly raised a few questions in her mind. He’d been polite and courteous to her, while she had been tense and combative. Perhaps she needed to reevaluate both his position and her own.
His expression did not change, although she thought he seemed pleased as he said casually, “Well, we couldn’t place you below with the men; you’d never get out alive.” She flushed slightly, but couldn’t keep a cough of shocked laughter from escaping. His lips twitched in return.
Smee looked as if he were torn between amusement and embarrassment. “Yes, well, we have clothes in the hold that may fit you. When you finish eating, come find me and I’ll help you look through them. They’re not ladies clothes, but you can’t exactly be picky, now, can you.”
She merely nodded, and Smee turned and left the room. The Captain stood in the doorway, avoiding her gaze, looking at a book that he’d selected at random. He seemed uncharacteristically off-kilter, and she wondered where he’d spent the night, and whether he’d slept at all.
“Is there something you forgot, Captain?” she asked sweetly.
He hesitated, staring at the book he’d lifted, then looked up at her. “How long has it been, for you?” She looked so comfortable in his shirt and his bed that he nearly groaned. Why was she sent to torment him so?
She instinctively knew what he meant, and swallowed hard. “Years. Many years.” Much had happened since she’d last been in Neverland.
He looked confused. “Yet you say that I have not aged.”
She blinked. “I don’t recall mentioning such a thing,” she said, willing herself not to turn red. She could not let him know that she had memorized his every characteristic, that she had been so aware of him in her younger days that she’d been able to tell instantly that every line on his face had been the same. Her attention had not changed, either; she was still hyper-sensitive when it came to the Captain.
He relented, surveying her silently for a moment, then said softly, “The men do need a Storyteller, Red. Simple pirating is not enough. It never has been.”
Suspicious of this apparent non sequitur, she nodded wordlessly. He closed the book, put it on the shelf, and left the room without another word.
Wendy bit her lip as she pulled the breakfast tray towards her. A Storyteller was needed, and she just so happened to have thousands hidden, repressed deep inside. Perhaps she could truly become Red-Handed Jill once again. It wouldn’t bring back all of her memories, would it? Some could still stay hidden?
-+-
Wendy made the giant bed, then donned her clothes from yesterday and went to find Smee. She was pleased to discover as she walked that while her wounded leg still throbbed with pain, she was able to get by with a limp. She wouldn’t need a stick to lean on.
Smee took her down to the hold, chattering all the while. As she walked through the ship, she was uncomfortably aware of the many eyes upon her. She wondered if the Captain had made a general announcement about her presence on board, for the eyes did not seem curious, but simply watchful. Some felt rather predatory, however, and she quickened her step behind Smee as he led her to the giant trunks in a corner of the hold.
“Here we are.” Smee groaned with effort as he opened one. An explosion of fabric lay inside, and he began pulling out pieces of clothing, one by one. “We’ve been gathering booty for so long that we never know exactly what we have anymore. We’ve gone through about eight cabin boys, and I’m sure some of them left their old clothes behind, so we’re bound to find something to fit you,” he said kindly.
She pulled aside shirts that looked about her size, and found a few pairs of trousers that could fit. There was so much inside the first trunk that they didn’t need to look inside the second, although Smee insisted upon opening it as well.
As she looked at all of the fabric, an idea came into her head. “Smee,” she asked cautiously. “You say that you and the men never use these clothes?”
“Not to my knowledge, no,” he said, then looked at her curiously. “Why do you ask?”
A slow smile began to cross her face. “Oh, no matter. I need to bring something up with the Captain later.” She got to her feet, stretching out the soreness in her leg, and began to help him put the clothes away. “Tell me, is there anything I can do to help pull my weight around here?”
Smee paused. “Well, you could ask Cookie if he needs help fixin’ the meals. The man’s a master chef but I’m sure more hands won’t hurt. Anything else and you’d be stuck with the men for long periods of time, and that wouldn’t be fun for anyone, least of all you.”
She smiled at Smee even as she fought back a shudder, grateful for his thoughtfulness. “Well, would you show me where to find Cookie?”
