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[07 Jul 2004|05:49pm] |
 That's all I got to say. |
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| Goodbye legends. |
[18 May 2004|12:16pm] |
I'm happy to say that this journal is dead. I will no longer be writing in it. If you happen to be so desperate, don't go looking in other people's journals for the name, just IM me (laboratoryChucks) and you might be lucky enough to be blessed with the name of my new journal. I'm sick of this journal, and a new one is long past due. I'm going to say whatever I want, think whatever I want, post whatever I want, and do whatever I want in this new journal. Perhaps if this journal goes to hell like rankofhands did, then I'll just start anew completely with an entirely different identity, and be forced to start completely from the ground up. Honestly, I hope I don't have to go to such stupid and drastic measures, but who the hell knows how much fun making up my entire life could be? But if you happen to stumble upon this a bit late, I'm keeping my writing up, and if you like what you see, you can most definitely IM me, or comment, and get my new name. Anyway, onward.
Mommy, don't read up on me anymore. You're shit out of luck.
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| Happy 18, Chelian. |
[15 May 2004|01:45pm] |
 ps, It's really hard to do paint drawings on a laptop, so forgive me. |
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| How girls fight. |
[15 May 2004|12:35pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 awake |
] |
| [ |
music |
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Doves- Melody Calls. |
] |
What was going on here? It seemed like there were so many cases of students getting in trouble with the system that nobody was even able to keep track of who was who and who was in trouble anymore. The school was crumbling into a mess of rebels that had submerged from innocent schoolgirls over the summer that had just recently ended. What had happened to the girls Ethel Walker was famous for? What had happened to the I-shall-never-disobey-the-system attitude that was almost contagious the year before? Who was getting busted and who was being accused? Who was framing who and who was ratting on who else? Who was getting the boot and who was obeying the rules? More importantly, who was Rachel if the Rachel that apparently got caught wasn’t me?
I marched down to Sakira’s room with every intention of giving her a little piece of my mind. I was certain that she was probably behind any rumors that were currently circulating about me, and I was going to tell her that I was an Ethel Walker student for good, no matter what she seemed to be thinking. I belonged at that school, and I wasn’t about to let her bring me down with stupid rumors that always got to me last. My fists were clenched into tight balls of white, and I could feel heat radiating all the way through to the tips of my fingers. My teeth were biting tight and my eyebrows were cocked downward towards my nose. I was pissed.
I planted three brutal knocks smack in the middle of her door, and waited for her to yell something back to the angry visitor on the other side of the door. I heard a loud “Yeah” from the inside of the room, turned the knob frantically, and stormed into her room. She looked completely surprised to see me, and even more shocked when she noted the look on my face. Her eyes looked completely innocent, but I had concluded a long time ago that every single girl I attended school with was a manipulative bitch, and Sakira gave me no reason to believe she was any exception. I didn’t trust her supposed innocence for a second. I had every intention of making this welcomed visit short, sweet, and especially to the point.
“Look. Sakira.” I paused for a second, trying to gather all my emotions and anger into a batch of coherent sentences that would get my point across without saying anything unnecessary. “If you hear anyone saying anything other than that a few girls are getting busted for their own stupid actions, tell them to shut the fuck up. That goes the same for you. Neither you or anybody else knows what the fuck you’re talking about, so I suggest you give the rumors and gossip a rest.”
The look on her face was bizarre. She looked incredibly innocent yet almost evil. She was saying loads of hateful sentence fragments to me in her head silently, and I could tell she was doing it only because she knew I could hear precisely what she was thinking. Sakira Wang was the epitome of a girl that knew how to fight. When guys fought, it was always a matter of contest; who had bigger muscles, or who could get the girl before the other. They always fought over something physical, and the turnout was always so concrete and easy to understand. But when girls fought, it was different. When girls fought, it was like art. The process was never comprehended by either side, and the punches were more brutal with words and evil looks than they could ever be with boxing gloves. The outcome was never understood by anyone, because the thoughts inside a girl’s head could never be deciphered to a point where anything made complete sense. They were too complex to put any sense behind arguments, but I knew that all I could do for two girls in their imaginary boxing ring was have respect, because it was like watching art appear right before you.
