What's in a Name: The Existential Crisis Edition

I hate my name. Keri. Short and sharp. No frills. Grating even. Wrap your mouth around that hard consonant and finish on an irritating up-vowel. (Up-vowel may not be a real thing.) And it's spelled ridiculously. Keychains from Disney? Not for me, ever. Keri Jean? Ugh, even worse. In my head, it conjures up an Elizabethan midwife or scullery maid. "Keri Jean will know how to get the placenta out of the dressing gowns. Fetch her from the stables at once."

When I tell people "Keri," the number one response I get is "Oh, like the movie?" Well, no asshole, not like the movie. High school was awkward but I made it through prom without murdering anyone. Barely, but still. What's more, how bullshit is it that I get lumped in with Carrie based on name alone? I'm sure people with your name have done some pretty fucked up things, but I don't associate you with their tomfoolery. And if your name is Tom, I wouldn't be so bold as to assume that you're even in to tomfoolery.

Your name is undeniably connected to your identity, but you don't even get to choose it. What people call you, what you sign on the dotted line, what you have to hear for your whole life is designated at birth by people who don't even know you yet. You don't even know you yet. Maybe you never truly know you, but I can only have one existential crisis at a time.

I refrain from bitching about my name in front of family since I was named after two family members. I never met Great Great Grandma Carrie (note the change in spelling from the movie to the lotion - way to go, Mom), but I am told she was a badass. Jean is a popular choice for middle names in my family; I think I'm the third or fourth one with that denim designation. Even typing it is starting to piss me off. Keri Jean. Yuck. Every so often, someone gets real cute and buys me Keri lotion as a silly gift, and guess what -  

I'm fucking allergic to it. So stop that.

I can only complain about something for so long without being moved to action. At 4:30 this morning I decided to take charge and change it. And I was sober, so suck on that. Why not? It's just a matter of paperwork and 30 bucks. I can do this, it's my choice now. I have the power to chose a nom de plume that fits me, something that I can stand behind, something I'd be proud to shout from the highest points of every great city. All I need to do is pick a name.

Cue moniker meltdown. Do I still want to be named after a family member? My two favorite people are younger than me, so that doesn't make any sense. My favorite uncle was like a big brother when I was growing up, so I could adopt the female form of his name. I could be Danielle and go by Dani. That's nice.

Or maybe I could get away from the family thing altogether and go looks-based. I have a lot of my dad's Polynesian features, but with a last name of "Ramos" I more often have people speaking Spanish at me than asking me to hula dance. I bet if I had an ethnically stereotypical name like Kimani or Haliaka then people would guess Hawaiian (correct) before Spanish (again, incorrect).

Well, being Hawaiian means less to me than being named after a family member. I mean, heritage is important, and I once got a piercing in my face to celebrate my culture (tell you later) but my first name based purely on that? Maybe not.

I can say I know what I don't want (noun-names like April, Daisy, Savannah; monosyllabic names; anything that ends in the letter O) but why can't I pick something I like?

I'm staying away from popular late 80s names. I know about seven Jessicas, nine Ashleys, forty-seven Tiffanys and, if I had to give a rough estimate, about 1.8 million Brittanys.

I also don't want any name that appears in a song. Just can't do it. As it stands, three people in the world are allowed to sing or reference "Carrie Anne" by the Hollies in my presence. A fourth person tried once. Once.

How about naming myself after someone I want to emulate? That could be okay. Like what about Olivia from Law and Order: SVU? Perhaps. Or how about Clarisse from Fahrenheit 451?! (See, you think she's not an important character, but she really is. I could write my dissertation on her.) Ohmygosh. NANCY. FUCKING. DREW.

Now I have too many choices. Now I am staring at the sun slowly rising through my bedroom window. Now I am afraid that all the control in the world over my name doesn't matter one bit since I can't even make a decision. Maybe taking charge is pretty damn useless if I don't have the guts to pull the trigger. Maybe I shouldn't be in charge of anything in my life at all considering I can't even decide what to name myself. Maybe I'll just have no name. I'll walk down the street and people will whisper "There she goes, she doesn't even have a name, poor girl. She choked on her name change form and left it blank and it actually went through - can you believe it? Of course Florida legislature let her change her name to nothing, fucking morons. But yeah, she's just got an empty space on her driver's license and they say she's just that empty inside."

