(no subject)
Something keeps drawing me back here lately.
This summer was cooler than it should have been. In the middle of August I doubled up my sweatshirts and substituted ear muffs for headphones while I cried at the thought of blue lips, blue veins, blue: the color of our planet from far far away.
And this summer I spent too much time on playgrounds talking about my childhood. And this summer I fell in love with a kitten and a family and a palette of impeccable taste, but this summer I was alone and most of all I fell in love with my all-encompassing, incredibly satisfying alone-li-ness.
I've ended up in his house more often than I ever thought possible in the years leading up to this one, and he and his girlfriend make me chili so that maybe the end of summer won't be so bad. They tuck me in at night and stroke my back when I'm leaning over the toilet after a night of going too fast and too hard and this is the last year so let's make it the best, right?
The self-proclaimed scumbag punk down the street - who no, is not a student and no, is not a professor and no, is not a townie, and is not even a traveling musician, but who works at the Staples down the street - reminds me of the girl with the baby and long hair who dances in the drum circles that happen on College Green in the summertime.
Sometimes I want to be Tess. And sometimes I want to be Pencil. And sometimes I just want to let go and stop wearing shoes. Sometimes I don't want to ever have to live in Los Angeles or New York or Boston. Sometimes I want to get in the van with the boy who promised me post-interview that he would leave his boring, blase, "I'm-doing-some-pish-posh-internship-in-DC" girlfriend for me, and I want to nest with him in the cargo trunk for the next two months while he spends each night pumping out punk rock professions of politics and peace and promises. In the meanwhile I am practicing yoga and eating grapefruit.
I know that I am easy (to forget, to ignore, to win over). The girls with short, boy-ish haircuts and not-so-pretty faces (or sometimes VERY pretty faces) will win after four, five, six, eleven beers. And tiny ties or tiny tits, the difference is in the thread count of my sheets this year.
Some things you do not know: I have a topical sulfate allergy. I did not orgasm until I met the worst man in my life. I hate - hate hate hate hate hate - our leaders. I never want to see your face again.
Some things you do not know: Sometimes I look at wedding gowns incessantly. I have never liked playing in the snow. We slept together without sleeping together this summer. I did not buy those records.
Some things you know: I love you. I'm way too smart for your own good (or mine). I am the lesser of two evils. I will not tolerate.
Something you do not know: This is only practice for the big time.
Something keeps drawing me back here lately. Maybe it is the way fall never looked this way before I saw it here. It could be all the kittens hiding on staircases, the unexpected waves of hello on my way down the hill, the way I am the official soup stirrer on an almost-cold day and the official napping girl on the couch in the station and the official dreamgirl of the straight-edge sweetheart. Or it could be... or maybe.. well, it's possible that it is the a-lovely a-lucid alone-li-ness.
This summer was cooler than it should have been. In the middle of August I doubled up my sweatshirts and substituted ear muffs for headphones while I cried at the thought of blue lips, blue veins, blue: the color of our planet from far far away.
And this summer I spent too much time on playgrounds talking about my childhood. And this summer I fell in love with a kitten and a family and a palette of impeccable taste, but this summer I was alone and most of all I fell in love with my all-encompassing, incredibly satisfying alone-li-ness.
I've ended up in his house more often than I ever thought possible in the years leading up to this one, and he and his girlfriend make me chili so that maybe the end of summer won't be so bad. They tuck me in at night and stroke my back when I'm leaning over the toilet after a night of going too fast and too hard and this is the last year so let's make it the best, right?
The self-proclaimed scumbag punk down the street - who no, is not a student and no, is not a professor and no, is not a townie, and is not even a traveling musician, but who works at the Staples down the street - reminds me of the girl with the baby and long hair who dances in the drum circles that happen on College Green in the summertime.
Sometimes I want to be Tess. And sometimes I want to be Pencil. And sometimes I just want to let go and stop wearing shoes. Sometimes I don't want to ever have to live in Los Angeles or New York or Boston. Sometimes I want to get in the van with the boy who promised me post-interview that he would leave his boring, blase, "I'm-doing-some-pish-posh-internship-in-DC" girlfriend for me, and I want to nest with him in the cargo trunk for the next two months while he spends each night pumping out punk rock professions of politics and peace and promises. In the meanwhile I am practicing yoga and eating grapefruit.
I know that I am easy (to forget, to ignore, to win over). The girls with short, boy-ish haircuts and not-so-pretty faces (or sometimes VERY pretty faces) will win after four, five, six, eleven beers. And tiny ties or tiny tits, the difference is in the thread count of my sheets this year.
Some things you do not know: I have a topical sulfate allergy. I did not orgasm until I met the worst man in my life. I hate - hate hate hate hate hate - our leaders. I never want to see your face again.
Some things you do not know: Sometimes I look at wedding gowns incessantly. I have never liked playing in the snow. We slept together without sleeping together this summer. I did not buy those records.
Some things you know: I love you. I'm way too smart for your own good (or mine). I am the lesser of two evils. I will not tolerate.
Something you do not know: This is only practice for the big time.
Something keeps drawing me back here lately. Maybe it is the way fall never looked this way before I saw it here. It could be all the kittens hiding on staircases, the unexpected waves of hello on my way down the hill, the way I am the official soup stirrer on an almost-cold day and the official napping girl on the couch in the station and the official dreamgirl of the straight-edge sweetheart. Or it could be... or maybe.. well, it's possible that it is the a-lovely a-lucid alone-li-ness.