For that talent, I envied Sakira. I had never had quite the greatest ability to deceive by looks or use my eyes to win me a fight. I had always been far too straight-forward to get things that way. Sometimes that technique worked, and sometimes it failed- it all depended on the strength of the personality I was fighting against. Sakira, though, was quite the match. I almost spat out my words, took a good look at her face, and ran from her room with my hands over my eyes. She stared at me with the most evil of looks, and as much as I feared her all of a sudden, I stared back into her. I stared so far into her that I thought I could see her mental snapshots of her boyfriend on the beach in the back of her mind. I was searching for any kind of validation that she was putting every effort into completely butchering what small reputation I had. Eventually, I realized that the fact that this staring match was all the proof I needed, and I let my eyes wander from her face to the gigantic marijuana leaf poster plastered behind her.
“Ok,” she said. Her tone contradicted the look she had just sent my way for the past minute and a half. She sounded calm and completely understanding, like she was either accepting defeat, or just manipulating me again. The O and the K escaped from her lips in a tone that resembled they eye of a storm, and I didn’t know what to expect from her. For the moment, though, I trusted her enough to close the door behind me and head on my way back to my empty room. I felt a few tears welling up in my eyes, and I had a small itch underneath my nose, but I forced myself to hold back and keep walking, undisturbed.
What had just occurred was so far from bizarre that I couldn’t even capture it on the walk back to my room. It had happened so quickly and so ferociously that I hadn’t had time to think about what was going on hard enough to understand it. Ten minutes ago Sakira had been my friend. We had gone on long horseback trail rides together and eaten bowl after bowl of macaroni and cheese together countless times. We’d shared laughs and cries and everything that normal friends would typically experience together. But somehow, everything between Sakira and I had changed in a matter of one staring contest, and one look exchanged between the two of us. Sakira was no longer my friend, nor was I hers. If anything, gossip had just turned us into brutal enemies, and I feared looking into her big brown eyes the next time I happened to pass her.
I was even more confused as to what was going on than I was before I had confronted Sakira. Somehow, the high school drama that was taking place had now successfully turned friends against each other. It was like someone had unleashed come kind of chemical into the air that made everyone act incredibly strange, and caused so much unnecessary drama that the people that were yet to be effected by it could only look on in absolute confusion. Again, I asked myself what was happening, hoping that some voice from the sky would inform me. Unfortunately, I heard nothing.
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| Hey. |
[14 May 2004|04:55pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 pleased |
] |
Here is my good news of the day:
I'm failing art.
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| Teen movies. |
[12 May 2004|05:58pm] |
The raging party-of-the-school-year scene. It's the epitome of every high school after-prom party that you would see in a movie. What's supposed to be a small gathering of friends after prom turns into the raging party of the year. People the host doesn't even know end up showing up at his door with cases of beer and bottles of liquor; bags of pot and packs of cigarettes. Everyone should always see it coming, because it can't fit the stereotype so perfectly unless it gets busted. But the viewer is forced to sit still with the knowledge of how stupid every kid in attendance is, knowing that they must be completely naive of how stereotypical their scenario is, and how stereotypical the bust is going to be.
People always seem to look at teen movies as pathetic, repetitive, and useless pieces-of-crap films that serve as no purpose to our lives whatsoever. They're bad date movies, and overly-dramatic stories of fake people that will never take place in reality. But I've determined that they really aren't as false as people make them out to be. In fact, they're actually quite genius, and for the most part, incredibly on the money when it comes to high school reality.
I've become fascinated with teen movies, and all due to the fact that I never realized how true they were until I started writing down all my observations about high school, and documenting my life as I went through it. It all seemed coincidental at first, but eventually, the similarities and parallels that CVU had with every teen movie I'd ever viewed caused me to believe that, although perhaps a bit stupid, repetitive, and dramatic, teen movies were truer than people perceived them to be.
The lunch table scene. There's one in every single teen movie in existence. New kid enters the public school cafeteria for the first time, and finds herself in the dilemma of having no idea who to sit with. Eventually, she befriends a veteran of the school, who shows her the ropes, and most importantly, describes the cliques that are sitting at the tables in front of her. "Never ever sit with them..." "Sitting at that table is like social suicide..." The drama kids. The band kids. The jocks. The popular girls. The trailer trash. The sluts. The anorexics. The fat girls. I walked downstairs and viewed the cafeteria the other day, and noticed something rather pathetic:
That they all exist.
