The Never-Fading Rain In Your Heart

I suppose my happiness can be measured by how badly I need a blog. Since moving back to Virginia, I rarely write in this. The only reason I am now is because sitting in my house alone listening to Nightwish brings on a certain nostalgia that I suggle with figuring out how to entertain. Aha! I have got it! I’ll do what I used to do. I’ll blog.

The only sad part is that I don’t know what to say. There once existed in me a girl who could voice her every thought to the entire internet. Now, I’m just a girl whose thoughts are all those she’s afraid to say to a single person. If I can’t say it to him, how the hell could I say it to you?

Little to no doubt, the most frustrating thing about a feeling like this is that it gets trapped in your throat. When he’s looking at you in that way he does, when he’s tickling the back of your neck. It feels so good on the way up, from your stomach, passing your heart on the way, and it stops short of your tongue. It never makes it past your lips. And once it’s been lodged in your tonsils for a few weeks, it doesn’t feel so good anymore.

You’re choking on the most delicous steak you’ve ever tasted in your life.

That’s the kind of shit that makes people hate falling in love. In fact, when I listen to sappy songs about girls falling in love and being happy about it, I think “What the fuck is wrong with you? Don’t you know? Don’t you know how sick you’re going to make yourself when you see yourself become wrapped around his finger? Don’t you know how miserable it is to realize that you wouldn’t dare calculate your life without him, because it would be too pathetic? Don’t you know that when that fairy tale romance moment comes when you’re laying next to him and you want to so badly tell him that you’re falling in love with him, you will find yourself unable to say it out of fear? Don’t you know that as you contemplate where that fear is coming from, you will only imprison yourself in your emotions more and more, the closer you manage to come to an answer? And don’t you know that the strongest sense of complete panic you will ever feel is when you decide that all this ‘feeling’ is too much for you and you should probably just put some distance between you and him so you can give your maniacal heart some rest… only to find that you’re unable to do that either?”

Face it. You’re stuck between a rock and a hard place. The rock is how hard you’re falling for him. The hard place is how much you hate yourself for letting it happen. The stuck is knowing you can’t say it because he doesn’t feel the same way about you. (Jesus, I wonder who I’m trying to convince! Right?!)

I suppose I’m still that girl who can confess everything to the internet, and no one else.

Back to Nightwish.

The Girl In The Yellow Dress

Maybe I should be over feeling sorry for myself by now.

I feel like there is a neverending source of self confidence, that most people have stumbled upon by my age. But I have not. Maybe it comes with boobs. Maybe I should get that surgery sooner than later.

If I had a C cup, I would believe that I have what it takes to keep a man around then. Until then I will just wait for him to lie to me.

But, damn it. He’s. Not. Lying.

Well, then. I guess that means that I should probably be with him for good… the moment that I have unwavering trust in him. So far he’s not doing too bad.

I haven’t felt that kind of spark when I kissed someone in years. Isn’t it exactly what I’ve been looking for? I knew he always held a spot in my heart. I just didn’t know how big it was.

My love, actually came true. And I’m still finding things to complain about. Hah!

“Psst… I  like you.”

Mmm… I think of him and I float 10 feet off the ground.

Already Hip?

Hahaha, I never noticed this before. On the WordPress.com homepage, right next to “Create an Account,” it says “Already Hip?” Hahaha. As in “Already hip? Enter your username and password now!” Hahahaha. Priceless. Can’t get over it.

Yes, WordPress. I am clearly hip by now. Which if you have been reading is pretty much the opposite of what this blog makes me.

I think I am over the whole pseudo-dramatic thing. Maybe sometimes I midguidedly believe that indulging in my emotional side will make me a better writer. Really, if I’m honest, all it does it make me a pussy.

It’s hard to really say what I think, though, because people read this as I just found out.

Actually… that might be a better reason to say what I really think.

Makhetsi… i think you should STOP Googling your own name. Unless it’s someone else. Because if it’s someone else, that’s a little creepy. But the other day I was looking at my hits and how most people found this blog. It goes to far to show me what people typed in the search bar. And WOAH a handful of people searched “Makhetsi Cummings” on Google.

