The problem with keeping someone at a distance is that it makes communication really hard. It’s like you’re always yelling over this white noise of empty space. It creates an illusion of safety–like being wrapped in a bubble. But then it all becomes a game of who gains the upper hand. He said, she said, he says wha-?, she says huh?
Ain’t none of us gonna make that step closer to burst that bubble.
Definitely doesn’t help when I’m talking about more than one.
In the end, it’s a conundrum. To move forward and make plans, we gotta communicate. To communicate, we gotta make at the very least the tiniest bit of commitment. To commit, we gotta take a step closer. To get close, we gotta let it happen. To let it happen, we gotta want it.
Not sure that I want it, though. But I do want to make plans. But mostly, I just think I’m bored.
“Do you know what it’s like to love someone so much, that you can’t see your future without her playing a part in it? Or what it’s like to touch someone, and feel like you’ve come home?”
There are days, lots and lots of them, when you just want to throw your hands up in the air and give up. I had to remind myself why I was doing what I was doing. I had to remember that I had a reason…a finish line. And I could not, could not give up.
I wonder if my moral compass has been slightly scrambled, or if it’s really just part of growing up. Or maybe it’s a part of growing more cynical? All I know is, things I never thought were “right” before simply doesn’t bother me anymore.
Although people who leave the faucet running still really peeve me. *griiins.
“I love you,” he whispered, and that was the moment he knew what he was going to do. When you loved someone, you put their needs before your own. No matter how inconceivable those needs were; no matter how fucked up; no matter how much it made you feel like you were ripping yourself into pieces.”
First of all: Love Kid Cudi. Love David Guetta. Love this song.
That song would probably be what best describes my weekend. I definitely did make all the crazy/beautiful decisions this weekend and I know that they will be tucked away under the file of “Best Memories.”
The best of the best part of the weekend? It dawned on me sometime after midnight on Friday night that I was happy. I was really, really happy. My life is awesome.
I can’t put my finger on it.
Maybe it’s because San Francisco just makes me feel amazing. I love this city, the nooks and crannies, the hopping on the train to bar hop, the art galleries/bars, the after-parties, the being able to walk through the streets and breathe real air, the people I know in this place, the people I meet at every turn…I’m just absolutely loving it.
Maybe it’s because I feel like the old me again. I don’t know if LA changed me or if my experiences in LA changed me that much. But I can go dancing at a club here just for the sake of dancing. In my jeans, sweater and boots, my hair in a ponytail, a Blue Moon in my hand…I feel like me in my own skin.
Maybe it’s the friends and loves who visit me. Maybe it’s the old-school hip-hop pounding out of the speakers. Maybe it’s walking through the city streets holding hands. Maybe it’s take-my-breath-away kisses and throw-my-head-back laughter on a bench at the Metreon. Maybe it’s frozen yogurt and Halloween stories. Maybe it’s old friends who still call me by my old name. Maybe it’s being around people who knew and remember my father that remind me of who I was meant to be. Maybe it’s whispers and lame jokes at night. Maybe it’s everything about everything right now.
I’m just happy. Let me be.
*For those who have the Password…Read on in Memories Part Deux*
Today (Sunday, 10/03/10) was one of those days that just flew by so fast because everything was just so great. Not that nothing went wrong–because, have you met me yet? It’s funny how so many people think I’m this responsible Type A personality, when in reality I’ve only learned to keep my mess and klutz in check for the sake of the human race.
Anyway, today, I have a lot to be thankful for so I should get on with it.
with my mom @ the Farmer's Market on the Embarcadero
PERSON: My Mom
There aren’t very many people I can count on to do anything for me, but my mom always comes through. She’s been there through the thick and thin, making the big sacrifices and all. But the little things also matter. Today, I was in such a rush to meet up with my tailgate buddies that as soon as I loaded my small cooler and bags of chips, I hopped into the SUV with them…and forgot my purse in my own car.
I had to call my mom from the tailgate to go to my car and please take my purse so it doesn’t get stolen. She does.