-+-
Wendy growled at the full five-gallon buckets she was attempting to drag towards the stairs. The cook hadn’t taken kindly to her intrusion upon his domain, and had relegated the task of water retrieval to her. Of course, the freshwater hold was kept down two flights of stairs; something about the necessary relocation due to dry rot and rat infestation had been muttered as he’d shoved the buckets into her arms and pointed her to the steps. She’d shouldered her burden and marched away, as best she could. It seems the man took a personal dislike to her, and had decided heavy labor would be the best punishment. Had he heard her thoughts on the porridge that morning?
“Men,” she muttered as the bucket sloshed alarmingly. “Too stubborn to know what’s good for them.”
Footsteps sounded down the shadowy corridor, and she fought against the sudden pounding of her heart. She hadn’t seen the Captain since his cryptic words before breakfast, and he was not likely to show his face down here. She forced her breath to slow; she did not like the way her heart leapt at the first sound of boots on the steps. Calm down, Red. He’s a bloodthirsty pirate who may or may not be holding you captive on this boat. Simply because you happen to dream about him in disturbing detail does not mean that reality will comply with your imagination.
Yet she still looked up eagerly as the footsteps drew nearer, only to see an impeccably dressed pirate making his way down the steps towards her.
She waited, shoulders back, eyes focused on the bucket, hoping that the man would simply ignore her and walk by. She moved back into the wall as he approached, giving him ample room to pass her, but he suddenly stopped and looked at her. His immaculate appearance began to fade upon closer inspection; he appeared out of place in the spotless clothes, as if he were playing a part, but felt ill at ease in the material.
His expression, however, was what caused chills to run down her spine; his gaze was fixed upon her and there was a hint of hatred as well as anger and desire on his face. Yellow eyes narrowed as he closed in on her personal space. “Well, if it ain’t the Captain’s newest pet,” he growled, his breath making her gag.
“Please step aside; I need to be on my way,” she said resolutely, but he moved in closer and lifted a hand to trail down the side of her face. She flinched away, but he pressed closer still and chuckled. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end in sudden premonition.
She tried to push him aside, but he grabbed her forearms and squeezed, making her bones nearly grind together and bringing tears to her eyes from the pain. “Now, now, girlie, I’ve had my eye on you, and you’re going to appreciate it proper, like a good girl should.”
Oh, God, here came the memories. Wife is second to Husband. When will you learn to speak properly to your betters? If I’m going to marry you and take you out of this hovel, you are going to learn some respect! He had appeared so pleasant at first, and her family had liked him. Too bad the most innocent looking sheep often turned out to be the worst kind of wolves.
She shook off the past and focused on the alarming present. “Let me go,” she said firmly, willing the tears in her eyes to disappear even as she wished her voice could be louder.
The pirate laughed. “Why isn’t that charming, she’s trying to tell us what to do.” Fear rose in her as she realized he wasn’t talking to himself, that another man had appeared in the small corridor. Her odds had just gone from bad to worse.
Making up her mind quickly, she flew into action. Twisting her wrist around, she kneed him in the groin and pulled away as he let go and yelled in surprise at the pain. Whirling around, she raced towards the stairs only to find herself falling suddenly. The second pirate had tripped her, and was pulling her backwards by her injured leg. She kicked out desperately, but the first man was stepping over her now and pulling her up by her hair. She gave a strangled cry of pain, but he punched her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her.
Panic flooded her, and she found herself desperately crying, “No, please stop, not again,” wordlessly as they pushed her against the wall. Help, please help me. The first man grabbed her neck and began steadily squeezing as the world slowly went black.
-+-
The Captain was moving before he realized it, striding, nearly running across the deck of the ship to get down into the hold. His men moved out of his way quickly once they saw the look in his red eyes; they recognized the spectre of death in his gaze.
He couldn’t quite understand the deep-set trepidation that motivated him; he only knew that if he didn’t get somewhere now, something horrible was going to happen. As he raced down the stairs, he heard a yelp, then a thud from the darkened corridor ahead. Another voice cried out, and his blood ran cold. Help, please help me.
Wendy.
aaand a new obsession begins, or How I Lost My Entire Weekend
I caved. I finally read Twilight. All the way through. (for those of you who have been here a while, I attempted to do so back in… February? March? but couldn’t finish because it was mind-numbingly awful of my many social obligations.)