The situations that appear so choreographed in teen movies are just dramatizations of the real thing. All the cliques are really there. All the scenes are really there. All the people, attitudes, personalities, and popularity contests are really there, and all the craziness, brutality, revenge, spite, stupidity, drama, naivety, and acting our age is really there. I walk through the halls of CVU every day and notice something rather pathetic:
That it's all there, and there's no escaping the media's perception of what high school really is.
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| Oh Liz. |
[11 May 2004|12:20pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 amused |
] |
Me on piercings: "I get pierced when an important period of my life ends."
Michele on piercings: "I get pierced when I can afford it."
Liz on piercings: "I get pierced when I hate someone."
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| Seduction is Disgusting. |
[11 May 2004|11:24am] |
I was never able to put my finger on why Morgan's presence made me so uncomfortable. Whenever she was around, I felt like the next pill she put up her nose would send her head flopping down on the table, and send my fingers flying for the 9-1-1 buttons on the phone. It was her face. It was the way her eyes screamed "I can't stop." It was the way she had the most seductive look behind all the ugliness that the drugs had given her.
I swore it was something I'd seen before; something I'd seen in someone else. She was quite possibly the hottest girl I'd ever laid eyes on when I first saw her, but at the same time, the most tainted and disgusting human being I'd ever known.
My finger grazed the small gray button before I was actually ready to take her picture, and before she was even aware that my camera was pointed at her. It made a small clicking noise, and snapped a picture of her as she was lying on my bed. Just as the pose was captured, she looked up into the eye of my camera and I finally understood why I felt like I'd seen this happen all once before.
 ...
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[10 May 2004|01:29pm] |
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Oh, and by the way, my hair turned white.
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| Timmayy. |
[10 May 2004|01:23pm] |
 That is all. |
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| Sounds. |
[10 May 2004|12:24pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 numb |
] |
The closet door I crept through at about 3:45 AM was half my height. I felt the crown molding on the top of it skim my head as I crawled inside, probably exposing the butt of my underwear to anyone that was running through the hallway at the time. It was black inside, but I could just notice that the closet I was crawling into seemed like it was fifteen feet long. Regardless of the depth in which I could have crawled back, I sat directly in front of the small door I had just closed in front of me. It had small wooden shades, which allowed some light to peer through and create tiny lines of light on my face in the darkness. I sat there, and began to cry. I waited.
The house was chaos. There were at least 75 people hiding out in the woods at that very moment, and about 40 others still inside the house, running everywhere. The word "cops" had sent hoards of drunk teenagers flying into the woods that were bordered with sever thron bushes that, despite their brutality, didn't stop the fleeing teens from escaping the authorities driving up the long dirt driveway. The party had been busted, and the gate that was now sitting at the bottom of Brad Erling's driveway was none other than a State Police car. Nobody was leaving, and if they tried, their only means of escape would be their own feet.
Somewhere amidst the calamity, Alex and I had been separated. I was completely alone in that closet, and even if I was out in the open of the living room with the majority of the other hostages, I would have still been alone. The only people that I liked, and could have comforted me inside the house had been stupid enough to be among those that ran into the neverending woods. I had lost Alex. I had no way to communicate with him, and only curiosity of where he was, and if he was OK.
Inside that closet, I was put in the worst position I could have dreamt of being in. I listened to the sounds of the voices carrying outside, and among them was James's. He claimed to have consumed thirty shots of vodka, and as he should have expected, the bathroom was calling his name. Unfortunately for me, the bathroom was directly across from the closet I was sitting in.
Vomiting noises.
Banging.
Screaming.
Panicing.
Vomiting noises.
Banging.
The cops were ferocious. They pounded on the door relentlessly, convincing nearly half of the scared teens that they were going to bust the door down and hand out fines and citations to each and every one of us that couldn't get away. The sounds of their banging mixed with the sounds of James's stomach emptying into the toilet across the hall, and it all blended perfectly with the screams of fear bellowing all throughout the house. Kids were panicing, crying, screaming, just trying to figure out how to get out of the mess unharmed. And there I was, listening to it all happen in front of me.