Later, after the football game, I realized that I had also lost my car keys. Naturally, I called my mom and she came driving up to Niles’s house with my spare keys. She was so awesome with her patience and just being there for me that I was so glad and thankful she is who she is.
EVENT: My First Raider Game, aka Being in the Black Hole
I loved my first NFL game. I loved that it was a Raider Game. I loved that it was with Tripps, PMaster, and Tim. I loved the tailgate and the little traditions. One such tradition: the line for the newspaper. Tripps sees my curious look and shrugs, “No one gets to touch the paper, especially the Target ad or the Best Buy ad before Tim.” I see. Tim grunts and pulls out the pages he wants and sits in his beach chair. At which point, everyone takes their piece of the Sunday paper, sits in momentary silence and reads.
w/ Tripps and PMaster (and his wolfman beard)
(Because I left my camera in my purse in my car, I had no Game Day pics. But I do have this classic one of the three of us at a Cal Game, which is just fine and appropriate because we’re going to another one next weekend anyway. Though, PMaster really needs some Cal gear…)
Another tradition: BEER ME, BITCH! –> apparently, PMaster is the Beer Bitch, and he must refill everyone’s beer or bring them a fresh bottle within five seconds of the last drop being drained from the current bottle. Tim told me that I had to yell at PMaster as loud as I could. Hence, “Beer me, Bitch!” I demand, and off scrambles PMaster to the cooler. It was 10 AM and I was on my third bottle. Wow, look at me.
Tradition III: Tim’s legendary burgers. They were GOOOOOOOOD. I asked Tim if the secret ingredient was love. He gives me a scowl and goes, “This is a Raider game, the secret ingredient is hate.”
Then, when we went into the Oakland Coliseum, we had to go to “The Wall” and rub Tim’s name with our “Non” Hand. The what Hand? PMaster explains, “You rub Tim’s name with the hand that you don’t masturbate with. For luck.” I crook my eyebrow at him, “Say what?” Awkward second ensues. Then Tripps grins, “We’ll be gentlemen and turn our backs when it’s your turn, okay?” Much better.
Music was also pretty fun and they had little dance-offs on the jumbo-tron which was mighty entertaining. They (over)played “I Gotta Feeling…” which annoyed PMaster to no end. He isn’t a fan of any other music other than growling and metal, so all the hip-hop and rave music blasting through the speakers only made him growl. Hahahaha! So, of course, Tim and I took every opportunity to “whooooo-hooooo” to the Black-Eyed Peas as loudly and as enthusiastically as we could. I pointed out that the Raiderettes could not possibly shake their booties to Metallica, whereas Usher and Pitbull were far more appropriate (and in Tim’s case, much, much more appreciated).
The game was awesome, despite the Raiders’ loss. It’s not like one actually goes to a Raider game anticipating a win (*cough*) since it’s been a good 7 years or so since they were actually good. But a Raiders game is an experience, a sensory assault, and a real test of your virtue and patience. PMaster and Tim are two of the best shit talkers I know…and in a Raider game, that’s multiplied by a thousand other people. Then, there are the characters: Darth Raider, Raider Wolf, etc… the video below will give you an idea of such characters.
Needless to say, I had a helluva time at the game!
THING: Spare Car Keys
Well, yeah…back to reality. I’m so glad there are such things are spare keys. Otherwise, I’d have to pay a bazillion dollars to get a fancy-schmancy, inordinately expensive VW key.
“There are two kinds of love…in the safe kind you look for someone who’s exactly like you. It’s what most folks settle for. But then there’s the other kind of love. Everyone’s born with a ragged edge, and some folks crave that piece that’s a perfect fit. You’ll search for it forever, if you have to. And if you’re lucky enough to find it, it looks so right, you start to tear at your own seams, thinking, maybe I could look just as perfect. But then, of course, when you try to get close to their other half, you don’t fit anymore. That kind of love…you come out of it a different person than you were when you started.”
