Random Channel Surfing

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT

She doesn't mean to say the things she does. But somehow the words slip out and she sees it all in her eyes: I thought you were supposed to love me regardless of what I looked like, momma. She drops her daughter's gaze and continues picking up. "You know I'm right," she says. "If you continue eating the way you do, you won't fit into your prom dress. And it'd be a shame." She walks to the door, thinking that the only thing that's shameful about their exchange is the way her little girl's cheeks got red and she self-consciously adjusted her body, hiding her body. "I love you," she promises, leaving the room immediately, lest she heap more doubt and self-hatred. Whoever said being a mother was easy? They were lying.

How irresponsible would it be if I never come back from Montreal in June? Like, on a scale from one to ten, where one is "model daughter/friend/employee" and ten is "irresponsibly immature and self-centered"? 'Cause I can see myself "missing" my return flight home.

Life. Made.

But then I remember that I fall fast and hard like a rock you'd throw into the water, quickly sinking deeper and deeper. I remember that falling never, ever creeps up on me all of the sudden. I remember that I know - without a sliver of doubt - when I've fallen as soon as it happens, but can never see it coming. I remember that I can't stop it from happening and it literally leaves me short of breath like those times someone jumps out of corners to scare me. The feeling is exhilarating and frightening and, yes, even addictive. When I remember how I fall, I know I'm not falling in love and I can breathe a bit easier. Because falling in love has never been a positive experience. It's always ended and it's always hurt and it's always meant months and months and months and months of hurt.

Being self-aware enables me to really know myself. My thoughts and fears and desires. Even the ones I wish weren't mine. But it would be easier to live in denial. To ignore that I'm so stubborn I often ruin things that I love. To forget how much I fear the sting of rejection. To deny that I do want someone that knows me inside and out in my life. After all, there's truth to that old saying, "Ignorance is bliss."

It's Janis and Wyatt's annual Christmas party. I'm quite stoked, actually. It will be great seeing my girls. Not to mention all our other friends, hahaha. What I'm most pumped for, though, is playing dress-up! I know I could dress all girly and do my makeup and hair all fancy whenever I want to, but I never have a reason to. My mother would say that that's silly. That we dress the way we want to and you should dress up if you feel like it. I agree with my mom. Really, I do. But it takes so much energy. And this is that awkward moment I let you all in on a secret: I'm a scrub. Truth. Bomb.

He knows he's done for the moment he sees her. Wrapped in a towel, apologizing for walking in on him in the kitchen, flushed and embarrassed, hair a mess of curls, he's frozen. "S'okay," he says, smiling, laughing really, at the sight of this flustered girl. His lips keep twitching, a nervous habit, and the laughs just keep coming. This girl will hate him by the end of the night, he worries. She manages a weak nod and makes a direct beeline to what he guesses is her room. "What's so funny, man?" asks Mitch, coming back from getting his jacket. "I think I just embarrassed your sister," he answers, trying so hard not to burst out laughing, again.

She hasn't seen him in over three years. She remembers their last encounter - she didn't know it then that it'd be their last - with the bittersweet aftertaste of someone who's left too many things unsaid. And it frustrates her. Her cowardice. His silence. Her love for him. His indifference. All the would have beens and could have beens outweighing what she knows deep in her heart are should have beens. She sighs, stirring her coffee and reveling in the fact she's in New York. It only took her three years, but she's made it. She slings her bag over her shoulder, secures the lid on her to-go cup and stares at her feet as she exits the Starbucks. She should have paid attention to where she was going. "I'm sorry," a masculine voice says, taking all of the blame. "No, it was totally my fault," she has yet to look up as she brushes the drops of coffee off her jacket. She knows it's hopeless; knows you can't brush liquid...

While going through my email, I saw a slew of emails from my former program advisor at school. She'd forwarded us some information on a contest for a novella. Now, I've said this millions of times before, but I'm a coward. Yellow livered. Rubber spined. Squeamish. The fear of rejection for something as sacred as my writing is terrifying. And I know. Okay? I know. Every single one of my professors warned us that we'd face rejection more times than we can count. They guaranteed it. And it's that certainty that cripples me. Why would I, a girl who for all intents and purposes avoids the very idea of confrontation, submit myself to rejection? It goes against my very character. But the braver, determined side of me is pissed off at my unwillingness. It's losing patience and has started pacing and glaring in my direction. I get it, Self. I get it. I should fucking woman up (HA!) and face my fears. Just because failure is certain, doesn't mean I should let fear di...

And y'know when you keep insisting you're all right and happy and beg them to stfu, but they keep repeating that you're wonderful and amazing and have nothing to worry about 'cause your happy ending is just around the corner? Like... Why can't they take a hint? It's really weird, but I'm happy. Really, really happy. I'm not restless and frustrated and disillusioned and angsty. I'm not miserable and lonely and annoyed. I'm not listening to sad music and journalling in my personal journal and comparing my life to the lives of others. Even when I was in Montreal, I can honestly say that I wasn't as happy as I am now. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the fact that, despite the stress, anger, frustration and monotony of my work, I feel appreciated. Or maybe it's the fact that, despite living at home and being perpetually single, I'm at peace with myself. Then again, I could owe it to the fact I do not have any romantic aspiratio...