Can you imagine? Hold on. Take a moment to appreciate this. You type your name into a search engine and some random chick’s blog pops up. You click on it like “Hey, who’s writing about me?” and LOW AND BEHOLD it is the girl that you stole your boyfriend from like 4 YEARS AGO and she is STILL BITCHING about it in her blog.

That’s… that’s really something else. I mean really, I should be embarassed. But more so, I just hope that Makhetsi has learned the hard way to stop Googling her own name.

Kets…. I’m kidding. You know I adore you. And I google my name, too. Only nothing ever comes up. Because… I don’t know how many of you have figured this out by now but… Samantha Melrose is not my real name.

Ha! Woah. Mindfuck.

The Other Pillow Talk

Ok, so fine. There’s a little bit of truth to all this positive thinking thing.

Costa Mesa was smothering me. I had to get out. I couldn’t breathe. On the worst of days I felt like a piece of furniture being auctioned off at an extremely low price. “But don’t you all know how valuable I am!?” No one heard me. They just go on with the bidding. Some would sit with their arms crossed in the audience with a snickering grin on their face, pointing at me with whispers to their neighbor that could only be along the lines of “She is so not worth it.” Others simply toss up their signs. I suppose to them I was good enough. I look at the man who just won me for 50 cents and I think of him, “You are so not worth it.”

The world is an auction and I am a tattered, old, untuned piano.

Jesus, I guess it makes sense how with an outlook like that on the world, you can climb your way down to miserable pretty quickly. I just had to get out. So I did.

I packed my shit and I headed back to LA. I may have been invisible in LA, but at least I wasn’t being viciously exploited. Poked and prodded by the people around me. Disregarded by the people who found me unworthy and showered with attention from people who wanted to take my potential and twist it into something worth while.

I left Costa Mesa and I wasn’t forgiving of it.

But I gave it one more chance. I came out for one night. And what I found out was that this auction was something I had created in my head. It’s funny how when I stop hating myself, people stop hating me, too.

Is it a conquer? Or another bittersweet ending? When you find honesty in the last place you expected to. It wasn’t what you wanted to hear, but the novelty of finding it at all is uplifting in itself. And besides, I wasn’t afraid. And I’m still not. I think I owed at least that to myself.

Love, Actually

It’s funny how such diminished memories can become so vidid again at just the suggestion of them.

This will be a short blog at the risk of giving away too much. But suffice to say, I think I am in love.

It’s hard to tell. Afterall, they are just words. But why is my heart pounding so fast? It’s not just the speed of the beat. It’s the implication. Almost as if the excitement of it is pleading with destiny. Or throwing it’s hands up and screaming “Yes! It is you, afterall! I have been awaiting your return for so long and I didn’t even know it!”

This time I will be fearless. This time I will not care if I get  my heart broken. I will not avoid rejection at the risk of walking away thinking I should have said more. I will not hold it against him for being nice. I will not want to cry every time he does or says something sweet to me. I will not hate him if he tells me “I love you.” I will not go running at the first sign that he has the power to break my heart. I will be a fucking person and I will say how I feel and if he kisses me, God damn it, I will kiss him back. And I will close my eyes and I will flick away all my insecurities and I will eagerly enjoy it. I will not blame him for every time someone else hurt me. I will not sit ten feet away because I can’t stand the way he makes my skin burn every time he touches me. When there are two voices in my head, one of them is saying “He’s the one who could make me miserable,” and the other is saying “He’s the one who could make me happy,” I will listen to the latter.

For once. I will not be afraid of love. Because it’s all I want. And whether I’m ready for it or not, love is here.

If you know me well enough, this blog entry narrows it down to three people. And I know what all three of you are thinking. But I will say this. Only one of you is right. And that’s the one not even reading to begin with.

Even as I write this. The fear is… engulfing. Even as I write this, I hate you for making me feel this way about you.

Not again. Please. The last time I was here, it didn’t end so well.

Oh, shut up, Jeanette. This time will be different. I swear. It has to be.

It’s Christmas. This is my love, actually.

I Don’t Wanna Dream About…

It’s always this time of year that makes the past come crashing down on me. I start to think… what was I doing last Christmas?