However. A new day breaks, and a new obsession begins.
(Except when I say “obsession,” I mean, you know, a mild sort of amused interest.)
I bring you a new word, guys. ”Lolfan,” defined as those who have read Twilight, understand the insane compulsion to somehow finish the books no matter how bad they get, and can still function in society without beginning a desperate search for “their Edward.” (or comparing their significant others to the aforementioned fictional character.)
“I pretty much made up this word just now to describe the kind of people (i.e., me) who read these books for the sole purpose of snarking on them and yet cannot stop oh God please send help. Levels of affection for the subject matter may vary; macros and icons are often involved. Twatlighters (see below) are a good example of lolfans.”
These are my people! My long-lost tribe, my band of brothers! (I fear, however, that no one will ever share my strange fascination with quoting obscure sections of Henry V. Thanks, Dad.)
But. I still can’t stand Bella. Sorry. I tried. (but blech.)
If you would like to add joy to your life, regardless of your status on the whole “fan” scale, read Growing Up Cullen, in which Edward is characterized as a 40 year old mother on a bad day due to all the other Cullens’ constant crazy-making and poor angsty Edward is all on his lonesome… scrapbooking and listening to Nickelback cds. Nobody understands him, you guys.
(and oh, the late-to-the-party glee I have: there’s more).
…hours of clicking later…
Oh sweet lord of the rings. What have I stumbled clumsily across?
He had reddish, blonde-brown hair that was groomed heterosexually. He looked older than the other boys in the room — maybe not as old as God or my father, but certainly a viable replacement. Imagine if you took every woman’s idea of a hot guy and averaged it out into one man. This was that man.
Nightlight, a Twilight parody.
There goes my entire November. See you guys on the other side.
oh. and yes, I’m going to see Jacob’s abs that movie. but only because my boyfriend’s sister is dragging both of us!
The Storyteller… ch10
Chapter 10
The Captain gathered a few necessities from his cabin, then paused before he left the room. Feeling more than a little foolish, he returned to the bed and plumped the pillows, then began digging in the closet for suitable nightwear for one as small as she. Perhaps one of the women who visited the men had left something behind? Even as he searched for a nightgown, he frowned at the thought of her wearing something that had been worn for such purposes. She should have something untainted.
Caught in a moment of rare indecision, he finally yanked out one of his old, well-worn shirts, and laid it on the bed, then turned and stormed out of the room with his belongings, refusing to look back. He’d already done enough foolish pandering to the girl; if he wasn’t careful, she’d be running the ship before long. It was hard for a Captain to be regarded as bloodthirsty whilst asking a dainty chit if she’d like sugar with her tea.
-+-
Smee opened the door for Wendy, grinning all the while. “Captain’s orders, Red-Handed Jill,” he said cheerfully as he pushed her in.
She took in the scene with one wide look, then whirled, eyes flashing with anger. “I beg your pardon? Surely you are joking.”
Smee raised his eyebrows. “You don’t like it? This is the Captain’s room. There’s nothing better in the whole ship!”
She folded her arms. “I am well aware of the Captain’s tastes. I simply object to being forced to share occupancy.” She knew there had been a spark of attraction, an electric arc connecting them, and something more subtle that bonded their very souls together, but for him to have the audacity to assume that she’d repay his actions on her behalf with her body… well. She had a few things to say about that.
She realized that Smee was laughing so hard that he was clutching the door for support. She assumed her most regal posture and stared at him imperiously. “Is there something I have overlooked?”
The man wiped his eyes and resumed grinning at her nearly maniacally. “Why yes. The Captain ain’t here, is he?”
She looked about, paying special attention to the shadows where he was wont to lurk. “I suppose not.”
Apparently that was her answer, for he blinked at her as if she were slow. “Well, then.” The little man began to walk out of the room, then paused and turned. “The Captain isn’t in the habit of forcing women to his bed,” he added in a confiding tone. “I would’ve thought you’d know that.” Then he closed the door, leaving her gaping after him, uncertain if she were confused, insulted, or simply annoyed.
