Pour It Out

There is nothing quite like a Sunday evening bus ride when you can feel your life descending into an unintelligible mess.

While I waited for the bus, I made several promises to myself.

“I promise to never fall in love….I promise to never fall in love so easily. I promise to never ride a bus for the sole purpose of getting away from someone. I promise to always be painfully aware that some things are never meant to happen. I promise to never say it first. Above all, I swear I’ll never lay next to a man and be so certain about the way I feel towards him.

10:31pm

The bus pulls up to it’s designated stop. The doors swing open and I hastily get on.

“Stop?”

“Bloomfield”

Not many people take the bus at this time during the night. This is unnerving.

Passengers are settling into dirty, ugly cushions adorned with a pattern that was probably designed during the 90s.

I think about how my cat Django, needs to be neutered tomorrow, the fact that I have twenty dollars to my name, that I’m an ass for buying an expensive gift, if my body disgusts him the same way it disgusts me, whether or not I’m legitimately insane or just sad, why people insist on writing in moleskins’, and lastly, why in God’s name did I do this to myself?

Sometimes I really do hate myself, like completely despise. None of this insecure nonsense, I mean mortal enemy type of shit.

Prior to getting onto the bus, I made a promise in addition to the other promises; that I would not cry on the bus, but my vision was already sodden with regret and anguish. As you can see I’m extremely good at keeping promises and making appropriate choices.

“….but the moment never came..”

I am almost there, I am almost at my destination

When I get there, you’ll no longer exist in my world. You will be a shadow of a bad decision that only appears late into the night when I feel myself sinking into a dream cycle.

Unfortunately, when I do get off this bus I’ll still be in a great deal of pain and tomorrow morning will be incredibly difficult. When I do fall into a deep sleep, I’ll still be in love with you and for a short period of time we’ll be happy… but everyone wakes up.

I know fifty words for ending.

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Finite

As a Philosophy major, I am consistently thinking about the infinite and the finite. How each one relates to my universe and the worlds of others. My Roman Catholic background only makes deciphering the two, that much more difficult. The notion of life being infinite and free of predetermination is rarely ever mentioned. At a very young age it was ingrained into my mind that God is the acting invisible hand in each person’s life; I believed this for a very long time, probably as recent as a few months ago.

After I had an abortion and lost my grandmother to mysterious and still unknown circumstances, I couldn’t help but believe that God was making me suffer on purpose; in some way I had upset God and now I was paying for it. When I say things like this out loud or even re-read them, I know it doesn’t make too much sense. It becomes especially uncomfortable when one attends a liberal arts University and everyone is just naturally in love with the idea of life being an undetermined adventure, simply awaiting to be unveiled.

I think I might have really fucked up this time.

I’m awaiting a phone call from the Assistant Dean of Students. Currently, I’m working and praying that when he calls, there will be no customers to hear me beg for mercy. I didn’t do anything wrong, it’s what I didn’t do that will determine my fate for this upcoming semester. How do you explain to someone, that you regretfully gave up a child and during that process became viciously ill, only to lose someone you loved more than anything in this world a few months later?- That’s why I didn’t complete my essay on Burke or the ethics of war, because I thought I was dying, both literally and metaphorically. I need to be a person again, with or without the help of God or any other high power.

Everyone is living multiple lives at one time in their own universe expecting to be someone in another person’s universe, while safe guarding their true emotions with functions, options, settings and profiles. Yet, it’s a mystery why everyone feels disconnected. A re-entrance into the world is needed and absolutely necessary. I got my wake up call earlier this week.

Still awaiting the Dean.

 

1999

Ms. Freeman was my third grade art teacher; to say the least she was bizarre. She was everything an art teacher should be: quirky, liberal, a sandal enthusiast, loved loud boisterous music. How could this woman be anything, but an art teacher?