For fuck's sake, get it together, Keri.

Hmm. Keri. Simple, but still kind of weird. Abrasive, but with a certain finesse. It's familiar, but not exactly commonplace. Snappy, curt, quick to action. Wrap your mouth around that hard consonant and finish on an irritating up-vowel. Now spell it ridiculously.

Yeah, that'll work.

To The Boys I Love(d)

I wore your sweatshirt today. I wore it yesterday, too. I also wore it three days ago, which was your birthday, but I didn't call you or text you or anything. I didn't even write on your Facebook wall, which is the cheapest form of a birthday wish. Instead I just wore your hoodie and reread all the letters and cards and emails I've saved from you. You gave me your hoodie the first time I flew a million miles to visit you, although I didn't know you placed it in my suitcase until I was back home. It's a like a hug now, worn and familiar and bunchy in all the places we used to be together. I had to sew the pocket back on after I ripped it six summers ago. There are holes in the sleeves where my thumbs fit, which I think is kind of tacky somehow, but I haven't sewn them back up because when I slip my thumbs through I try to remember what it was like to hold your hand. I can't even remember that sometimes, and I think I didn't call you on your birthday because the person I love doesn't really exist anymore. The person you loved doesn't either. You gave me my favorite nickname and I really miss it now that no one uses it anymore.

I loved you in a way I wasn't ready for, and that led me to ruin everything in my attempts to control what I didn't understand. We are friends now, probably better friends than we were then, but we don't love each other like we used to. I like us as friends. We understand that part of us and we seldom speak of the terrible things we did to each other out of misunderstood passion. You got mad once because I had a picture of me kissing Hoodie Boy on New Years Eve on my Facebook and I refused to take it down. I told you I never slept with him, which was then and is still true. You didn't care and you still got mad and we only officially dated for three days. I never slept with you either and when I started seeing someone else you said friendship was too hard and we didn't talk for two years. We're healed now in a way I don't understand, but I am trying very hard not to ruin it this time. Out of the three people to take me to prom, you were the only one to request a song just for me.

I loved you and I slept with you. We were good at everything except treating each other with respect and delicacy. I guess I didn't know lovers were supposed to do that. We could talk and listen to music and travel and play board games or even just do nothing, but we didn't know how to fight. We treated every hiccup like the end of the world, probably because we felt like it was. We learned so much, so many bad things. We learned loneliness and jealousy and betrayal. I don't mind having learned those things with you because I loved you and I slept with you. We would eventually grow apart, but you would get there before me, and when you left I didn't understand. I wasn't ready and it was the first time in my whole life I couldn't argue my way out of something. We're healed now, too, and we aren't great friends but we are healed. And we owe that to the second boy I loved and didn't sleep with because he's the one who taught me how to mend things with someone who once left you broken. You brought flowers to my work when we were fighting once and I made you leave and looking back I really regret that.

I didn't love you, but I thought I did. I slept with you and it was always good because I was always drunk. I was drunk for a whole year, I think. That's what we did. We moved too fast and stayed out too late and drank too much and had excessive amounts of fun and we did everything but talk about what was wrong with either of us for an entire year. I grew out of that but I didn't want to leave for fear of hurting you when you didn't really do anything wrong. Then you slept with someone else and that was wrong. Another year later, I forgave you and we were best friends in a way that would have saved us if it had happened while we were together. We aren't anything now because I have reviewed the evidence and decided that you don't deserve it. I don't regret our time of best-friendship, but it was more closure for me than it was anything else. I did see you vulnerable a few times (which is the part I love, because it showed me why you are capable of such cruelty) but I didn't call you on your birthday either because you are really just the same person who I didn't fall in love with in the first place. When the girl you left me for broke your heart in return it didn't make me happy like I thought it would.

I didn't mean to love you, but I couldn't help it. We both fought it. I was once faced with a decision that involved hurting you and you told me you just wanted me to be happy. And we both knew that meant hurting you, and that is why I love you. I'm still waiting for you to break my heart in some over the top way, because that is what I am used to, but it won't happen. It won't happen because the last time we saw each other we barely spoke and when you squeezed my hand goodbye, I was the first person to let go. I will eventually smash your heart into chunky gooey bits, if I haven't already, regardless of the fact that we are just friends. But as you can see, that kind of thing can be healed; never the same, but still somehow functional. I'm saying this because I am going to call you on your birthday. I don't know if you will answer. I always look for your corner in the Ybor parking garage.

