"monogamy is for losers"
I yelled that, running through the towns of eastern PA in a wedding dress. We laughed; we laughed at the people happy for us - as if we'd ever SERIOUSLY entertain the idea of getting married.
Right now I am laying in my childhood bedroom. Not my highschool bedroom, because I had swindled Rebecca into switching rooms with me so I could have the larger one, but the bedroom I spent most of my BSS time in. It is purple now, left over from when my mother and Rebecca painted it. It's hard to even consider this my room anyway... this is like a graveyard of my personal belongings - everything deemed nonessential to living in Pittsburgh.
It is here, sitting on top of the bookshelf that we didn't have room to bring to Squirrel Hill that I noticed an old diary. The green one. It began the spring of senior year and went through sophomore year of college. So I picked it up and paged through it - nostalgia is half the point of writing it down anyway.
Wow. I am hilarious. And apparently static.
I talk about love so freely: about making out with Watson in the tunnels of the school during 4th period, how I will always love him, how the touch of his hand makes me truely happy. Yet the next paragraph details how I spent my night making out with Joe. And the next day I talk about Greg - how I wish that he would simply acknowledge our relationship in public because I hate feeling like a dirty secret.
A month or so later, I'm convinced that I must honestly love Greg, yet I long to kiss Watson's lips, and oh yeah, Joe came to visit and he's no longer a virgin. The pages morph from tear stained laments of unrequited love to trysts of lovers ON THE SAME DAY.
Its like I'm bipolar.
What is interesting too is that if I'm not writing about boys, I'm writing about the girls they are involved with and how ravingly jealous I am over their mere existance. I wish I could be more liberated. I wish I could share and play well with others. I had myself convinced that I was able to shake it off in highschool. Not the case.
Rebecca fancies herself engaged. Some of my other friends fall into that category after the holiday as well. As for me? I'd rather worry about the GREs. It's pretty self centered, I know. Especially if I am *supposed* be approaching the "i can has wedding now plz times." Fact of the matter is, I don't want to not be self-centered, nor do I plan on changing that fact. But I am realizing my self-centeredness DOES affect other people, AHEM, who probably have their own life to live and its scary... I don't think I'm ready to be responsible for anyone else but me.
Actually, I don't even think I'm ready to be responsible for my own life.
Facebook is really the best thing going if you're a little drunk and want to stalk. I think being silent and creepy is better than drunk dialing anyone. For the record, I haven't had a drink today except for the annual Christmas morning shot of whiskey and that was at like 10 this morning. I am, however, in a very weird thinky mood which is where this competely disjointed piece of prose came from.
So here is what I learned this Christmas:
In the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. The unfortunate thing here is that the love taking and making hardly ever happens simultaneously so people get hurt.
Right now I am laying in my childhood bedroom. Not my highschool bedroom, because I had swindled Rebecca into switching rooms with me so I could have the larger one, but the bedroom I spent most of my BSS time in. It is purple now, left over from when my mother and Rebecca painted it. It's hard to even consider this my room anyway... this is like a graveyard of my personal belongings - everything deemed nonessential to living in Pittsburgh.
It is here, sitting on top of the bookshelf that we didn't have room to bring to Squirrel Hill that I noticed an old diary. The green one. It began the spring of senior year and went through sophomore year of college. So I picked it up and paged through it - nostalgia is half the point of writing it down anyway.
Wow. I am hilarious. And apparently static.
I talk about love so freely: about making out with Watson in the tunnels of the school during 4th period, how I will always love him, how the touch of his hand makes me truely happy. Yet the next paragraph details how I spent my night making out with Joe. And the next day I talk about Greg - how I wish that he would simply acknowledge our relationship in public because I hate feeling like a dirty secret.
A month or so later, I'm convinced that I must honestly love Greg, yet I long to kiss Watson's lips, and oh yeah, Joe came to visit and he's no longer a virgin. The pages morph from tear stained laments of unrequited love to trysts of lovers ON THE SAME DAY.
Its like I'm bipolar.
What is interesting too is that if I'm not writing about boys, I'm writing about the girls they are involved with and how ravingly jealous I am over their mere existance. I wish I could be more liberated. I wish I could share and play well with others. I had myself convinced that I was able to shake it off in highschool. Not the case.
Rebecca fancies herself engaged. Some of my other friends fall into that category after the holiday as well. As for me? I'd rather worry about the GREs. It's pretty self centered, I know. Especially if I am *supposed* be approaching the "i can has wedding now plz times." Fact of the matter is, I don't want to not be self-centered, nor do I plan on changing that fact. But I am realizing my self-centeredness DOES affect other people, AHEM, who probably have their own life to live and its scary... I don't think I'm ready to be responsible for anyone else but me.
Actually, I don't even think I'm ready to be responsible for my own life.
Facebook is really the best thing going if you're a little drunk and want to stalk. I think being silent and creepy is better than drunk dialing anyone. For the record, I haven't had a drink today except for the annual Christmas morning shot of whiskey and that was at like 10 this morning. I am, however, in a very weird thinky mood which is where this competely disjointed piece of prose came from.
So here is what I learned this Christmas:
In the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. The unfortunate thing here is that the love taking and making hardly ever happens simultaneously so people get hurt.