another bad egg; blogging drunk

I’m boiling eggs now. I may also be drunk. I don’t know. After not drinking for a long long time, will two beers make me drunk? Or tipsy. But I haven’t misspelled anything yet. That either says a lot for my ability to hold alcohol or my ingrained English prowess. Also I just used a word like prowess.

And why am I tipsy or possibly drunk? Because, my friends, I had another bad egg date. I think I could turn this into a funny and relatable blog about dating. Cause boy do I seem to pick em. Although, to be fair, the other one was a blind date setup by a coworker and this was someone off a dating site…so not guaranteed to win on either counts. I hadn’t met either one before.

I need another sip, hold on.

Okay, so the last one wasn’t touchy or close enough. It was like an interview, right? And bad. But this guy, this guy who had been texting me emojis and dear and such crap all the time and who I thought was super sweet…yeah, he was super touchy. We watched Deadpool, not quite a movie to get cozy with, and I wanted to fucking watch it, fuck it all, but he wanted to hold my hand, and damn me and my inability to say nooooo.

I actually had the shitty thought that hey, he paid for everything, shouldn’t I let him hold hands with me? Fuck. Shit. Am I a whore? Balls. I’m swearing a lot because I couldn’t even concentrate on the movie, I was panicking too much. I don’t like people touching me that much on the first date. First meeting, fuck it. Don’t kiss my hand, you desperate douchebag. Just leave me alone to enjoy the blood and gore and witticisms. Shit. I thought I was past all that. I wanted to practice with a guy who seemed into me. Turns out I wanted to pull a Deadpool on him and shoot him up the ass.

I got home and cried a lot, which makes me sure I need that counselor. Damn. “I cried because he held my hand and I couldn’t say no. What do I do, counselor lady m’am?”

Yeah, cause that’s totally a conversation I’m dying to have.

At least the movie was good. I know that, even if I was only half concentrating. Fuck him. And fuck me and my stupid boy problems and past trauma and all that crap that makes me now convinced I’m not ready to date for another five years. Bye bye, boys I’ve been chatting to. Bye for another long long time.

Thanks for listening, pal.

in the world, in my head

I never really used to have a social life. I used to watch shows like How I Met Your Mother where the characters were all incredibly good friends, who would hang out all the time and help each other and knew everything about each other and were basically family. To me, that’s what family was. People who hung around and you fought and made up with and were always there.

But my friends were different. My one best friend who remained with me for over a decade (and to this day), never dropped by unannounced – she was too polite – and while always there for me, it was a different dynamic to the ones I saw on TV and read about in books. Even other bloggers seemed to have this different breed of social life. I didn’t know enough people to have Friendsgiving, for instance. Or even to host a good White Elephant party. Aside from that one good friend, I had acquaintances, and place friends. The friends at work whom I hung out with there and never outside. The friends at college. Those friends were a bit more tight; I hung out with them outside a few times. But we didn’t live close enough or have enough time to be super close or involved.

So I spent a lot of my time happily alone, working on my own creative projects and dreaming about old books and cottages and fluffy cats, dark shorelines and rainy days and forest walks with boughs dripping.

These days, I don’t dream like that.

And the reason is a social life. I have one now. I have two close friends, which isn’t much of an upgrade, I suppose, but we hang out all the time. At school and after, since we work together. We have a dedicated girls night. We drink wine and giggle and gossip. We cook Mexican and tell each other about our dates. It’s just like what I saw on TV and those blogs. I could see us realistically having that Friendsgiving. We’re going on vacation together next month, so why not?

But it’s strange, all the same. I love them; they’re my support group, and I was able to share some darker stuff from my past comfortably. In this foreign country, that’s really valuable.

But when I take a step back and look at myself, I’ve changed, and I’m not at all sure I like it. I think about going out more than creating a life I like. I think about dates and fashion and how well my makeup sticks at the end of the day. I gossip about everyone, and we tend to complain a lot. Solidarity maybe. Negative influence? Does it matter?

I feel like my life has taken a prosaic turn towards fun. I mean, I love hanging out with them. It’s the most fun I’ve ever had in a group. And we know each other really well. But I’m very into this world, and not so much into my head, and honestly, the world is kind of a strange place to me. I like my imagination better.

But once you get in the world, it’s hard to get out.

dear imagination, dear limitations

 

I grew up surrounded by limitations, as most children are. Rules from parents, teachers, church leaders, siblings, friends, signs, conventions blatant enough to penetrate a child’s understanding…and I accepted it. I was a tractable kid, always wanting to please, terribly afraid of being wrong, of doing the wrong thing. I never tested the bounds. I learned to lie early to escape being found out in my sins.

As I got older, the limitations morphed, but did not disappear. I learned to make my own limitations upon myself, and added layer after layer of soul-binding straps to lock me into the path and personality I thought best suited for me.

