Why the fuck do I write all of these things at like, 5 AM? Anyways, I'm watching Harry Potter (Deathly Hallows, part une) and it's fucking awesome. Harry Potter will never cease to be awesome. When I'm 100 years old, I will still be reading Harry Potter books.
I have a lot of things to do tomorrow, but I predict that I will only get one of them done, because I won't wake up until 3 PM. That's just how I roll. I'm super productive at 5 AM, asleep by 8 AM, and awake and raring to go at 3 PM. Life rawks.
I think quite possibly there is something wrong with these sleeping patterns. No, I KNOW there is something wrong. I don't know, I guess I just function better when I'm alone and the whole world is asleep. Whatever.
I wanted to write about something profound, but my brain is full of marshmallow fluff and cobwebs. Work is taking over, slowly. I want to think about certain things, but my brain space is occupied by things like lemon wedges, table skirts, and asshole customers. Blah blah blah. Straws and napkins. Sugar packets. Aprons. Blah blah.
It's a good thing, I suppose. If I weren't thinking about mindless things like that, I'd be thinking about "why". OOhhhh, so cryptic.
But, in all honesty, I can't sit around and bite my nails and freak out about what I supposedly did wrong, or what happened, or whose mind changed (SPOILER: not mine).
Because you know what? I KNOW I didn't do anything wrong at all. Ok, maybe I was a little bit too forward. That, I will admit to. I can come on strong. I'm a grab-life-by-the-balls kind of girl; I've always been that way. But why the fuck should I have to apologize for the way I feel? Why should I have to be sorry for taking that chance and acting on feelings that I have? No one should ever have to apologize for the way they feel. No one should ever have to apologize for having legitimate feelings for someone else.
You know what, damnit, I'm proud of myself that I stuck my neck out there and took a chance. Because I would have regretted it if I didn't. Life is too short not to do exactly what you want.
And maybe I stick myself out there too much. Maybe I get my hopes up a little bit too high, maybe I take too many chances. But I've never regretted a single chance I've ever taken. I've never regretted my feelings for anyone, ever. Because that's how I felt in that moment, and in that moment, that was all that mattered. Yeah, I've had fuck-ups. Yeah, I've had bad relationships and failed ones. I've gotten my heart broken and I've hurt so bad I could barely stand it. But not once, ever, did I ever give up. And I won't ever. Maybe I'll get my heart broken again, but you know what? In the end, it's all worth it for love.
And I'm talking right to you now, sir: I care. I care a lot, actually. If you were to ask me why exactly I'm infatuated with you, the answer is simple. Because when I'm with you, it's like nothing else matters. I lose all sense of time. I could sit and talk with you for hours. Conversation with you flows as easily as water. When you look at me, I feel like the only girl in the room. I feel like it's alright to be myself around you.
Well....at least that's how it was. Lately, it feels like you've been pushing me away. And you know what? I know how to take a hint. I'm backing off. It's all business between you and me, baby. But sometimes I get little glimpses of how it used to be between you and me. And it fucking hurts. It hurts to be pushed away so fiercely when I once felt like we were getting closer.
I guess I'm more angry at myself for falling. For allowing myself to think there was a chance. For opening the door, even if it was just a crack.
I didn't see a falling star tonight, but I'm gonna wish anyways. Not for you, but for me. For love. For passion, romance, companionship. To be swept off my feet, carried away, never to look back. And if it's with you, then I'll just count that as a bonus. ;)
Monday, May 23, 2011
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Being Carrie Bradshaw
I look out my driver's side window at the sign attached to the building. The radio is off, so the only sounds present are the machine-like hum of the neon and the gentle May breeze rustling the leaves on the scant greenery of the urban sprawl. My best friend is looking out the passenger window, apparently transfixed by similar things. I look ahead of me and there are shimmering lights as far as the eye can see. From the pinpricks of car headlights to the occasional office light still on in the impossibly tall skyscrapers, to the neon signs of various companies left on, downtown Indianapolis is aglow. The concrete jungle. It's a beautiful sight. It's hard to imagine why anyone couldn't love the city.
I love downtown Indianapolis. I don't really know why I do. I suppose it's the allure. I grew up sneaking and watching episodes of Sex and the City on HBO. Carrie and her friends ran around in $3,000 shoes and lived the life. They had fabulous everything; shoes, clothes, boyfriends, jobs, apartments. But the backdrop is what made it all the more alluring. The stories were set in New York City, a city everyone desires to live in at one point of their lives. The glittering back drop of NYC was like getting a peek into Oz for me. I can remember being a little girl, sitting close to our television set so I could keep the sound low, and promising myself that someday, I would be a writer just like Carrie. I would sit in my apartment downtown and type on my laptop (my desk would have a view of the city, of course). I would have amazing clothes and friends, and go out to eat at delicious, expensive places just like Carrie did. And most importantly, I would wear high heels Every Single Day, because my mother only allowed me to wear flats.
