|Wesley and Wesleyan
||[Mar. 19th, 2003|03:09 am]
Are you quite done? Because this is quite ridiculous, and I'm quite tired. Well really I AM sleepy, and I can imagine that drinking large quantities of alcohol in approximately five hours will only make me MORE sleepy and MORE susceptible to diseases.|
Do I give two shits, or even one?
It is quite fucked up to see how fucked up you are and to realize how fucked up I feel in regards to the fucked up state of my life and the fucked up fact that I am still fucked up over YOU.
Oh yes YOU little old YOU, Nick, the Hot Potato.
Or maybe I am wrong and if I am wrong and if I have assumed then I will withdraw, partially, my accusation.
I still know the way to your house. I know that way, the wind guides me there, a light, refreshing AUGUST sort of wind that whispers light, refreshing secrets into my ears as I blink, tears forming in the corners of my eyes in response to the combined effects of the music (Counting Crows, Dire Straits, John Mayer, or "Enjoy"), the shining sun, waving at me excitedly (I'm here, Marianne, I'm here I'm here for YOU!), and the FEELINGS, oh yes, the FEELINGS. The tingles, the spring in my step, the flutter and sparkle and shimmer. The CRUSH. The INFATUATION. The DISBELIEF. I blink at it, I pinch myself black and blue, I shake my curls and wait to awaken from the dream. Only it isn't a dream, it's reality. It's just gauzy and giddy like a dream. Only in this dream, this reality, I can actually see his face.
He has two faces, that Nick. His daylight face -- the tanned, beaming face in which two soulful brown eyes are set, twinkling and crinkling. The face of a boy who strums his guitar and creates hemp necklaces and waits in his driveway with his hands in his pockets.
His nighttime face -- a face lit only by the distant streetlight, which shines in through the steamy car window on August evenings. The face of a guy with capable hands, a guy who grins and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and murmurs bits of French in your ear. You sigh contentedly and press your socked foot to the foggy window as his lips find your neck. You are his...
Of course it doesn't last. Everything goes wrong for a reason -- usually so you can sit on your ass, twiddle your thumbs and scratch your head, trying to figure out why it couldn't go right.
But we know, now, why it couldn't have gone my way.
Because Nick needs a new girl. Too often and too quickly he sets his sights on another. Out with the old, in with the new.
And it's hard for the old, well, at least for THIS old, to accept that she was just another girl.
Yes, now it makes sense. Croon it, Pete. I am just another girl. I am a faceless ex. A bitter ex. I miss him, but he cannot, must not know. I don't want him back, but I do.
But it's useless to want him back, and so I pretend that I do not.
Well, as I sit here thinking about Nick and how difficult he made it for me to leave Green Bay, and how blissful he made my August, and how much it stung when he moved on to the German girl and the sister of another bitter ex (the girl who called me fat, too), and now someone else whom I do not know at all, I realize that things with Jake aren't so hot right now.
Not because I miss Nick. Honestly I don't think too much about Nick. I miss him, but not so much that it's killing me or hurting me or fucking up my feelings for Jake.
It's just that this relationship feels very cool to the touch. Very nonchalant and unimportant. To him? I'm not sure. To me? It means a LOT to me. I don't understand where we went wrong if we did, but I can guarantee it has something to do with my obnoxiousness.
I think guys can only handle so much of ME and then they realize what they've gotten themselves into and they leave, quickly and quietly, and wisely.
Is that what Jake is planning as I write this?
Oh, God. Another stupid fucking break-up. I can't seem to keep men for long. They always leave. I should stay single to avoid the hell of breaking up. I always tell myself I WILL, but I don't. A new guy comes along, I fool him for a few weeks, he catches a glimpse of the real me, the me I myself despise, and he leaves.
Such is life.