So it’s no surprise how much I enjoyed reading. In books, I found a way beyond myself, outside of the limitations, a way to escape the bindings I and others had created. I’ve been reading a book called Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose, and there’s a line that really stuck out to me.

She speaks of the;

 “dependable, out-of-body sensation of being somewhere else…”

She’s talking about how much she herself loved fiction as a kid, and when I read that, I knew it described me perfectly.

I read to be in that somewhere else, and it was amazing how many somewheres I found. Even in nonfiction, as I got older, I found a life different than what I imagined. People were discovering things and sharing them, and stretching my knowledge and awareness was as exhilarating as  stepping into a fantasy world. (Yeah, I was basically a huge nerd.)

In those days, I read to escape my childishness and inability to create my own life. You can’t do much independently when you’re twelve. Now, as a fully-fledged adult, I am totally in control, yet I find myself still incapable of doing what will bring my desired life into being. So I continue to read; to fuel my passions, to encourage me in the darkest times, and to escape into lives and somewheres other than my own.

dear blind date

I didn’t think it was too bad, at first, walking home alone at 9:45. I couldn’t pick out anything really terrible.

But later, I was angry. Later, I cried. Later, I felt totally shitty.

I asked my friends. Am I exaggerating? Am I being too picky? Too exacting? Are my standards too high? No!, they cried. He was a total douche. Douchebag McGee.

He shouldn’t have made me wait with him outside in the freezing wind while he smoked. He should have taken you to the coffee shop first and then gone out, they said. This isn’t me speaking, you understand, it’s them.

He should have noticed when I was shivering and my teeth were chattering. He shouldn’t have made us walk around the block, past all the perfectly fine cafes, to see if there was anything better. We should have gone in. He should have led the conversation more. He should have asked about me and found our common ground, rather than let me do it. He should have complimented me, like I did to him.

He should have put me in a cab home, if he wasn’t going to walk me. He should have called to make sure I got home safe after walking for fifteen minutes in the dark. He shouldn’t have gone to see his friend after and told me that’s what he would do, as if at the end, he wasn’t done with his evening but he was done with me.

And definitely, definitely, he shouldn’t have said, “Well, I have nothing else to say,” and decided we should leave.

And honestly, who shakes hands at the end of a date?

perpetuation

My life sits in the palm of my hands, so small and simple, so easy. I want a life bigger than me, one I can’t see all at once. One that has to be viewed from different angles, and all the while keeps changing, keeps growing, a many-headed organism that perpetuates more adventure, more life, more meaning…

Why do we beat out the wasted time in ticks? I hate clocks. Perpetuate away from wasted time. Away from idleness. Not towards happiness. Not towards joy. Away from discontent. Away from introspection.

If you can’t find content, start with moving away from stagnation.

currently out

you have to make your life what you want it to be. it won’t just happen to you. you have to hold it so tight in your hands you feel suffocated at first, as if you’re shoving your own soul into the shape you want it to be.

right now my soul feels formless and void. well, not entirely. i’ve mashed it up a little these past few years, squeezing into a teachery shape, but i’m not sure that’s the one for me. it feels tight, and suffocating, a little overwhelming. not the work – the kids themselves. i only have 8 students, and that’s eight huge voices demanding and getting all my attention all the time for most of my week. and it’s exhausting. i come home every day exhausted, and i don’t have this vision underneath to support me. i just feel tired. not the good kind. the tired kind.

so what am i doing now? where am i going? why do i need to know? i don’t. i just panic when i don’t. working on that.

this life of mine right now is what i’ve made of it, and is a result of every choice that has led me to korea. where i go from here is also in my hands, a result of my choices, a testament to the decisions and steps i take or don’t take every moment. all the time. that’s a lot of pressure, but it also gives a sense of purpose. a sense that i can find that purpose. so that’s where i’m heading. out looking.

today I did not go to a VIP lounge

Today I did not go to a VIP lounge. Now, I could describe every single other day of my life in exactly the same way, so why does it matter? Because I could have. We tried. We really did.

My rich friend scanned her mother’s card four or five times, rang the doorbell, and even tried forcing the door. Nope. The ugly orange-ish marble counter inside remained resolutely unmanned. Or womanned. No one came to rescue us from our embarrassingly upscale blunder. Meanwhile, the Korean couple at the brioche place behind us kept throwing covert glances our way, us in our cool trench coats and ankle boots, and the obviously touristy American looked at us with a kind of awe and affected dislike. Or maybe that was just her face.

I wanted so desperately to get in, for once, to feel rich, to sit and bask in the luxury of my own wealth…or something. A VIP lounge at a designer mall is nothing to shake a stick at, I’ll wager. But now I may never know, since it was closed. Or reserved. I bet some Kdrama man wannabe had it totally reserved so he could fill it full of sickening flowers and propose gorgeously to his carefully surprised girlfriend. Ugh.

But dammit! I was wearing my new, cool black coat that was slimming! Dammit.