I was nine when I first met Ms. Freeman and she scared the crap out of me. She was tall and had a pixie haircut, black circular glasses embellished with dashes of paint framed her eyes. Impulse and spontaneity would be understating this woman’s persona; she jumped on tables, randomly took us to the park and screamed for no reason. Ms. Freeman was a lunatic.

One afternoon, Ms. Freeman had purchased and distributed sketch books to myself and the rest of my classmates. Thirty-five students in a cramped art studio were completely in awe, including myself, I had never received something so wonderful. The class assignment for the rest of the year was to draw every single day. We were instructed to obey any impulse that came over us to draw.

After she handed out each sketch book, Ms. Freeman then gave out pencils to accompany our new sketch books. However, these pencils did not have erasers, this really pissed me off. This was clearly illogical and it did not fly with me, especially at the age of nine. All I did was make errors, how could I not be given an eraser? My hand shot up and I asked, “Ms. Freeman what if we make a mistake?”

Her head turned sideways and she smiled.

“Art can be found within every and any mistake.”

It was at this moment that I determined Ms. Freeman was beyond a lunatic. This meant nothing to me but rhetoric, so occasionally I would sneak erasers into class. Ms. Freeman knew that I would be a repeat-offender-eraser, so she kept a close eye on me and consistently threw my erasers away.

Finally, the day came that I understood what Ms. Freeman meant by art and mistakes coinciding with one another. The class had been working on charcoal pieces. Each art table had a log or branches scattered across the surface; we were to draw them without looking at our paper. This woman was killing me, first erasers, now I couldn’t look at my paper?! What was to come next? No bathroom passes?

“Your eyes are little ants moving across the branches”.

Fine. I’ll play along.

Within a matter of minutes I had concluded that I messed up and needed to start over. I asked for another piece of paper and Ms. Freeman responded with a question and look of confusion. “What is wrong with the piece you have?”

I corresponded with the same look and a question framed a little differently, “Can’t you tell?”

Ms. Freeman did not see what was wrong with my paper. I pointed to the mistake I made.

“How do you think you can make it better?”

Now, I was completely confused.

“I don’t know..”

She nodded to my paper and piece of charcoal, alluding that I should take another stab at my drawing. I picked up my charcoal and tried once more to emulate the figure on my desk.

“Don’t think, just draw.”

I paused, absorbed this advice and just drew. Astonishingly, I actually liked what I had created; it looked good.

Ms. Freeman is the reason why I find the beauty in my often chaotic life. When I find myself pleading with my therapist to help me figure out who I am, he reminds me that the answer is on my arm. My Degas ballerinas are who I am. It is not their depiction or the hues of their skirts, but the very fact that I materialized what is inside of me on my arm. Their imprint suggests that I am more self-aware than I might believe I am.

My three little ballerinas are a minor representation of what I am, and each day they remind me of the person I’d like to become..someone like Angela Freeman.

 


The Ant’s Panic

This cant be real.

Everything is spinning and standing still all at once. I am overcome with anxiety, but I cannot feel my heart racing. I am dreaming about people that don’t exist and having conversations with things that aren’t quite there. Memories are rushing back, Madison Jean, my 4th birthday, English class, pine tree allergy, walking from corner to corner, asking my mother what an orgasm was because I had heard it on some cheap, tawdry, drama about high school teens, but I’m detached from the feelings that are in junction with them. Everything can’t be moving this slowly.

I need a music box.

-3.50

I have an interview coming up for an Optician’s assistant. Currently, I work at a toy store and I’ve been a Sales Associate for a year now (fancy way of saying sales lady). Now why would anyone want to leave such a wonderful place? I work almost forty hours a week and spend more time around children and tin space men than I do anywhere else. The pay is not that great either, I put up with a lot of bullshit for minimal pay. I know I know, I’m twenty what makes me think I should get paid more? When you work for someone that hates toys and is eager to make a profit on anything, it’s very difficult to look past that sort of selfishness and greed. The store itself is wonderful, the gold tin ceiling and crimson red walls create a nostalgia that is hard to come by these days. However, I have rent to pay and cats to feed, so I must try my very best to resemble a grown up and sit behind some desk, answering questions about lenses, insurance, frames, etc.