I don’t remember. I know that I was sober even though I didn’t want to be. I was proud of myself for making it through it, but after that I was just a ticking clock.

This Christmas? I’ll be sober and I don’t want to be. How do I keep the clock from from ticking? How do I keep the bomb from going off?

I hate this holiday. It scares the hell out of me.

As I was thinking to myself, “Why am I so unhappy?” I realized Drew had just told me I was lazy.

In LA I was so busy. I worked 40 hours a week. Spent 3 hours at a meeting every night. Late night Swingers trips and coffee with my friends. Watching movies with Olivia. Flirting with boys. I hardly had time to breathe, I was always moving.

“Were you happy?” Drew asked.

No. I was miserable. Every second. Every night my heart felt like a slug getting slaughtered by slow and torturous salt. I cried myself to sleep every time.

Now, I don’t do anything. No job. Occasional meetings. I don’t chase the boys and the boys don’t chase me. Friends are limited so I’m not usually hanging out with them. I do nothing. I rot on a couch.

“Are you happy?” Drew asked.

No. I am miserable. Every second. Every morning my heart feels like it had turned into ice overnight and the heavy breath of waking up cracked it into a million pieces. I cry myself awake every day.

“Balance,” Drew says. He says it’s what life is all about. “Find the happy medium.”

I laughed and looked out the window. “I guess I’m just an all or nothing kind of girl.”

But this is such a gray area for me.

I’m not alive. And the world won’t let me die. Heroin addict. Stone cold sober. It doesn’t matter. There is something so much darker and more subtle lurking in me. I used to think it was a spiritual parasite. Now I’m beginning to think it’s just me. I am the parasite. I am that dark thing that haunts me.

When the Candyman Tastes Like Butane

I bought a curling iron. It doesn’t need a chord. It doesn’t need batteries. It runs on butane. And it worked great to help me curl my hair for the candyman tonight.

Maybe I thought after six months, this must be it. The kiss that sets off fireworks. Did it, though? No. Another disappointment. I thought finally, it would be that boy. But not. Just another clumsy Jeanette and another I-Wouldn’t-Like-You-If-I-Knew-You-Better kind of guys.

And how much less of a conscience do I have now? I’ll give you a hint. I have more a conscience for Kevin than I do for the Candyman.

Maybe I am already dead. Maybe so. All I know is that I have two awesome roomates to come home to.

I knew my sweater onto the hamper in a hissy. “I guess your night didn’t go as well as planned,” Kyle said casually.

“I want you to understand something,” I said. “Maybe tonight I was just proving a point. That it is going to hurt you when someone else came over. And that’s why you’re my best friend.” I meant it, too.

We left to get cigarettes. And again, I said, “And just so you know. There is no guy I would ever bring over here that would mean more to me than your friendship.”

He smiled at me. “That means a lot to me,” he said. “Thank you.”

When he gets like that, it’s hard to remember why I can’t help but blush for him. My best friend. And I want it to stay thay way. My roommate. And I want it to stay uncommplicated. But something in me knows he’s the only one who would be sweet to me no matter what fucked up shit I pulled.

I kick Kyle out of the house. I make him watch me with another guy. But when my date runs out on me, who is it that takes me to 711 for a pack of cigarettes, and who is it who helps me enjoy the gift from my run-off date, left as a consolation for the heartbreak I would surely endure.

Is it really hardbreaking, though? When to change out of your white dress and into your sweatpants makes you feel more like yourself?

“Here’s to the boys we love and here’s to the boys that love us. But the boys we love do not love us. So fuck the boys and here’s to us. Cheers.” – Todd Thompson aka my bomb roommate.

Rusty Pipes

I love it when not a word is spoken.

I haven’t had a hickey since I was 14. I hate hickeys. I think they are trashy and disgusting and immature. I hate when guys give them and I hate when girls show them off.

Unfortunately for me, I hate scarves, too.

The truth of the matter is this: None of it counts. The scarf slips down.

“Rusty pipes,” she whispers. I can hardly hear her over the rambunctious Saturday night crowd.

“What?”

“Rusty pipes!” she repeats.

