Dearest Tumblr: I must apologize that I am a fair-weather friend. Or more accurately, a foul-weather friend. I turn to you and your ample pages when I either A) am attempting to subvert working on homework, B) am terribly, terribly angsty [Steven, I know how you love that word now], or C) when I’m not able/interested in telling people how I feel face to face.
I’m usually much wittier when typing here. I get drunk off my potent mix of diet Pepsi and Cheez-its, and whine away until I think I’m happy. Or at least content. In the words of Montag from Fahrenheit 451: “I just want someone to hear what I have to say. And maybe if I talk long enough, it’ll make sense.”
I’m supposed to be working on my “Written Representation and Review of Broadcast Journalism Senior Project.” Eden is keeping an eye on me. Unfortunately for her she thinks I’m hard at work as my keys click away. Nope. Good try Eden. I don’t blame you for my sneakiness or lack of discipline as I approach the end of my undergraduate career. It’s not your fault that I’m starting an 8-10 page paper with 50+ sources and 4 outlines at 2am. You are a great roomate. I’m just a skeez.
I wrote a song today. Are you proud, tumblr? I feel like I should name you…something…anything. But giving you a name would simply cement the fact that I’m talking to no one but myself. “Tumblr” gives both distance and a self-aware nod to the insanity of this.
It’s been a fascinating few weeks. I’ve been invited to 2 banquets and they were both sweet in different ways. Considering I’m a 22-year old who has been on one date ever, and never been asked to anything, I was feeling pretty good. But it’s a whole different shoe when you are the one being vulnerable and asking someone for a favor. Like “please go to a banquet with me.” And I know it’s not marriage. I don’t need to do anything fancy (good God, I asked you in a QT; it doesn’t get much less fancy than that) or blow it out of proportion. But a rejection on a Sunday does seem especially sucktastic.
I realize I’ve posted about rejection and disappointment before. If you’re sick of this topic…well suck it. I’m angsty and you can change the channel if you please. Ish, I’m going to have to take this off my social media links so potential employers don’t see me act like a tripped-out child told she can’t marry Edward from Twilight.
I know I can’t always get what I want. But sometimes I’m just sick as shit at being lonely. I love my roomate. I love my friends. I love my family. But I want someone to cuddle with at night. I want to tuck someone special’s hair behind their ear, and gaze at them, heart full, while they sleep. I want a hug at the door to Claudius, and someone to text me and initiate a conversation.
I look around my room and see memories and objects that scream how I’m in a community and am well-loved. I can be agape-loved from a thousand sides, but lets be honest I’m kind of craving some eros now. Not that I’ll do anything stupid, but still, loneliness is a learned skill. I feel like I’m always in it.
I wrote a rejection song with friends as a joke tonight. We were sing/chanting/talking out rejection stories, and I ended up being the only one singing/chanting/talking. They said they had no rejection stories. Good god, if you want one, I’ll share a few. Take this cup from me, having so many stories of NO is a burden best shared.
When I was talking about a memory in high school, I realized that that hurt is still there. I went to a small Christian high school, and our “prom” is a banquet where the guys ask the girls, only juniors and seniors. I was a senior, and I had a great guy friend that I suddenly started to always see. It was around that time of year where the snap in the air of banquet talk just tingled and everyone knew it was time to ask or get left. I would see him and he would seek me out across a hall, run to catch me, and call me out. I was surprised at first, but grew to love it and look forward to it. After 2 weeks of this, he called me one night. I was excited—we weren’t really the calling type—and naturally I expected him to ask me. Instead he told me that he liked my best friend and asked if I would be involved in a complex plan to ask her to banquet.
When I was 15, my aunt got engaged on Christmas day. My grandpa gave our champagne to all the adults, and cider to the kids. Being 15, I anticipated cider. I grabbed my flute and took a big swig. The shock of champagne when I was expecting cider freaked the ish out of me. I coughed and held it it, trying valiantly not to choke or tear up.
That was the feeling I got on that call. I wasn’t angry or upset; I just was expecting cider and got champagne. I had to be a grown-up very quickly and choke it down. I was happy for my friend, happy for my best friend. There wasn’t anger, just disappointment and expectation that I’d allowed to grow.
In so many areas of my life, I’ve expected cider and been slapped in the face with champagne instead. In sports, in church, in friendships, and especially in the romantic department. Every time I’ve had to choke down what I got instead of what I wanted. Save face, swallow sadness. (Send some faxes?)
I’ve got to say: I really am not a fan of cider either. But as far as the metaphor goes it works. I see people younger than me getting married, my friends from high school starting families. Heck, even the towers kids are dating.
I am starting to feel like there may be cameras in my room that Tina Fey cribs from for Liz Lemon’s quirks and problems. My life feels like a movie. My roomate made me swear to write a book about this last year. Especially the last 4 months.
I’ve been writing for 30 minutes. Time to get back to the senior paper review I’ve put off for 2 weeks. I’m kind of an idiot that way. I’m running down the up escalator to graduation. I’m too chubby to keep it up much longer…