Cannot Spare Another Tear From My Eye

Here I sit on a Sunday afternoon, head and stomach still reeling from the night before. I woke up at 8 this morning, in a panic that I overslept (my phone charger was lost somewhere last night), and stumbled, still drunk, to my friend's apartment downstairs from mine. I'm not proud of my last night, and I'm not really proud of my today either.
I just feel that somedays, everything needs to slow down a little bit and I need to just breathe for a while and be calm inside.  Sometimes it's difficult, isn't it?
I just realized that this post isn't really going anywhere, and I guess that's ok. I'll make my own rules for this little slice of my life that I have complete and utter control of.
I'm not depressed. Well no more then usual.
Blah. I need a change.

Who is Using Who?

I realize that I tend to talk about love, lose of love, yearning of love a lot...my only posts on this blog have been related to such matters. And I'm not saying that love doesn't matter-indeed, love is perhaps the most important feeling, the most important Being that there is. But I'm making a resolution as of today, and that resolution is this: I will find love in places where I do not need, nor expect return of it. I think this is my most ambitious resolution, albeit perhaps it is poorly expressed. Let me be a little more clear, and explain this a little more.
I'm going to find love around me, in places and objects, thoughts and notions. I've always had this tendency to love everyone (and this has caused many a heartbreak and disappointment) but I'm really going to start embracing it. I'm going to live a life lush with love. I'm going to love my physical self, love my soul, say only words that are said with love, respect everyone.  I'm not going to expect anything from this. But maybe I'll be a little more free. Isn't it silly, I have this little idea that I have been bound, been heavy with these chains that are called Love and HeartBreak. I've begun to think they are synonymous with each other. But how can I turn these chains into wings, something that is uplifting and airy.
And here I am, talking about love again.
What a sap.

My Heart is a Lonely Wanderer

Somehow I can't help myself from writing up this psycho-analysis bullshit. Seriously, I turn into an angst-filled twelve-year old with the emotional capacity of a teaspoon. It's pathetic. Fuck. Maybe I should just stop here.
I don't really know what I'm doing wrong, I guess. Well, maybe I do, but I just don't want to believe it. See, when my girl friends and I go to parties, I always end up kissing the boys I shouldn't (one of my brother's closest friends/roommate, for example). I'm the girl in the corner with the boy, making eyes, saying sexy things, letting my lips linger and stray along my teeth. I give off the vibe of a sexual, hungry animal (or so my friends say). Last Saturday was different though. As I was walking to my friends place to hang out before we went out, I passed by the house where this guy I was really into last year lives now. I was in love with this boy (even though we never "dated", just spent every day together and made out and so on) and he broke my heart. I walked past his house, and just as I get to the point of a little before the door, the door opens. Out bounces his new girl, and he comes out too. It was dark, and far enough a way that I'm not sure he could tell if it was me or not. I'm pretty sure he recognized me though, because he just stared at me. I walked on, knowing full well that my butt (the butt he so loved and lavished adoring comments about) looked amazing in my pants. I wonder if he looked at my butt.
By the time I got to my friends, I was pretty depressed, and I spilled my guts, like a pathetic heartbroken, weak girl does. They resolved to me drunk, and I obliged.  We went out, to an apartment to hang out and then we went to a party. I was pretty unaware of my surroundings, but somehow I ended up kissing a boy. I'm not talking about makeout, sloppy, drunk party kisses. I'm talking about sweet kisses, along my neck sometimes, his hands always respectably on my waist or cradling my face. No grabbing my butt, no trying to unzip my pants, nothing. Just...kissing. And I haven't done that for a while. I was so perplexed, I even whispered to him that I wasn't going home with him, that he could "find another girl" to take home. And he said no. He said it was fine, and that he wasn't going to leave.  And he kissed me again.
My friends left, and I was still there, kissing this boy. He called a friend, who drove us to our homes. I gave him my number. He has not text or called.
I shouldn't think that because something is different that it is special. I shouldn't get used to the feeling of worth that I get by just kissing. I should not expect anything.
But I do. And it frustrates me, and it's infuriating, and it hurts me. Why do I care so much about one guy, whose name I don't even remember, but whose lips brushed mine so gently and kindly that I would do anything to have been a little more together, so I could have been a little different, so that maybe, just maybe, he would text or call that different, slightly more put-together girl.
I don't even know his name.