Because I can't write anything without it being taken out of context by people who know me personally (and I don't even think that's your fault), this has nothing to do with Eric. He is asleep in the next room. I am typing on the couch even though he bought me a sweet desk and a cool chair. Putting the desk next to the bed was stupid on my part because I usually write at ungodly morning hours but I won't write there if he's sleeping because I love him. But for the record, we celebrate birthdays in person and then we sleep together. He doesn't get an italic inside joke because it isn't about him. 

I watched Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World yesterday and I have seen it a thousand times but yesterday it really bummed me out. If you haven't seen the movie I'm not going to explain it so Google some plot shit and come back. What would happen if the people I love (used to love? love differently now?) got together? Their ideas of me would be so different. Even if it were like the movie, if they united to fight my current love, they'd all be fighting for a different person. Or a different time. Or even a different version of themselves than who they are now. Or something.

It struck me all at once, how odd it is to have these people (and a few others who got close) walking around carrying parts of me with them. They know my secrets and my flaws and my fears and they have seen the scar that I never talk about and they could, at any time, use all those things against me. But they don't. Because they love me. (Question mark?)

I have decided a few things as a result of this.
1.) I need to sleep more.
2.) I need to listen to Taylor Swift and Lana Del Ray songs less.
3.) I don't mind letting you boys keep some things about me. Keep them safe. Keep them close. I'll keep your things safe, too. And if your exes contact me and want to start an evil league to fight your new lady, I'll politely decline because that seems like bullshit and I'm sure she's a nice girl anyway.

"She taught me this above all else: things which don't shift and grow are dead things." - Leslie Marmon Silko

My Morning Glory has wiggled her way into my heart, and instead of recognizing her worth, she just treats herself like a charity case.

Even though she isn't.

Fast forward through the year's worth of random details to tonight, to the now, to the present which she so often refuses to live in.

I give her the keys (in an act of submission that so seldom happens) so she can drive. Not because I need her to. Not necessarily because she asks to. More because I want her to, because she made the mistake of telling me she was afraid once and I strongly believe that we don't fear things in this family. Because she is family, as much as she shies away from that.

When she drives my car, I pay attention. Not really to road signs or street lights, but to her.

I busy myself with playing songs that will calm her. I painstakingly weave through eons of iTunes downloads until I find songs that will tell her I love her, songs that will put her worried mind at ease, songs that will show her how much I just fucking get it. Because sometime bar conversations just aren't good enough for that.

I don't squirm when Morning Glory takes a turn too tightly. I just hold on and lean back and soak up her nerves. I try to inhale her anxiety along with my cigarette smoke until we don't even notice she's nervous. If I were insecure at all I wouldn't have given her the keys, I wouldn't have let her rev my engine, I wouldn't have fueled this. But I'm ready, and even though she isn't, she trusts me in a way that neither of us fully understand.

She isn't comfortable with being in charge. She bears this burden so much that it makes my own shoulders hurt. Such a delicate creature shouldn't fret so much. Such a beautiful girl shouldn't be so scarred with insecurity. Such a creative soul shouldn't shrink away from a chance to literally make her own way home.

I softly tell her to turn the lights on. I swiftly caress the windshield wipers into action. I guide her fingers to switches and knobs in the darkness. I don't laugh when she takes her sweet ass time backing out of the empty parking lot. (That part is actually a lie; I laugh excessively.)

Morning Glory doesn't know what I mean when I tell her to go home. I don't mean for her to drive to the place where her mom is crazy or her father left or her loved ones underestimate her. I mean for her to go and go and go until she is dizzy with happiness and collapses in a way that causes an earthquake so riddled with energy that everyone notices. But if she wants to go back to Seffner, that's okay too. Because I love her and I can sit in this passenger seat as long as it takes.

I want to tell her that "home" is not a real place. I want to tell her that home is just where people love you and that can be anywhere, even if you aren't there to feel it all the time. She will scoff and say something self-deprecating and I will remind her that half of my heart is currently in two hours away at Stetson University. And she will shut her mouth and get it because she is the only person to ever understand how much I miss my sister.