I sat in the dark of the closet with the tiny lines of light barely showing my face, listening to my despised ex-boyfriend vomit up a storm, and the cops in the process of breaking the bolts on Brad's doors, and the panicing screams of everyone becoming more frightened by the second. And I just sat and listened. And I just sat and listened. And I just sat and listened. I was completely alone, experiencing the darkness of the long closet. Perhaps I felt safe, but safety wasn't something I wanted over being so alone.
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| Liz. |
[07 May 2004|11:49am] |
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I love you.
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| Death field. |
[07 May 2004|11:44am] |
| [ |
mood |
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 bizarre today. |
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| [ |
music |
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Cancer Conspiracy- silence of underwater traffic. |
] |
"Take a right, and then take this left right here, aaaand you can park somewhere." Caitlyn's voice wasn't one that I heard very much that night. She stayed relatively quiet in the back seat, somehow sitting among all the junk piled in the back seat of my car.
She lived in a small town right outside of Vergennes. Vergennes was a small town outside of civilization. I always end up underestimating the length of time it will take to drive out there, but I somehow find myself making the commute anyway. Perhaps it's the Waldenites and Vergennes folk that somehow lure you to their mysterious place of living.
What it is, essentially, is a big field. Caitlyn lived on an apple orchard. Every other family out there lives on some sort of farm that supplies the neighbors so that everyone is able to have healthy breakfasts that keep the doctors away.
I parked the car with a bit of a powerslide as I pulled the e-brake and found my car sitting in a small nook off the side of the road. I sat there for a second, contemplating where the hell I was, and at which fork in the road had I taken the road that would lead me away from the "plan." I didn't want to steer away from the plan originally. But the word "field" was tossed around until I remembered that fields were where those random memories were made.
But it was dark. It was pitch black outside, and the pigments of color that the sun brought to the perfect grass had all disappeared, leaving me with nothing but the rusty white gate that my high beams lit up. They looked haunting. There were four of them, all linked together, and the gigantic lock and thick chain around joining the middle two together prevented it from ever opening. I saw no color but rust. I saw no happiness but emptiness. I saw no stars but the girls in my car. I saw no reason to stay there but to drive myself to a painful suicide atop that rusty gate. I wanted to leave.
I paced around the car for a little bit. The girls inside the car lost their flare as they turned on the interior lights and focused on crushing and blowing another pill on top of my trigonometry book. Knowing them, they wouldn't bother to wipe their remnents from the surface, and I would be left with a foul-tasting surprise the next time Mr. Hood asked us to turn to page 375 in our textbooks.
The spaces between the panels of the white fence were more pitch black than anything else. The high beams shined on the gate, which made a color almost too bright to look at. When the brightness would fade, the color turned to regular white. And then to rusty white. And then out of nowhere, a panel of the pitch black would come, and whenever my eyes ended up in that empty black panel, I would jump back a step, afraid that something would jump through the hole and harm all of us. The fence was haunting, and I had a feeling that it was only guarding something that was far more haunting than any chained fence standing in front of it.
I wanted to go home now. I had a feeling that this field had seen death, in fact, I think pigment is the only thing that keeps any field alive.
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| Drug field. |
[07 May 2004|11:43am] |
But the word "field" was tossed around until I remembered that fields were where those random memories were made.
According to the male gender, girls are more the type to decide to do incredibly spontaneous things just for the sake of doing something that seems out of the ordinary. Fields are a primary example of this theory. I figured that driving to a field and lounging in the grass, watching the clear sky of stars would somehow end up in the book of memories, most likely on the "Fields" page.
The word "field" was special to me. There was something about all that open space and absolutely nothingness but the same repeated thing that appealed to me. It made me wonder things like "Was this Vergennes before the Vergennes General Store came around? Was this the world before humans lived? Absolute nothingness?"
I liked the idea. I liked the idea of acre after acre of open space, where you could roam as far away as possible and still be in plain sight of someone miles away from you. I liked how it made the ground seem so perfectly green, and I had always felt like I could just lie back and sprawl out, while I let the perfection of its color envelope me, and I could be swallowed into a pit of unaltered nature. I'm not a nature fag. I've never been. The reason I like fields is because I hate trees. So open and so flat. So rolling and so subtle. When you're there, all there is is you, the grass, the wind, the landscape, and the sunset, if you happen to be so fortunate.