She finally decided to ignore it, tantalized by the opportunity to look about; it was not every day she was given unrestricted access to the personal chambers of the very man who captivated her so.
The most prominent object in the room was the bed, and she found herself drawn to it relentlessly. It was large enough to sleep three men comfortably, and she forced herself to refrain from thinking about who had shared it with the Captain in the past. That sick feeling in her stomach had nothing to do with jealousy, it was simply a result of fighting with him before dinner.
She forced her concentration back to the bed. The pillows were down, and the sheets were made of silk. Laid out on the end of the bed was a large shirt. Had someone set it out for her? It could fit as a nightgown for her, so she assumed it had been left intentionally. She touched it hesitantly, and found that it was quite soft. It didn’t seem new, instead it looked as if it had been worn often, but it was clean. Had he left her one of his shirts? She found her cheeks flushing at the idea of wearing something of his to bed, especially as well worn as it was.
Wendy blew out a breath in a sigh. “Snap out of it, Jill,” she muttered, and turned her attention to the rest of the room. Unsurprisingly, the walls were lined with bookshelves, and the books did not seem to fit any one genre. Apparently the Captain had varied taste, as she looked over the shelves. She could easily enjoy her time here.
She forced herself to just skim the titles, since she didn’t have official permission to disrupt his belongings. Scattered around the room were various weapons in form of disrepair; it looked as though he was in the habit of mending his own artillery. On his desk lay a rather detailed sketch of the inner workings of new machinery, alongside a book on philosophy. He seemed to be rather more complex than she had first imagined.
She smiled as she looked back at the bed. As grand gestures went, allowing her his room certainly fit the bill. She wondered if he knew that she’d have trouble sleeping in his bed.
-+-
Wendy sat up again, and pounded her pillow in frustration. She kept rehashing her earlier argument with the Captain, and retorts were cycling through her mind. He had brought up valid points; she had thought him a villain, so he had acted like one. Had he truly been ready to kill them? When he had forced her to tell Peter’s story, he had seemed so tormented, driven by a frustration that ran deeper than a mere boy’s game.
And when they had been arguing, she’d felt… something from him. When he’d accused her of orchestrating the story to her own happy ending, she could’ve sworn that he was feeling pain so fierce that she nearly gasped aloud at the sharpness of the ache. And she’d caught a glimpse of a memory of herself and Peter, dancing on air together. Her face had been suffused with light, joy and hope shining in her eyes as she gazed at the Boy Who Would Never Grow Up, even as she wished he would. Had the Captain seen them together?
She groaned aloud, and turned over again. She was never going to fall asleep.
It was his fault, really. His very presence surrounded her; she was trying to sleep in his bed, wearing one of his shirts, and yet she was trying not to think of him. It was hopeless.
-+-
The Captain puffed his cigar in the library, purposefully thinking of nothing, concentrating on keeping his mind free from the clutter of memories and emotions. So far, he’d been able to keep from thinking of her a grand total of–he checked his pocket-watch again. Seventy-two seconds.
He gave up, and began pacing. She’d been genuinely upset when he’d accused her of manipulating the story. Had she truly been unaware of her power? She’d seemed so fierce in her defense that he wondered if she knew the power she carried even now. She still seemed constrained, limited. As if there was a part of her that held on tightly to control, no matter what. The only time he’d seen that control flicker had been when he’d discovered the bruises on her arms.
He frowned to himself, lost in thought. Those bruises had been mottled blue and green, showing signs of nearly healed skin, instead of freshly inflicted injuries. She had received the blisters on her hands here, but not the bruises. Where, then? And who was so bold as to inflict pain upon her?
When he thought about it, her pain threshold was quite high. She’d been bleeding profusely and had been knocked around quite a bit, but hadn’t cried, or whined about her injuries. She had only objected when he treated her as inferior to him.
What was in her past that she was so unwilling to allow him to probe?
He stomped down to Smee’s room. Since he gave up his quarters for Red, he had kicked Smee out of his room instead. He was a gentleman, but he was not about to sleep in the common area with the rest of the men. As Captain, he needed to maintain an air of superiority as well as fear, and both were rather difficult when the men discovered you snoring in a hammock in the galley.