Morning Glory asks me where she's supposed to turn with a quiet confidence. "I turn here." It's not a question at all, but she still waits for me to say yes. I once gave her wrong directions so she would have to take the interstate back. She cursed me up and down and I just laughed. Sometimes when you're the driver you just have to make decisions. Right, wrong or indifferent, I just want her to choose.

I don't think she understands yet that there really isn't a wrong choice. I'll be in the passenger seat no matter what. I can take the reins any time, but I want to see how she commands things - or doesn't. I want her to take the wheel and spin it wherever she wants to go. I want her to be comfortable with control. I want her to understand that she is good enough.

And I know Luis is pissed reading this thinking "every time Khylee drives I'm in the back seat, you stupid bitch," and I politely want to remind him that back-seaters don't get dedication blogs. And this blog's about Morning Glory.

She once asked me why she didn't have a nickname yet. She does. She always has. I just didn't know how to tell her that she's my Morning Glory. I only see her blossom after sunset. And when she is content, when she is alive, I fully believe that the moon isn't shining so brightly because of the sun - the moon is just reflecting her. I wanted to make her a flower because she knows that things which don't shift and grow are dead things. And she will get the reference. And now she will hopefully understand that pretty much everything I do is on purpose.

And when Morning Glory drives - like she did tonight - I adore her, even if she's only commanding things because I made her do it. I study her calm eyes and envy her determined grip. Had someone I loved tossed me into a sea of demands like this, I might have drowned.

But I don't dare tell her that she's stronger than me, even now, simply because she wouldn't believe it.

Even though she is.

I'm not selling myself short, I'm just sold out.

If I were to quit my job right now I don't think anyone would miss me, save the girl I eat lunch with and the manager we get lunch for sometimes. This is not a self-deprecating twenty-something moment, just a fact. The twenty-something self-deprecation comes later. While I'm probably the most entertaining receptionist ever, I'm not very important. And one of the managers goes on a weekly tirade about how we're all expendable and she can just get rid of us all whenever she wants, so I'm half expecting to get fired every other day anyway. Which would be okay too. 

I'm not exactly sure how it started, but someone noticed that I have more than four brain cells and the ability to follow directions, so I help a few different departments when I can. It's fun, although I'm not ever exactly sure what I'm doing because I'm not an engineer and words like "splitter add" and "jumper" and "ipid" mean absolutely nothing to me. I don't know what cut sheets are. I don't understand the process of throwing switches. But you know what, I kick fucking ass at data entry.  

I know that these kinds of work orders go on this tab in The Spreadsheet. And if it has that code? It goes over here in The Spreadsheet. I spend a few hours a week updating The Spreadsheet. I respect The Spreadsheet. I fear The Spreadsheet. 

The guy I help with The Spreadsheet is arguably one of the nicest people I've ever met. He has tattoos that I refrain from asking questions about. He is probably a foot and a half taller than me. His shoulders could carry 9 bushels of apples. (I hope 9 bushels is a lot.) I think he's an MMA fighter when he's not at work creating The Spreadsheet. He once showed me pictures of a baby that I assume is his. He sent me a link to a cool Pedro the Lion song recently. And four months ago he told me to stop saying "I'm dumb" when I make a mistake. 

He told me not to sell myself short. 

Now about The Spreadsheet; the information that I put into The Spreadsheet comes from other less revered spreadsheets and a labyrinth-like website that requires ninja access and a Nancy Drew sense of urgency to figure shit out. It gets confusing. 

And today I fucked it up.    

That's not really true. Today I realized that some of the less respected spreadsheets had been sorted a certain way when they arrived in my inbox, and I should unsort them in order to see if there was anything for me hidden in those rows and columns of mysterious technical gibberish. Did I think to do this? No. I was all like "SEEMS LEGIT, NOTHING TO SEE HERE, LET'S CALL IT A DAY!"

Creator of The Spreadsheet was very gracious, saying it wasn't my fault and not to worry about it and he maybe should have unsorted everything before he gave me the inferior spreadsheets. He told me this wasn't business critical and I shouldn't be freaking out. 

Well, I excel at freaking out. And I over-zealously attempted to fix everything. So I went through the last week of emails and looked at everything and caught a few work orders I'd missed and, feeling very smug, I thought "SEEMS LEGIT, LET'S CALL IT A DAY." And off the email went. 