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| Everything went wrong. |
[07 May 2004|07:44am] |
| [ |
mood |
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 sad |
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His decline of my request sent my flying into an orgasm of tears. It wasn't him being so tired and weary that made me cry, it was everything that had bottled up inside of me that day. Everything that had gone wrong just seemed to come out in a completely discombobulated mess of words and emotions last night as he was lying there, trying to go to sleep.
I wanted and needed droplets of water to be beating down on my back from behind. I wanted the warm comfort that I would get inside the marble walls of my shower. I wanted him to be there with me, so he could keep me standing up straight, considering I completely lacked the ability. I wanted him to be there with me for an even better sence of comfort. In my mind, the shower was an island of utopia, and all it required was turning the knob to the desired and perfect temperature.
The idea didn't appeal to him. In the least.
It's the morning after a night of coladapins, which means that there is probably no way I could even try to explain the conversation (or lack there of) I had with him while I was sobbing hysterically, sometimes in his arms, sometimes as far away from him as I could possibly get.
I had spent the entire drive home waiting to be held in his embrace. I wanted to love him. I loved the people I was with more than anything in the world.... but I wanted to be with him more. It was incredibly bizarre; like I had just been weaned fcrom something I wasn't ready to be separated from.
Girlfriends. I have very few of them. The few I had complained that I spent too much time with Alex, and although I could agree, I couldn't find any desire to motivate myself to see him any less. I laughed off their joked and played along with them until there I was... in the middle of a field in a small town outside of Vergennes... without him.
I couldn't figure out what to do with myself. I had wanted to go home on the drive here (wherever we were) and I wanted to go home now. We had hauled a good 40 minutes away from the only place I wanted to be, and there was much to be done with my passengers from now until the point I actually got to be with him again. I had to count the seconds.
When I finally returned to him, I felt like I had gone to the far ends of the earth and back, and I was there in front of him, waiting for him to jump on top of me and welcome me in his long and boney arms. He didn't.
This served as nothing but the cherry on top of the massive dirt pie I had been creating throughout the course of this past week. I didn't realize how stressed I had been until I was allowing my thoughts to smear the dirt pie in my face and lather it around like I was on some game show that revolved around whipped cream pies. Only mine was dirt, mud, and the worms of maggots of high school.
I don't remember falling asleep, and I especially don't have any recollection at all of him getting up at 5AM and leaving for work. I must have slept through it. Usually I'm awake to see him go, and I can give him a goodbye kiss or something of the sort. But this morning I woke up, expecting him to be there when I turned around. I was expecting to be held for another five or ten minutes before my alarm went off and I'd have to get up and get ready to go to school. I expected the pretty face of the most amazing boy I've ever known to be lying there with his eyes closed and a slight snore coming from his nostrils. I was sadly disappointed. In fact, I was devastated that I was alone. I felt somewhat like my bedroom was some random field that was misplaced in a small town outside of Vergennes, and I wanted to go home. I wanted to go home and be held in his arms.
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| Your personal scum. |
[06 May 2004|01:54pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 blah |
] |
I want desperately for something to write about. I want to frollic in the daisies of my Update Journal page more than I'd like to dress up in my prom dress and dye my hair platinum. I'd like to get my points across. Right now.
Unfortunately, I am sufficiently lacking something important. That would be trust. I'd like to get my points across, but the points I seem to make are always skewed, shuffled around, and changed until something like "The twinkie I ate today was moldy" turns into "I hate James Christenson and I am a spiteful bitch."
I want to get my points across. Right now. Unfortunately, I have practically no real points to make. I have too much to say, and not enough of a relation between those things to produce anything coherent or valuable.
Thanks ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) estrogenseeps for somehow inspiring me to write anything, even if it's close to nothing.
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| Help. |
[06 May 2004|01:41pm] |
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mood |
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 curious |
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Is there ever a point in time when it's practically justified for someone you consider to be a best friend to start dating your first love? What of she then lies about it?