He took off the harness for his hook, groaning as the weight came off. It was a helpful contraption, but difficult to bear at times. The leather strap chafed, so he had taken to smearing the pulp of an aloe vera plant on his skin where it bled. Chief Tiger Lillie had shown him that useful trick; too bad she hadn’t given him an extra arm to reach his back where it truly hurt.
He lay down on the lumpy mattress, grumbling at the courtesy which had necessitated giving up his own soft bed. The little chit should be grateful to him; if she was not, he toyed with the idea of forcing her to bunk with the men, but quickly cast it aside. Even he was not that cruel.
He sighed, and closed his eyes once more, his mind returning to her as if by default. He was not unwilling, this time, and indulged himself by wondering absently what she dreamed. He slowly drifted to sleep, with the scent of lavender surrounding him and a small hand on his chest. He touched her hair hazily and sighed with contentment as sleep took him.
green-eyed monster
She came with us on a couples outing, and I realized almost instantly that I do not like her. I tend to judge people instantly, harshly, and hold them to that, which is my flaw. I admit it, freely. I need to stop being so rigid.
But it still doesn’t change the fact that I’m usually right. ”I can tell instantly about people. It’s a gift.”
When I walked into the room, I heard her saying that she thought we had broken up. She could not have sounded happier about this mistake. BFF was there, laughing at her and the look on my face. The BF looked confused and uncomfortable. I wanted to slam the door in her face, but settled for handing the child to him and being mildly possessive.
Now it’s the little things that make my ears burn and fingers itch to accidentally get caught in her hair… and pull.
She’ll come over whenever possible, “to hang out with the group”… then stay until all the others have left, just watching us. (Who sits on a couch and watches a couple make out?? Can we say ‘creeper’?)
I’m still not worried about him ever cheating on me.
I just have to worry about keeping myself from physical violence.
The boyfriend laughs at me. He thinks it’s sexy that I feel possessive of him.
Then he saw a couple texts on my phone from flirty boys and the shoe was on the other foot.
(Ha.)
It’s funny; I’ve never felt this open in a relationship. I don’t mind that he’s aware that there are guys who would do anything for me. I don’t care that he knows (and remembers by name) that there are three or four who still text me wanting to ‘meet up.’ (“Come on, baby, he doesn’t have to know.”) The first time someone hit on me in his presence was an interesting experience. (We were in a bookstore and he was looking at books one row down, so we weren’t being all couple-y. and the poor guy I had to shoot down was really very creative and sweet.) Instead of being jealous and possessive, he had the biggest grin for the next hour. When I asked him about it, he only said, “Damn straight he thinks you’re pretty and wants your number.”
I think it’s good for our egos, in a strange way. It’s good for us to know that there are other people who want to be with us (and with our significant others), and it helps us reaffirm the relationship by being open about it. I’m not going to lie, I do get slightly more PDA-prone when I know she’s around (and watching…. *shudder*).
I do not, however, enjoy the feeling that she’s keeping tabs on ‘us.’ When I was at his alumni game, I heard her saying in an undertone “That’s his girlfriend,” and other voices saying, “Really?” It helped, though, that he dragged over several guys and proudly introduced me as “This is my girlfriend,” leaving me to supply my name. He loves to introduce me to people like that; relationship label out in front. He’s told me that he can’t wait to introduce me as his wife.
It’s interesting, though, because I don’t refer to him as my boyfriend to other people. I give his name, and assume that they’ll connect the dots, because usually his arm is around me or he’s doing some ridiculously cute boyfriend thing. The other day, the BFF and I were making plans, and instead of saying his name, she said something about “your boyfriend,” and I couldn’t stop smiling.
Life is strange.
We’re still in the honeymoon phase. I wonder how long it’ll last.
Letters to the past
Dear Jerk:
It’s funny, really. You’re the most impulsive person I know, and yet you see yourself as cool, logical, even-headed.
You rushed into the relationship so quickly I’m not sure you even thought about what that would mean. I got swept into the whirlwind romance of it all, suddenly and deeply “in love” so fast that I couldn’t quite see (let alone think) straight.
And it was over, just as swiftly. You were in love with the feeling, chasing it with whomever you could until you got what you wanted deserved.