Then I realized I fixed last week's but didn't update today's work orders. 

Perfect. 

And then chaos ensued - a barrage of phone calls and people needing staples and shit out of the supply room, random drama with managers screaming at each other in the hallway behind me, people on break asking me if there were anymore mints for the candy dish - just chaos. 

And I finally emailed the Creator with The Final Updated Spreadsheet. And he, of course, had already fixed it himself. 

I wanted to march back to his desk, through the drafting floor and past the soda machines, silently crying the whole time in that broken but regal way, and collapse at his feet. I would look up, and seeing the Creator would unleash the sobs I had been choking back. I would breathlessly explain that I am exhausted, I am stressed about school and both of my jobs and home and my family and I'm not really this stupid, I just haven't slept in days and I drink until I pass out just so my mind will shut down for a few hours. He would hand me a tissue with his massive arm and I would finally ask about his sleeve of tattoos. 

But that's not the way it works, because I'm at work, and I'm supposed to be all grown up. Or at least not crying in people's laps. And as much as I'd love to fling myself on someone's desk (or up on a cross, apparently) and beg for mercy, it's really not that necessary. 

What I actually did was send him a message apologizing for the chaos. He said, once again, that it was fine, that I'm still learning and it's okay, and I shouldn't sell myself short. 

What's that? A minor glitch in a spreadsheet isn't the end of the world? Well for fuck's sake, I wish I would have known that earlier. 

When so many of us define ourselves by what we do and how well we do it, I think it's important not to let little mistakes turn into anxiety-ridden stress-fests like how I did earlier. I should have made the mistake, learned from it, and moved on. Instead I let it snowball and made it so much worse all because I couldn't calm down. 

So I put on my best Tony Robbins face and told myself to put on my big girl panties and deal with it. I reminded myself that I'm a goddamn member of Mensa and that utilizing some of my critical thinking skills wouldn't be such a bad idea. I'm not too smart to make mistakes, but I am too smart to let mistakes get the best of me. 

Determined to take back control and not let this keep me frustrated all day, I grabbed Lunch Girl and headed to Subway to bring back food for us and Mama Bird Manager. 

Where I promptly forgot her chips. And her straw. 

Sonofabitch. 

My job and how I suck at it.

My job sucks.

I am used to running around, talking to massive amounts of people, being creative, making decisions, being in charge. I currently do none of these things. It is excruciatingly boring. At worst, I try to entertain myself with music and making things out of paperclips. At best, I get to dick around with some numbers in an excel spreadsheet somewhere. I try to be helpful. I once spent two days cleaning out the supply closet because I snapped and had to do something. I ask for things to do, if for no other reason than to keep from stabbing myself with a paperclip samurai sword, but more often than not, I'm bored. At first I would feel guilty when I got caught playing Yatzee on my phone (current best game is four Yatzees) but I slowly realized that I am supposed to be sitting at this desk, waiting for the phone to ring or for someone to need me, in a room the temperature of Siberia all by myself.

It's kind of nice to have limited responsibilities. I answer the phones. I talk to people as they leave for lunch or go on smoke breaks. I help when people ask. I help when they don't ask. I sing even though I'm pretty sure people can hear me through the window. The FedEx guy and I talk about classic rock.

The only reason I haven't pulled an Office Space is that the people I work with are just fucking amazing. All walks of life, all different backgrounds, so many different kinds of awesome. If you know me at all you know that I love people, and this place is overflowing with blindingly intense personalities. I want to meet them all, I want to know about them, more than just what's on a timesheet or an expense report.

Backtrack: when I started, I tried to look normal. I washed the purple out of my hair. I took my lip ring out. I wore something other than jeans and a t-shirt. Minimal makeup. No bar wristbands or bags of drunken shame under my eyes. This, of course, did not last long and I have eased those around me into the pierced and provocative Keri we know and... know. My socks don't match. I think people are catching on that I have the same shirt in 5 colors. I decorated my desk with dinosaurs and Legos. I talk to everyone I can about whatever I can, because I am so starved for attention and the only gratification I get comes from using up a highlighter or running out of staples. It happens.