In my freshman college journalism class, we were asked to introduce ourselves and state our "journalistic dreams." Every kid said down things like "become the editor of the Wall Street Journal" or "become a sports broadcaster on ESPN." I proudly stood up and announced that I wanted to "write a column and be just like Carrie Bradshaw." Needless to say, I didn't last long at the IU Ernie Pyle School of Journalism. They only churn out Pulitzer prize-winning journalists, not trashy sex columnists with great shoe collections. Fine by me. I was never a color-in-the-lines type of girl, anyways. I'll blaze my own trail. I'll show them.
I don't think I'm special, or even different. I simply know how to convey my thoughts into words. It's the median in which I chose to express myself. But I love it. I have a passion, a deep, fiery burning passion that glows deeply within me. More than I've ever wanted anything in my whole entire life, I want to be a writer. My dad told me to find what you love and make a career out of it. And I can't think of anything I love more. One day. One day, I'll be there.
But for now I'll settle for flipping through the channels and finding a SATC rerun. I know it's utterly unrealistic to think that a single woman could afford to live alone in New York City in a posh apartment with a lavish designer wardrobe on a freelance writer's salary. But hey, a girl can dream, can't she?
I'm gonna keep on chugging. I'm going to finish college, get a big-girl job and start my real life. But I still want to be Carrie Bradshaw.
I'll be there one day. My name will be in lights, and I'll be a famous author. I'll wave my book in the faces of everyone who laughed at me and told me no, and every snotty, preppy sorority girl journalism major who turned her nose up at the rough-around-the-edges bitch who didn't quite fit in. I'll stomp off in my glittering pink high heels, and I'll thank Candace Bushnell. Not only for creating such an awesome character, but for giving a little girl in pajamas who watched a forbidden TV show hope, desire, and a dream she never let die.
I love downtown Indianapolis. I don't really know why I do. I suppose it's the allure. I grew up sneaking and watching episodes of Sex and the City on HBO. Carrie and her friends ran around in $3,000 shoes and lived the life. They had fabulous everything; shoes, clothes, boyfriends, jobs, apartments. But the backdrop is what made it all the more alluring. The stories were set in New York City, a city everyone desires to live in at one point of their lives. The glittering back drop of NYC was like getting a peek into Oz for me. I can remember being a little girl, sitting close to our television set so I could keep the sound low, and promising myself that someday, I would be a writer just like Carrie. I would sit in my apartment downtown and type on my laptop (my desk would have a view of the city, of course). I would have amazing clothes and friends, and go out to eat at delicious, expensive places just like Carrie did. And most importantly, I would wear high heels Every Single Day, because my mother only allowed me to wear flats.
In my freshman college journalism class, we were asked to introduce ourselves and state our "journalistic dreams." Every kid said down things like "become the editor of the Wall Street Journal" or "become a sports broadcaster on ESPN." I proudly stood up and announced that I wanted to "write a column and be just like Carrie Bradshaw." Needless to say, I didn't last long at the IU Ernie Pyle School of Journalism. They only churn out Pulitzer prize-winning journalists, not trashy sex columnists with great shoe collections. Fine by me. I was never a color-in-the-lines type of girl, anyways. I'll blaze my own trail. I'll show them.
I don't think I'm special, or even different. I simply know how to convey my thoughts into words. It's the median in which I chose to express myself. But I love it. I have a passion, a deep, fiery burning passion that glows deeply within me. More than I've ever wanted anything in my whole entire life, I want to be a writer. My dad told me to find what you love and make a career out of it. And I can't think of anything I love more. One day. One day, I'll be there.
But for now I'll settle for flipping through the channels and finding a SATC rerun. I know it's utterly unrealistic to think that a single woman could afford to live alone in New York City in a posh apartment with a lavish designer wardrobe on a freelance writer's salary. But hey, a girl can dream, can't she?
I'm gonna keep on chugging. I'm going to finish college, get a big-girl job and start my real life. But I still want to be Carrie Bradshaw.
I'll be there one day. My name will be in lights, and I'll be a famous author. I'll wave my book in the faces of everyone who laughed at me and told me no, and every snotty, preppy sorority girl journalism major who turned her nose up at the rough-around-the-edges bitch who didn't quite fit in. I'll stomp off in my glittering pink high heels, and I'll thank Candace Bushnell. Not only for creating such an awesome character, but for giving a little girl in pajamas who watched a forbidden TV show hope, desire, and a dream she never let die.
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