You insist you still love me, even though we cannot be together and irrevocable decisions have been made. Mostly on your part. By your poor impulse control and your inability to keep it in your pants.
What part of “Goodbye” is unclear to you?
Which word in “Let me move on” do you not understand?
In what way could I rephrase “Leave me the hell alone” so that you can gather the full meaning and the implications involved?
Dear Ex-First-Love:
You are in my brain. I can ignore you easily for the most part, but I’ll see your car model, a camera, certain types of music, and there you are again. It’s as if I can hear your voice in my head, a running commentary on my day-to-day actions, decisions, and circumstances.
Please. Get out. Leave me alone.
And that part of my soul, the one that seems to belong to you? Please leave it behind when you go. I want it back now. I know I said I’d love you forever, but I’m tired of forever. I want to be free.
I’m tired of memories of you coming up and getting in the way of my memories of the boyfriend. I know we grew up together, the four of us, (you, me, the bestie, and the boyfriend), so of course you’ll be there. But I want to look back with fewer regrets. I’m tired of nearly choking on all the words left unspoken, all the bottled memories I have to suppress. I want to move on completely.
I just want closure. You see, ten years of friendship plus a two-year-relationship stint means that there will always be loose ends and lingering feelings. But it’s been four and a half fucking years. There have been others since you, but somehow none of them have managed to stick the way you have. Maybe because you were so good at the manipulation and the emotional abuse.
Jackass.
Fuck off and leave me alone.
Dear Pseudo:
Our relationship has been the most confusing of all. My subconscious still isn’t quite sure how to characterize you, and whenever you come to mind, pain and regret at all that was left unsaid is sure to follow. So many of my day-to-day memories are full of moments with you. Hell, we lived life alongside each other for a good two to three years, so of course I can’t see a blender without thinking of you, or wander down store aisles without hearing your quips about various products. I can’t cook without hearing your instructions in my head; for crying out loud, I still move around the kitchen as if you’re there with me, dancing around each other as we prepare amazing food for friends. I still feel you brushing past me when I reach for ingredients, your hand on my back as I open the oven door.
You started dating her and got engaged so fast that everyone was left stammering, most of all me. (I mean, come on. Two months?? That’s faster than most couples in Hollywood.)
I felt like Sally, sobbing to Harry that, “He just met her… She’s supposed to be his transitional person, she’s not supposed to be the ONE. All this time I thought he didn’t want to get married. But, the truth is, he didn’t want to marry me. He didn’t love me.”
Why? What was so wrong with me? Why didn’t you want me?
If I could take you back now, would I? Of course not. I love the boyfriend, and we much better suited for one another. But… why? There’s this big gaping hole in my heart and I don’t know how to fix it, and I feel like I can’t move on with the boyfriend until I understand why.
Because life doesn’t work that way. It’s always neat and tidy, you always have an explanation, and even though breakups are messy and spew hurt everywhere, you at least get all the answers out there.
…right?
I now understand what my bestie felt like, when her first love got married. The whole time he and that other girl were dating, we’d nod sagely to one another and comment how it was clear that they didn’t belong together because he had totally changed himself for her, and she’d become what she thought he wanted, and it bugged the two of us that neither one of them were being honest with each other, let alone the world.
But then they got married, and she was left standing there, still hurt, confused and rationalizing. Now they’re pregnant, and I still see the pain in her eyes as she tries to reconcile the fact that he’s a completely different person than the man who loved her.
I understand.
Why?
And why do I still miss you so much?
I feel like (and you’ll laugh) Rogue, when she was stuck with the memories of all the people she’d touched. They have all become a part of me, and time isn’t healing as fast as it should.
I wish I hadn’t been so free with love, but that’s the way I am. I love deeply and for a long time. It sucks but it’s me.
I don’t think I’d change anything, because I’m glad of the damage even with the lingering memories. It’s changed me, made me stronger, helped me grow, and I can relate to others that much more. And all of them have helped me love the boyfriend more and more and more, because he truly is my match.
The tragedy of memory
Just kidding (about “oh happy day”). I guess the pain is still there, just buried, and it takes another medium to bring it all screaming back to the surface again. This time, the medium was “The Fountain.”