Fast forward: now that I have been there long enough, it has begun. It is the thing that happens to me anywhere I have ever worked, be it a drugstore, mall boutique, sports bar, sports radio or otherwise:

I am the biggest slut ever. I have slept with or sucked the dick of four different guys (I hope I get bonus points since they're all in different departments). My good morning smiles? They are a nod to our passionate night before. My delivering of the mail? It's because he got in my box and now it's my turn. My calls to his extension? No, I don't need help, I just want to bang you. And my cheery attitude and pleasant inquiries about your weekend? OH MY GOD JUST DO ME ON THE COPIER. When I am nice to someone, it becomes irrefutable evidence that I want nothing more than to ditch my clothes and bend over right then and there. The engagement ring on my finger and the cutesy picture on my desk? Nah, that's just a cover for my wanton ways.

End sarcasm.

I knew these rumors and barely concealed whispers would happen, because they always do. And it came to my attention today that most, if not all of these rumors have been started by the other women. The funny thing is that I haven't been hit on once by a dude, although I did have someone look me up on facebook and try to throw me off by mentioning this blog. I told him his mugshot was super hot, and we both dropped it.

Remember how I said I'm usually not busy? Yeah, I'm the only one. The company has legit shit to do, and usually everyone has a hectic day. Our Fridays are most people's Mondays. That makes our Mondays... four times harder than theirs because I tried to come up with an analogy and failed so I'm just working the mathematical angle. My point is that I don't know where these bitches find the free time to make up stuff and disseminate it. You know why I'm friendlier to the guys? Because you ladies can be absolute cunts.

I know that if I ignore it, it'll go away. I also know that's not even close to my style. So prepare yourself for the week of slut, courtesy of low-cut dresses, dramatic makeup, high heels and a knock out leather-pants-corset ensemble ala-Easy-A on Friday. I hope the women gossip. I hope they shake their heads every time I talk to anyone. I hope they are consumed by their own petty jealousy. I hope it drives them crazy and I get under their skin all while being nice as fuck because that's my game.

And on Monday I'm going back to jeans and a wrinkled t-shirt, whereas they can go back to kissing my ass.

My job rocks.

On Being Rejected By My College Crush

I develop "crushes" on people of a purely intellectual nature. I have no desire to sleep with these people, but I become consumed by the frantic urge to know them, to befriend them, to find out what makes them tick. People are my addiction, and when I stumble across someone worthy, I binge to the point of overdose. From the other point of view it must be kind of creepy. In fact, I've been told that I'm creepy. That's okay with me. You don't have to fall in love with me. You just have to let me in, let me poke around for a while. It doesn't hurt, I promise.

I developed one of these crushes on a college professor once. I had him for Social Philosophy and I thought he was just the bees' knees. So after I'd earned an A in his class, I asked him if we could get drinks and I could pick his brain for a while. I think I told him I was thinking of being a Philosophy major. My boyfriend at the time was in the class with me, and as we were both good students and cool people, Professor obliged. I think my exact request was something like "we think you're cool, and we wanna hang out outside of class. Will you go on a date with us?" See, I am creepy.

It was incredibly exciting sitting and bullshitting with him. His "professionalism" kind of melted away and he became this metal rocker who only shaved because capitalist society dictated social norms and hierarchy based on appearance... or something. He introduced me to IPA. He reached across the table to light my cigarette. More than ever, I was smitten. We hung out a few times, always at the same cute restaurant. He said he invited me out for good conversation, and I was beyond flattered that he thought I was anything besides vapidly idiotic.

I went to his house once after drinks once. It was a creaky old bungalow in a cute historic area of Tampa. The hardwood floors moaned with my every step, his couch cradled me as I lounged in the heat. His air conditioning was broken, and the open windows offered a modest breeze that only served to fill the living room with waves of humidity. I remember how my cheeks felt flushed.

Over a bottle of wine and many more cigarettes, we talked about music, argued whether or not punk was dead and compared venues and bands we'd been to and seen. I noticed that night how his smile curled up and then over when he is genuinely amused. His hair fell in messy disarray, such a stark contrast to his slicked back appearance in the classroom. Our conversation was easy, ebbing and flowing gently through stories about teachers, students, family, lovers. I was desperate to know everything about him in a few hours, I demanded to know his opinion on anything from The Food Network to Marx to the New York Dolls. He obliged, and I devoured all of it, drunk not on wine, but words.

