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I might be about to be annoying (I'm coming here because I lack perspective) and if so I apologize!

He said: "If anything did happen it wouldn't be a date and I wouldn't be your boyfriend, and I could just be someone you liked, and that would be pretty in itself."

My first response was "what would it be then?" but the more I think on it the more this seems like a perfect thing to say.

Is this perfect? Should I?

Or are all the reasons I didn't before good reasons even though I'm tempted?

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.


I'm under the impression most people are happy when they get a new job.

I haven't had my first day yet; in fact, I only got the offer three hours ago, so my attitude could drastically change. I could easily experience an emotional heat wave (as opposed to the cold snap I've been in since the weekend started) and become excited and pleased to have his job.

As it stands, I've been crying for three hours in despair over a job I haven't even started yet, so there is a certain sense of foreboding.

The facts: it's fifty hours a week, payment by commission. Selling DirectTV subscriptions in WalMart in suits and heels alongside a former golfer named Todd. Those fifty hours? 10A-8P Thurs-Mon; no weekends off, no regular dinner times. Essentially, this means that the few things I have enjoyed in my unemployment-- yoga classes 3-4x a week, the recreational company of my friends who live nearby-- are going to become statistical improbabilities as my work schedule now conflicts with everyone else's (especially when travel time is factored in; since I don't have a car, I must take the bus, and my commute quadruples in length).

I know it's just temporary, and it'll be a great story, and I can make a few bucks I didn't have before, and I'll have a new experience and references. I know part of being an adult is sacrificing. I'm trying really hard not to be completely miserable. I don't even know for sure that it's going to be that bad. Maybe I'll have a talent for it. Maybe I'll enjoy it. But I'm having trouble focusing on something other than what I'm giving up.


I have crossed over from "missing my ex" into "being lonely." 

It's horrible to want someone to call after a fight with a coworker-- someone to promise to love you even when you have bad days and are an idiot with people. And it's horrible to lie in bed in the dark with a migraine, bored but unable to look at anything, and not have someone who will read children's novels aloud to you until the nausea abates and you can fall asleep. 

But it's wonderful to realize that what you want is just that: SOMEONE to call.
I don't know how much longer I can put off re-adding the missing books to my amazon wishlist.

It's been over a year since my bag of "to read next" books went missing. It included the third Girl with the Dragon Tattoo book, the third Bone Doll's Twin book, and Super Sad True Love Story.

The fact that I remember what was in it means I NEED IT, and it's totally gone.


Teenage Bullshit isn't Always Bullshit

One of my students— one of my brightest, laziest students— said today how happy he was to be going home tomorrow. 

We’ve spent a hundred and six hours in class over the last three weeks. That’s a lot. It’s a full-time job. And in between class hours, the students have had other structured activities to do— dances, talent shows, field days, carnivals, crafts, sports. I have no idea how they get the energy.

So it doesn’t come as a complete surprise when I hear— ten, twenty, thirty times a day— that they are tired. It doesn’t shock me to hear that some of them are excited to go home, even if I expect most of them to have had the times of their young lives (for every “I can’t wait to go home,” I hear three “I’m so sad to be leaving”s on average, sometimes from the same kids).

This particular student cited his reason as “I don’t like going to school.” This stung a bit; as an academic employee, I’ve been doing everything I can to keep this from feeling like forced school, to make class fun and entertaining as well as informative. A slight on our class time feels like a slight on me personally, even if I know it isn’t meant to be.

But the true meaning of his words came when he explained why he hates going to school. Does he hate going to school because he doesn’t like working? Does he hate his time here because, as he put it “that’s a hundred and ten hours I wasn’t at home playing Xbox” (to which I had quipped “then I consider it time well spent”)? Is this typical lazy unmotivated teenage bullshit? No. No, he hates going to school because he’s bored. He hates going to school because “you do all your work in ten minutes and spend the rest of the day sitting around waiting for it to be over.”

Statements like this really make me hate modern education. Here is a brilliant kid— a motivated kid, when he wants to be— a kid with abilities and aspirations. And he hates going to school because of all the work he isn’t doing.

I wanted to tell him it would get better, that in high school or college he would suddenly find his time less wasted, feel less imprisoned, and come to spend more time learning than watching the clock. But I couldn’t. I don’t make a habit of lying to the kids. And I knew as well as anyone could that I’d be lying if I promised him an end to his boredom.

There’s a reason I red more than 150 books a year when I was in high school. It wasn’t an excess of challenges and interest in the classroom. I went to a good school; I took hard classes. Every chance I got, whenever I finished my work before everyone else, I pulled out a book. Teachers liked that. I liked that. It filled the gaps for me.