Sometimes I think that memory is one of the greatest faults of humanity, the tragic flaw that allows us to hold on to bitterness, resentment, unfulfilled desires, anger, sorrow, grief and hope. Yes, I would even consider hope a tragic flaw, because it brings so much pain to our lives when it is left unfulfilled or broken.
I can’t watch The Fountain, or listen to the soundtrack, without my heart breaking all over again. We would watch it together, he and I, as he would trace promises onto my skin and wipe away my tears, promising that we would be like the immortal lovers on screen, finding one another through time over and over again.
I will never forget the sound my heart made when I discovered that he had… well, amongst other things, knocked her up.
I cover up the memories with anger, bitterness, even caustic humor, but there is still deep, wordless pain there. He hurt me, broke my heart, abandoned me, only to resurface again with a new life, sheepish apology on his face as he watched my world fall down around my ears.
I thought that he was The One. I had thought that we were supposed to be together, and we’d live in a perfect little house and raise children and fight and grow old together. We were going to live on the island, and he was going to buy me a piano, and our kids would walk to school while I was a wife and he taught as a college professor. (Maybe I was trying to recreate my own childhood, in that future. After all, we were all much happier.)
Then.
Suddenly I was no longer innocent, no longer believed in happily ever after or even love at all. But the memories were still there, haunting, hurting, tearing me apart. I forced myself to move on, to grow up, to repress the memories.
And this damn movie brings every single one back, sharp as the first time I experienced them.
I need the boyfriend to hold me, tell me that everything is going to be okay because we won’t fail, that he would never leave me, that our love is for life.
But I know that I need to heal. I need to push through the hurt and pain by myself so that I can believe him when he tells me that this is real, this is the lasting good love. I don’t want to use him as a crutch, I want to be able to trust him fully.
And as time goes on, as our relationship grows, I find the past hurts slowly healing with each new experience, as he slowly proves just by living that no, he’s not going to leave me and yes, he does love me more than himself.
Our love may not be the insane tilt-a-whirl crazy ride of ups and downs that I had with him, but it’s the Good, solid kind that is going to last.
And I need to remember that, no matter what.
Only a Crush
I have a new obsession: Glee! I watched the second episode for the twelfth time, and then my brain spit this out.
-+-
“Hey, Emma.” She looked up from the fountain to his heart-breakingly adorable face, stretched wide in a hopeful smile. “I found these new disinfectant bleach wipes. What do you say? Boys’ bathroom, the science wing, nine o’clock?” He could not have practiced looking more seductive yet casual, she thought miserably.
With that, she couldn’t. She just couldn’t take it any longer. “Will, what are we doing?” His face froze. “You’re having a baby,” she continued softly. Confirming her suspicions, he didn’t react with shock but blinked, looking wary at her next step. “And anyway, I have a date.”
“That’s great,” he said, sounding enthusiastic. “With who?” Was that jealousy in his tone? Were his eyes narrowing slightly as he injected happiness into his voice?
“I’m going to go to Tulapalooza,” she said, accidentally making it sound like a question, then forced herself to say firmly, “with Ken.” There was definitely jealousy in his face now. You can’t have it both ways, Will Schuester, she thought with anger.
Emma forced herself to walk around him, feeling the bond between them stretching with every step. She nervously wondered, like Rochester, if it would snap and she would take to bleeding internally, as she tried not to cry. She caught a whiff of his cologne as she passed close by, and was catapulted into memories of the night before. He’d touched her, deliberately, trying to help her overcome her phobia. He had used himself as an incentive, taking the attraction that they both felt on a subconscious level and using it against her.
He’s not allowed to do this, she thought vindictively. I’m trying to keep myself from falling further, and he’s all but dancing naked in front of me, taunting me with what I can’t have.
With that, she tossed her hair. She would go on this date with the sweat factory, even if she was miserable the entire time, because she needed to get over this forbidden crush. It was only a crush, after all. It’s not like she was in love with a married man, because that was so much worse.
Only a crush, she told herself firmly as she walked away, refusing to look back, even as she felt the burn of his gaze on her ramrod-stiff spine. She blinked away more tears, and repeated, Only a crush.