He got up from the couch a few times to turn the TV off or get us glasses of water, and when I watched him weave around boxes of books and stacks of ungraded papers, I found myself wondering what it would be like to be naked with him, moving to the bass line of some obscure metal band we both saw months ago at the Brass Mug. He caught me in my reverie and I blushed fiercely. I hoped he attributed it to the sweltering Florida summer or the alcohol, anything but my ridiculous (and looking back, obvious) school girl crush. Of course, part of me, a very deep down secret part, wanted him to notice and pounce on me, our bodies tangled and sticking to the leather couch. But Professor was a gentleman and I was undoubtedly, severely awkward, so nothing of the kind happened.

I learned about his family, his upbringing and his love affair with academia. I asked questions that made him wince, but he answered with eloquent candor. I toyed with his real sense of humor, something I'd only seen glimpses of before. I saw him as a real person, not just Professor, but a man with strong ideals and wide-ranging opinions, a passionate man with confidence and charisma. He was hopeful, but jaded at the same time. I relived some of his heartbreaks as he retold them, and seeing both the smug playful Professor along with the bitter broken Professor was what sealed the deal. I saw honesty and balance and misguided ambition that made no apology for itself. I could have loved this man forever.

We met for drinks and good conversation a few more times before he moved out of state to teach elsewhere. We kept in touch through Facebook "likes" and links and casual posts, but it was nothing like we had before.

Last weekend he was in town for a conference, so we exchanged numbers on Facebook (I still had his, and I can't decide if that's endearing or pathetic) and planned to catch up. I was ecstatic. I sent one text message which garnered no response and fell into tragic self-loathing. I cursed myself for wanting to see him again so badly. I hated that being ignored perturbed me so deeply. I felt that our short but intense friendship demanded respect and a nostalgic drink for old time's sake. I listed to Clapton's "Layla" on repeat for the better part of an hour. The unplugged version. Yes, it was that bad.

Fiancé tried to console me, urging me to call him and when I refused, he made logical excuses that the conference ran late or Professor was catching up with colleagues. I pouted, made plans with other friends and got over it.

But I can imagine my 45 minute drive to St. Pete, my mind racing with anticipation and anxiety. I can picture walking into a strange bar, sipping on a beer, making awkward small talk because it's been three (or maybe four) years now and it's hard to just jump back into things sometimes. I would have had fun, but I also would have resented that we weren't sitting on his couch in the summer heat, drinking wine and making sweet intellectual love for hours. I would have driven 45 minutes back home, only to cry on Fiancé's shoulder about how Professor was different and I am different and everything is different and now it's all tainted and I'm stupid for thinking anything could be as perfect as that one night a few years ago when I was innocent and curious and a man I fell for pretty hard didn't take advantage of that.

I'm glad now that I didn't go. Trying to chase something that once was might have also shown me what it really wasn't, and what it will never be. I am still irked that I got blown off, but this way I can keep some fond memories of a guy I thought the world of safely intact.

This way I can love him forever.

"This is war. Every line is about who I don't wanna write about anymore" - Brand New

I get off on good song lyrics. Wrapped up in a driving bass line or a haunting melody, concise lyrics that nail my thoughts exactly will stick with me forever. I can't help it. I think most people match music to their moods; I tend to match up the lyrics to what I'm feeling, no matter what the song sounds like. It all builds up to that moment where I sing someone else's words and it says what I feel better than I can and in that moment I feel this connectedness with people and pain and love and loss and victory and release and joy and then I feel okay about whatever is going on. Because someone else gets it too. And I'm not a shitty person for thinking it first.

"Please remember that it's flesh and bone"

Have you ever been into a pawn shop? I went into one for the first time ever today and it was quite possibly one of the most depressing experiences ever. Those barred windows and glass cases held a museum of unwanted items, sacrifices, and promises of return that went unfulfilled. Maybe it's just a pawn shop. But then, why did I start crying?


I guess to tell that story I have to tell this story: my room is a constant mess. The rest of my house maintains a steady level of presentable at all times (I frequently throw last minute parties or have unexpected yet always welcomed guests, so I like to be ready) but my room is pretty much always in chaotic disarray. And you know what, I fucking like it that way.