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| Rejected acts of kindness. |
[04 May 2004|05:36pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 bored |
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Have you ever had a random urge to do something nice for someone, only to be completely rejected by the person receiving, because they didn't want or appreciate your random act of kindness? I don't understand why people don't accept some of the nice things that people do for them, simply because they aren't expected or because they're coming from a stranger. Perhaps the reason so few people feel the need to be unnecessarily friendly to the people around them is because so few people will actually accept their kindness. Perhaps the people who are supposed to be on the receiving end of a nice act are less abundant than those who are unwilling to perform an act of kindness in the first place.
Michele was 30 minutes late. I was sitting outside of Mr. Mikes Pizza, smoking a clove as I waited for her to waltz down the street in her perfectly green hoodie. There was a gorgeous dark brown pitbull tied to a tree outside of the stupid fancy-shmansy restaurant on Main St. that I've never had any desire to eat at, and I pittied it as it whined and yelped as pedestrians strolled by, ignoring its presence. It always ticks me off a little when people leave their dogs outside, tied to bike racks and trees while they enjoy an afternoon meal. Why bring your dog with you if all you're going to do is tie it up?
After watching it for about twenty minutes, I felt obligated to sit by it and give it the attention it obviously wanted. But a stream of kindness ran through me; one of those random urges to do something extraordinarily nice for someone (or something), knowing that the only benefit in it for me was the satisfaction of being kind. I walked into the pizza parlor and asked for two of the bread sticks they had sitting in a basket in the display. I figured it would cost less than a dollar, and I would be able to spend the rest of my time waiting for Michele with the cute dog I could see sitting a little further down the block.
"You either have to get a dozen or a half a dozen," that stupid girl with the bleached blonde hair behind the counter told me upon my request.
"Uhhhh... ehhhh... errrrrrrm." I had no use for six bread sticks. I didn't want to make the gorgeous creature obese, and I wasn't very hungry myself. "How much for six?" I asked.
"Two-fifty, plus tax."
I debated for a couple seconds. Was my random feeling of kindness strong enough to pay three bucks for a whining dog? Sure.
I expected to be handed six small breadsticks straight from the basket. But I found myself waiting another ten minutes before I was handed a bag that felt warm on the bottom. I peeked inside the tin basket inside the bag and found six garlic breadsticks, saturated with butter and garlic. I'm about to make this dog a damn happy camper I thought to myself. Just looking at those breadsticks was making my own mouth water.
As I headed towards the gorgeous dog, she began to wag her tail frantically as soon as it became obvious that I was headed in her direction. I sat myself down next to her, as she sniffed the bag in my hands violently, anxiously waiting for me to pull something delicious out for her. She looked and acted so excited that someone was finally giving her the time of day. I guess dogs tied to trees are a bit of a weakness for me. I hated hearing her yelping and seeing her so desperately seeking attention or love. I pulled out the first breadstick, and tore off a piece. It drenched my fingers in butter and oil, but the dog was licking the mess off my fingers not five seconds after I had fed her the first chunk of bread.
I heard a "Hey!" on my left, and looked up to see a guy staring at me with an angry look. "You can't feed her! Don't give her people food! She doesn't like it!" Her owner was a tall man who looked about in his thirties, but seemed as bitter as a decrepid old man. He shot me a look much nastier than I ever could have expected for paying his dog some nice attention, and when I appologized, he proceeded back into the fancy-shmancy restaraunt and continued scarfing the pile of food on his plate.
Dick.
On another note, the scale did something nice for me today by telling me that it was actually ten pounds off, and I weighed ten pounds less than I thought I had weighed. I accepted this act of kindness, and ate some ice cream, because I no longer felt so fat.
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| Sex. |
[03 May 2004|07:15pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 happy |
] |
| [ |
music |
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Poe |
] |
I've always wanted to write a post devoted completely to my experiences with the act of having sex. Unfortunately, I've found this task incredibly difficult. It's nearly impossible to write something about anything sexual (especially on the internet) and not have it be read as something that doesn't need to be broadcasted. Some people may call this "too much information."
[This post] by siamang blew my away. While under the influence of mushrooms (and hats off just for being able to sound coherent in the first place), he managed to write a post about going down on his girlfriend. Not only was the writing completely blatant, truthful, and had me sometimes thinking "this is way too much information," but it was excellent. After reading this post, I felt completely different about trying to put something sexual into words. Yes, I realized that unless I somehow gained the talent in writing that this guy had, I would probably never be able to do it.