-+-
I’m thinking of writing more, maybe from his perspective. Because he totally knows what he’s doing, the bastard. You are married. You are not allowed to fuck with people’s lives like that.
But I can’t help but love him and hope that they do, somehow, get together. (somehow without her being the reason he leaves Terri, because you never want to be the marriage-breaker.)
Not that I’m speaking from personal experience… and that’s not why I’m extra-bitter towards him…
Oh happy day!
I have become accustomed to the random pangs of old hurts and unfinished business that still accompany flashbacks. When my first ex-boyfriend crosses my mind, there are still feelings of frustration and resentment that roil just beneath the surface. I try not to ever think about the two or three that came after him, because I usually want to squirm with embarrassment and hide my face in mortification and mumble “oh my God what was I thinking?” And when the Pseudo comes to mind, he’s accompanied with sadness and a vague feeling of loss, but no sharp stabbing pain, thankfully.
But. There was one relationship that really tore me apart. I had never loved that deeply, felt that intensely head-over-heels crazy for another person before. He knew all the right words to say, and had me completely swept off my feet in a matter of months. I was ready to turn my life upside down and inside out for him. Thank God that life interfered, and, due to external forces (well, mainly he turned out to be a cheating scummy bastard who knocked up the girl he slept with), we broke up. Actually, I got my first taste of “oh, wow, he’s quite a piece of work,” and realized that I had to be the one to break up with him because he wasn’t going to do it himself.
Long story short, I did, but it was the most painful process I had ever gone through. It took a very long time to get him all the way out of my life, but I was able to do it, with the help of some of the most amazing friends that I’ve been blessed to have. You should all be jealous. They rock.
Unfortunately, I can really pick winners. This one has the annoying tendency to pop up every two months or so, trying to weasel his way back into my life, no matter how I avoid or block him. (And to think, persistence was a character trait I had loved in him.) Whenever he does, he manages to dredge up all of the past sorrow and loss with him, leaving me feeling hurt all over again and frustrated that I let him get to me.
It happened again, recently. He came stumbling drunkenly back into my life, and I took a deep breath and internally steeled myself against all the hurt and pain that invariably rises to the top whenever he reappears.
And waited.
Counted to twenty, opened one eye cautiously (metaphorically speaking, of course).
Uh, hello? Agony, are you there? Pain, sorrow, regret? Guys?
I began cautiously letting out the air I’d inhaled in preparation for the oncoming sucker punch. What was going on?
I… I think I’m over him.
That’s not to say that I am exempt from the pain of old scars, but I am pretty sure that past regrets are over and done with.
I think it has something to do with the fact that The Boyfriend is in my life. Not only that, but I trust him, I’m comfortable with him, I love him deeply (but not crazy), and he knows me. We’ve known one another for 13 years; he knows me inside out. He actually helped me get through the breakup. I know that he would never cheat on me, that he loves me perhaps more than I love him (but he doesn’t, because I love him more), and that my life is on the Right Path.
I always felt vaguely guilty that I still had hurt and sorrow in my memories even when I’m with The Boyfriend now. I mean, I’m with him, so my past is invalid, right?
No, they will always be there. One or two will even have pieces of my heart, possibly forever. After all, they were important parts of my life, and just because time has moved on doesn’t render them invalid.
But I no longer have to feel the hurt and pain associated with them.
Oh happy day!
Do You Believe In Magic? by the Lovin’ Spoonful
Logan watched with a half smile as Marie twirled on the deck, throwing her hands out and laughing with sheer joy. He knew it had been a good idea to set up the outdoor sound system. She felt claustrophobic inside, around so many people that she could never touch, but when she was outside, she feel freer.
He’d come across music he knew she’d love, and hadn’t been able to rest until he’d figured out a way to get the outdoor deck rigged for stereo sound. He’d left her a note, telling her to go outside, that there was a gift waiting for her, and had sat back to watch the show.
She had known instantly that it was his way of telling her that she’d be okay, no matter what. She began dancing as soon as the music had filled the air, feeling the glee in her soul bubble up until it spilled out of her in the form of laughter. She would be okay. She might not be able to touch people, but there were ways of connecting that didn’t involve skin. Logan had cared enough to show her.
