Here's the Thing (Part 4)
8 vodkas down.
I'm not sure what I want to say anymore.
I'm sitting here on this couch where you undressed me in about 90 seconds. I'm sitting here under this fleece blanket that was stuck between the sections of this sectional in perhaps the most embarrassing moment of my life. I'm sitting here reliving the many moments of that stretch of unreality on the couch and on the floor, and I'm reaching for the little cut I got on my forehead when I was on the floor and hit my head on the bottom of the couch. I'm sitting here wishing I'd never let any of it happen.
That sucks a little bit. I don't like regretting things, although I do many. I was rather happy with myself for having once done what I wanted in the moment and kissed you. But all the rest of it, I'm not so sure anymore. I think I might've made it all worse. You probably think I'm needy and clingy. And me? Well, it's probably just harder to let go of it all because of all the rest.
Waking up every morning with you on my damaged mind is not what I wanted. I think I had an hour long dream about you last night / this morning, which I'm not thrilled about either.
There's a scene in this show called Gilmore Girls where this 20- or 21-year-old girl has a little too much punch, curls up into a ball on the floor in her mother's lap and says between sobs, "Why doesn't he like me? What did I do wrong? Why doesn't he like me?" I've been feeling like that the last few days. Like a blubbering teenager who wants to know why you don't like me. My 25-year-old sensibilities tell me that that is just an inane question, but I'm feeling all of 16 for now.
The last three weeks have brought about some change that I cannot interpret across the distance. Some change that I am not allowed, by any acceptable social standards, to inquire about.
Perhaps you will pass, like the rest of this disappointing life. Perhaps you will burn away, like one of the many untraceable cigarettes.
I think there is a part of me that still hopes that you don't. But I think there is no part of me that believes in hope anymore.
So, here's the thing: Why don't you vacate the recesses of my mind and find a spot in someone else's that you actually want? Maybe your tri-syllabic messages will hurt them less than they do me.
I'm not sure what I want to say anymore.
I'm sitting here on this couch where you undressed me in about 90 seconds. I'm sitting here under this fleece blanket that was stuck between the sections of this sectional in perhaps the most embarrassing moment of my life. I'm sitting here reliving the many moments of that stretch of unreality on the couch and on the floor, and I'm reaching for the little cut I got on my forehead when I was on the floor and hit my head on the bottom of the couch. I'm sitting here wishing I'd never let any of it happen.
That sucks a little bit. I don't like regretting things, although I do many. I was rather happy with myself for having once done what I wanted in the moment and kissed you. But all the rest of it, I'm not so sure anymore. I think I might've made it all worse. You probably think I'm needy and clingy. And me? Well, it's probably just harder to let go of it all because of all the rest.
Waking up every morning with you on my damaged mind is not what I wanted. I think I had an hour long dream about you last night / this morning, which I'm not thrilled about either.
There's a scene in this show called Gilmore Girls where this 20- or 21-year-old girl has a little too much punch, curls up into a ball on the floor in her mother's lap and says between sobs, "Why doesn't he like me? What did I do wrong? Why doesn't he like me?" I've been feeling like that the last few days. Like a blubbering teenager who wants to know why you don't like me. My 25-year-old sensibilities tell me that that is just an inane question, but I'm feeling all of 16 for now.
The last three weeks have brought about some change that I cannot interpret across the distance. Some change that I am not allowed, by any acceptable social standards, to inquire about.
Perhaps you will pass, like the rest of this disappointing life. Perhaps you will burn away, like one of the many untraceable cigarettes.
I think there is a part of me that still hopes that you don't. But I think there is no part of me that believes in hope anymore.
So, here's the thing: Why don't you vacate the recesses of my mind and find a spot in someone else's that you actually want? Maybe your tri-syllabic messages will hurt them less than they do me.
posted by Kriti at 8:44 PM
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