It doesn’t for him. He’s a talker, and he’s been chastised at least once per day for wandering off-topic, for belligerently questioning work, for distracting classmates, for refusing to participate. Even here he spent more time waiting for his classmates to finish work than he spent working. At his regular school, his teachers regularly shut him up. “After the first few days, they say ‘don’t even put your hand up, we get it, we get it.’” I feel that like a physical wound, like a ten ton weight tied to my left ventricle. That anyone could ask a child to turn himself off…

But hadn’t I? Weren’t there other kids— quieter kids— I was more interested in hearing from? I already knew what the loud ones would say, so I sometimes— perhaps often— bypassed their raised hands for those more rarely raised. Wasn’t that, in its own way, a message? Not just one of egalitarianism and taking turns, but one of dismissal?

No matter how many young minds I witnessed (and hopefully facilitated) blossoming this summer, this is one student I failed. The whole educational system has failed him. And it may be too late to fix it. What he’s learned so far in school is that it’s best to turn his natural curiosity elsewhere. He has no hope that he will be engaged— and I don’t either. He doesn’t even try to engage. 

That isn’t his fault. It’s ours.

Looking at old entries

I was a melodramatic little fifteen-year-old. But well-spoken. I had real problems with my dad, huh?

A lot of the entries are funny. Some are sad. Some are untrue. And some are so true I still feel weird about them being out there-- oh, I remember that day. That was an awful day.

Look at how desperately I wanted my friends to like me best. 

But mostly the false details are the best, like the entry where I vowed to never, ever, ever again paint my nails in a room with carpet.

Transcript of a Conversation

Two college girls, red pickup truck.

"I had my heart broken last year, like really bad, the worst it's ever been, and I'm talking to him again. I'm scared because I don't want to get hurt like that again, but things were always so right with him. We were so close immediately and I can't stay away. We've talked about it and we want to take this chance."

"My last relationship ended badly, and I'm still kind of ash inside. Looking back I made a lot of dumb choices that had just no chance of working out, none at all, they were so dumb, but I just can't get very down on them. Even knowing it didn't work out and had no shot of working out, I'd still rather be the person who takes a chance on love."

"And my friends are all 'don't do this, be careful,' but they just don't get it. I can't live my life not doing things. I have to try it."

Toeing the Party Line

This weekend I went to a Christmas party with my housemate. It was a grown-up party mainly attended by real adults with marriages and children and careers. He knew the hosts through a volunteer organization.

One guest there, known to me only by the name "Tom," was someone with whom my housemate and I conversed while we were there. He was an offbeat guy, older than my dad, partially deaf, and missing some teeth. He displayed an odd interest in my life and asked me all kind of questions, which I did my best to answer. What was my major. What did my daddy do. What was I drinking.

I did not care for him from the start. Social anxiety means that even when I'm doing well (I was doing well on this day), I do not trust myself in conversation with strangers, and I do not trust people who ask me questions. Then he dissed a local sports figure using an obscene racial slur. I kept my mouth shut because, hey, I didn't know this guy, and even if it upsets me to hear it and even if I think people letting it slide are part of the problem, this was someone else's party and I was a guest. 

Whatever my mother thinks, I do understand a few rules of politeness, even when others don't.

I looked at his face during our conversation, or at the ornaments on the Christmas tree when his face became unbearable (faces are especially awkward). I had to be told later that during our conversation he was touching himself, because I do not make a habit of looking at other people's genitals on first acquaintance. I wish I had looked. Then at least I'd know whether I'd have said something.

I don't consider myself abused (though this qualifies as a severe party foul if not an actual crime), and I will not have post-traumatic stress. I'm not scarred. I'm not afraid. I'm pissed off, and I think we all should be.

I'm angry because anyone would think it's acceptable to do this, in the open. I think it's disgusting that my presence as a girl was an excuse. I'm upset because youth means I can be taken advantage of. I'm discouraged because bare knees are an invitation to disingenuous interest.

I'm not upset this happened to me. I'm upset it is allowed to happen, anytime, anywhere, to any woman.

And it is.

You can make a remark about "only in Kentucky" if you like, because there is something inherently comical about a toothless racist old man having dirty thoughts about a woman less than a third of his age, but be prepared for me to discount your viewpoint, because I get a lot of razzing about my home state, and, anyway, that isn't what this is about. This isn't about a backwards area having backwards individuals with backwards behavior. The more I live and experience, the more I see that this is not about me. This is not what it's like to be a young woman living in Kentucky. This is what it's like to be a woman. Period.

And that is what is so unacceptable about this.


I'd have to say the most baffling question I get about my sexual orientation is "how do bisexuals handle monogamy?"

Like, what the fuck, how do unisexuals handle monogamy? You're still attracted to other people.

Mom says "But it's different. Having needs your partner can never fulfill." (Apparently one of her ten bajillion college roommates was bisexual, and her long-term boyfriend agreed that she could sleep with other women but not other men, which seems fair if you're into that kind of bargain.)

Then we decided that wasn't so different after all.

Mostly, though, I understand what people mean when they ask. I just don't feel like answering.
I am currently experiencing some weird combination of dithering, relaxed apathy and paralyzing terror which means I am one page into the section of my thesis I am supposed to be able to turn in today at 1:30.

Anyone know where a girl can get some performance enhancing drugs?