Love is Just Another Four Letter Word

     I have another blog, which I like to think I direct my more dreamy, superficial ideas and notions. This blog, I believe, I'll save for rants and the pouring out of my heart, as silly and cliched as that sounds. I doubt this will be read by anyone other then me, which is just fine. I'll consider it my journal of sorts. My private little empty page upon which to be as angry, loving, and thoughtful as I desire to be. I'll use as many four-lettered-words as I wish. No pictures, just words.
     I wish I had a direction in life. I'm not one of those people who say this so as to convey a sort of wistful, hopeless, helplessness that might inspire one to want to help me. I say this with a sort of fierce desperation, a determination that is filled with hope. I have vague ideas, of course. Someday, I wish for a family. I want someone who loves me so intensely that every glance between us is a declaration of our passion. But on everything else, I can't decide. I think I may want a nice house, or perhaps an apartment in the city. Maybe I would like to stay at home with my children, but maybe I would prefer to be working, coming home in the evening and kissing my husband hello, and snuggle with the kids and play before sending them off to bed. Those things are things I shall work out eventually, I suppose. The only thing I want in life, the only thing I'm certain of, is that I want to be loved.
How silly of me, you think. How perfectly unassuming of me. Of course everyone wants to be loved. Of course. I myself have loved, loved a boy so feverishly and resolutely that I wanted it to be a secret. We would love each other, I imagined, and it would be ours. Of course, I never was really sure I was in love, at the time. I felt strongly for him, it's true. But I had never been in love before. How should I have known that the feeling was something that could almost destroy a person.  After things went bad with the boy ( he did not love me, it turned out, but instead was fooling around with another girl), I could hardly function. A nice, stable depression settled in me. It took me a very, very long time to stop thinking about this boy. He toyed with me for months after it was over, sending me deliciously charming texts every few weeks. I replied, of course, desperate for some contact. I transferred schools, and sure enough, he did too. I only saw him once, and he didn't see me. Today, I found out where he lives. I recently got a new apartment, and on the walk in to campus, I walked past a house, with his car sitting outside. I know it is his car, because it is the same car that I rode in, laughed in, kissed in- the same car that made my stomach flip when I saw it in the parking lot after our relationship ended. I sought it out every time I pulled into the parking lot, every day of school, because I needed that reassuring twist in my stomach to confirm that I had not, in fact, dreamt it all up.
     Love. As children, we were taught that love was magical, that love would turn you into princesses. That love was worth waiting for, that love could change everything. That may be true. Honestly, I'm still a little bitter on the whole topic. I associate love with abandonment, and I know that sounds corny. Maybe I just need to learn how to trust again. For the longest time I considered love to be the dirtiest four-lettered word I could think of. I resolved to never put everything I have into a person, to care so much. I wanted to be a shell. To separate myself so as to never be so hurt again. And for a very long while, that worked for me. I didn't feel anything towards men, except distrust. Of course I had my best guy friend, Jeremiah, who is undoubtedly one of the best friends I think I shall ever have. But Jeremiah aside, I distrusted men. Oh, I flirted and toyed, teased. I wanted the attentions of every boy in my class, every man who walked into my work was a target, a test to see what I could do to him. It became a game for me. I came to realize that I could look at a boy, a man a certain way, make my eyes light up just right, something would happen. I only had to curve my lips, bite into something, smile just the right way, and somehow I became magnetic, charming. I did this all last semester. Over break, I came to realize something- this is not the kind of girl I was raised to be. I realized I was weary of the explicit text messages I recieved, the toying, the games which led to nothing, or everything. I realized that by refusing to look for love, by taking anything I could get, by willingly and shamelessly opening myself up (vulnerable in my confidence, my ability) , I was only hurting myself.  I was becoming empty, unable to muster even the faintest of feelings for men, other then to view them as a toy, an experiment, a test of my skills. I was unable to feel anything for men. And I had once felt so much passion. So I resolved- this semester I shall feel again. And so, I am trying to change. Oh, of course I flirt, I flirt very much still. But I don't do it for sport, for a distraction of the uneasiness of being me. I do it with purpose, with feeling behind it. I may not want something to arise from it, and some days, when I pull out all the charm, I come to surprise myself with the power that I have, as meaningless and surface-y  as it may be. But while I love flirting with everyone, making simple things important and complex and meaningful, I do want to find something more lovely then just toying. And so I've been trying to be better. And though it's the only second week of school, I've not done very well. Both weekends I've disappointed myself, as much fun as I have. And yes, I was satisfied, I was coy, I was in perfect form. But I felt guilty. Annoyed with myself. So I'm really trying to be better, ad to prove it to myself, I did something that I don't usually do. Tonight, I decided to not go out. I'm not in the mood to pretend and act. No, I am at my friend's apartment, watching a movie, and I feel good. Safe, cozy, and in wonderful company. I feel good, and that's a great thing to be able to say.