I will miss some of my customers, but most of all I will miss Pipa. Dozens upon dozens of children walk through the store each and everyday. You forget most of them, but others you consider kidnapping. Pipa is one of the children I contemplated taking home with me. According to her sister Lola, who is eight and three quarters years old, Pipa is Three and a half years old. She is as tall as any other three year old girl, but she is much more quiet than any child that has pranced around the store. Pipa and I have a lot in common, we both love kitties, her favorite color is green, she just wants to play, and dolls are simply the cats pajamas. She only likes school a little bit and napping is her favorite. This information was not easy to attain. Technically I’m a “big kid” to kids like Pipa and she had to make sure I was approachable and one of her kind. I know that’s a weird description but observing children for so long at the store you come to discover these little quirks about kids. Pipa’s piercing blue eyes are what made me interact with her. She just looked at me as though she knew all the secrets in world and everything made complete and utter sense. Her light hair partially covered her eyes but she constantly swept them to the side to examine each and every toy.

“You have a lovely purse!”, complete silence and a look of bewilderment crossed her face. I realized she had big kid syndrome and continued to talk kid stuff with her. “That kitty you picked out is very cute..” more silence followed as well as a subtle twitch. I continued to ask her questions and show her toys I think she’d like. As I played with some of the dolls I asked her what her name was, and she finally spoke. “Pipa! Pipa is my name!”, I was shocked. I continued to ask more about her and that is when her sister Lola chimed in and revealed each of their ages and favorite toys. Those are the moments I will miss the most; the perceptions of children, but I suppose I must try to land this job and inform Mr. Davis (my imaginary client) when to pick up his lenses; enabling him to see the world a little more clearly.

The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast.

I am terrible at dating. I’ve been dating since I was fourteen years old and I am highly proficient at being rejected, dumped, or doing something cruel and unusual. However, my most recent beau was the erratic mess. He was what could be best described as the self important writer; too apathetic to care about the world around him, fully encompassing  the depth of a puddle. I had found the one person that was the complete opposite of me, but I insisted that it was love. It was not love just mild desperation to be wanted and held. Maybe that sounds pathetic, but when reality is hard to swallow and the world seems full of strangers, it’s easy for one to become painfully lonely.

I am a pretty lonely person, not to say that I am uniquely lonely or eccentric, I just find myself sitting in diners alone quite often. This realization isn’t as depressing as it may sound, I just haven’t met many people that care or like the same things as I do. Being a twenty year old female is especially difficult or at least it can be. The clubbing, the drinking, the bad music is all expected from women my age or the complete opposite is expected: the fedoras, the indie vinyl collection, the urban outfitter receipts that embellish the bottom of some imitation leather purse. I guess I’m somewhere in the middle; a lush with an infectious love for jazz. I have deviated far from the subject matter of my post, but there’s really not much more to say except that you were a bad person that was never worth my time and I should have told you to fuck off a long time ago. For the first time, in a long time I don’t feel as lonely or unwanted. I can enjoy my own company and I’m an alright human being.

On a lighter note, Walker Percy is slowly becoming one of my favorite writers. I am also dying to purchase toss pillows for my beat up recliners. I am turning into my mother.

The Chew

Peanut chews are quite possibly my favorite candy. These delicious morsels make my day just a little sunnier. I may not know a thing about what I want in life or what I’d like in a  significant other but I do know that one peanut chew a day is way more effective than 50 mg of Zoloft. Besides making a conclusive decision about my favorite chocolate covered peanut snack, I have also deduced that my therapist looks like Dianne Wiest. I’m not sure if she’d be pleased with that comparison, but it makes me eager to see her every Monday at 10am and no one likes Monday mornings, but when you get to spend them with Dianne Wiest how could you not?