There were so many things that I wanted to express about sex in the past, and there were so many occasions when I wanted to write about it. But there are too many people that giggle like children when the idea of sex is brought forth in front of them. Because of that, I never wanted to attempt to explain my emotions towards having sex with people that I loved, for fear of exposing minor details that, lets just say, would make people "giggle."
----
Sex turned out to be nothing I had imagined. I based my ideas of sex around the many chick flicks and pornos I had seen by the time I lost my virginity. And when that happened, all my assumptions about sex disappeared, and I realized that the income and outcome of sex revolved completely around the people having it.
I've had three different sexual partners now. I'd like to think I'm fairly lucky when it comes to sexual partners, considering that those three boys were all boys that I loved. It has all been passionate. It has all been mutually desired. Despite my love for James and Patrick in the past, and the nothing-short-of-perfect sexual encounters I'd had with them, I've never had any sex like the sex I have with Alex TQ.
To me, what makes sex vary between people is not the act of having sex itself. It's what goes on between us before and after sex. And the reason I've wanted to attempt to write my thoughts on this certain subject for so long, is because I feel a strangely euphoric feeling after sex with Alex; a feeling I never had with James or with Patrick.
The fact that as soon as he finishes, he whispers "I love you" in my ear between his pants of breath is probably a contributing factor to the happiness I feel after having sex with him. Afterwards, I'm left sprawling across the width of the bed, draping my arm over him. I have always liked the fact that we share one cigarette instead of enjoying two together. There is something about sharing the after-sex cigarette with the person you just had sex with, that makes it feel like the sex was more mutual.
My mind is like a rollercoaster. I lean over the side of the bed and grab my underwear off the floor. My eyes close almost involuntarily, and I wish that human beings were capable of feeling such euphoria during normal situations throughout the day. I wouldn't want people bursting out in simultaneous orgasms, but a simple enjoyment of their surroundings would be good. Unfortunately, I'm convinced that so few people actually feel the way I feel after they have sex with someone, because not everybody falls in love with someone that way I've fallen in love with Alex. I'm left with a dopey smile, my body being held tightly in his arms, and I'm in awe of how lucky I am. As we poke fun at each other's foolish grins, I smirk to myself, because little did he know I was smiling the whole time.
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| 3:30 AM. |
[02 May 2004|08:45am] |
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Typical human beings are usually enjoying their slumber at moments in the eve such as this. But I guess the abnormality of my friends has turned me into somewhat of an unaverage being myself.
For the past week, my cell phone has had a stick up it's ass and has decided that it wants to ring so quiety that it is impossible to hear, thus making it harder for me to answer my many phone calls from my many adoring fans (no.). But last night, at 3:30 AM, the bipolar nature of my phone decided to go away, and it became the loudest mother fucker I had ever heard... right in my left ear.
I didn't expect to see any name on the display other than Liz. My loving Liz Grunberg.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"It's 3:30 in the morning, what the fuck do you think I'm doing?"
"Ummm... I dunno, what are you doing??"
"Nothing, Liz."
She proceeds to tell me that her "friends," the people who we have told her countless times to stay away from, the people who come home with baseball bats with teeth marks in them from smashing people's faces in, the people who she said would never hurt her or anyone close to her... had punched Sara smack in the face. She told me that everyone was being lame, and that she was incredibly drunk, and I wasn't the least bit surprised.
It totally confuses me why someone would continue to associate herself with people that she knows won't even stop the stupidity with their own close friends. Before last night, I guess her outlook on the situation was, "They may be violent towards other people, but they would never hurt ME." Well I guess you got proved wrong, sweetheart.
I wasn't angry that I had to go pick her up. I was tired and groggy and coughing up a lung, but I was willing to go out of my way for a friend in need of help. But how many times are people going to have to go out of their way because she has continued to spend time with these people? How many times are her real friends going to have to prove to her that we really are her real friends, before she starts spending her time with us, instead of people who continue to let her down? How many more times am I going to get phone calls from Liz at the worst possible time of the day, just to be told, once again, that her friends are complete freaks?
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