“Oh,” I say, tugging at the scarf to pull it tighter on my neck. “Thanks.”

I’m hiding more than a hickey underneath. I’m hiding the truth about how I feel. I’m not even sure what that is exactly, but then I watch Edward Scissorhands and it becomes very clear.

This is not what I was looking for. But it’s not bad, either. So no need to complain if it lasts. No need to complain it if doesn’t.

Sean Patterson was never a flattering name on anybody anyway.

Sometimes it can be hard to look yourself in the mirror after conducting yourself the way I have the last 24 hours. But somehow, I’m becoming stronger. I look in the mirror. Trace my fingers along my neck bruises, and I smile. It’s just rusty pipes, Jeanette. That’s all. Nothing more. 

How To Spell “Vacuum”

I had two trains of thought today. One wasn’t so much a train. Just a single, parked station wagon, really. But let’s start with the first.

Why the fuck do people see a shrink? In one hour with this guy, we narrowed down my problem to one deep, core, statement: “I hate myself.” Well, YEAH, isn’t that EVERYBODY’S problem? I mean… if you can figure out how to not hate yourself, congradulations. You hold one of three keys to the fucking universe. That would make you like… God [or at least one third of the way there]. So can a shrink help? Not unless they include a “slash prophet” in their title. I mean… it’s rediculous to expect a shrink to give you all the answers you need to be healthy and happy. So why do we go?

The answer is blaringly obvious. In the real world, when you hold a conversation with someone, it goes something like this: you express interest in their life, they express interest in yours. But it’s all a bunch of bullshit because all anybody really cares about is themselves. We every now and then ask about other people because to not, is rude. In fact, we are so self obsessed that we would PAY to have someone talk about us for hours and promise to never change the subject.

Hmm… hence, theeeeraaaapyyyy. Seriously. That’s all it is. I don’t have to ask him where he was born, what his interests are, not even how his fucking day was. Because it’s aaaaall about me, baby, and I pay for the hour. No doubt, seeing a shrink is the single-handedly most self-obsessed thing a person can do. I’m alright with this. My plan is the following: tell my shrink that I have figured this out, but I’m ok with it as long as it’s on the table. Because the other thing I figured out is this: He only does it because every hour he’s dealing with me and my life, he doesn’t have to deal with his OWN shit. Therapists are people, too. And all people have baggage.

Guess it’s a good deal for both of us. I get undivided attention, and he gets paid by the hour to forget about his problems.

This was my second station wagon of thought. A question, really, that when posed to myself… baffled me. Is there something terribly wrong when a 20 year old girl would choose to sit as alone as possible with her iPod on on a Friday night.. and daydream, as opposed to indulge in any part of reality?

What does it mean that despite mascara and tears stained on to my cheecks, I can smile the second my eyes are closed and I’m thinking of exactly the thing I want? If a non-reality has the power to make me smile… does it have the power to make me happy? And if the answer is yes, then why do I bother when any of you?

Finish Her…

You know how you have those moments where you think of something so profound and you say to yourself “I want to remember this thought.” So you rush to a computer to put it down in writing…

I had one of those moments last night. But he fucked it up. Because he said something else to hurt me three seconds before I could put it down and I totally lost my train of thought. All I could think about what how pathetic I am for the men I fall in love with.

I hate everything about him. He terrifies me every time he text messages me or calls me, because I just wonder how he’s going to hurt me this time. What he’s going to ask me this time that I can’t find it in me to say no to.

I WANTED TO STAY FUCKING HOME TONIGHT. THAT WAS ALL I WANTED TO DO. “Please? I’m lonely.” Fine. Fucking fine. I don’t even bother anymore to try and pretend like I have enough self esteem to say “No, you prick, you do nothing ever but waste my time and make me feel like shit about myself.” I do it. Because I want to see him smile. I want to be his “companion.” And on a good day, he can make me feel like that for five fucking minutes.

He throws it in my face that I have feelings for him. No matter how many times I beg him to just stop it. Don’t bring it up. We’re friends and can we please not discuss anything other. But he keeps going. Twisting the knife in my gut. Telling me that he knows how crazy I am about him. That he can see right through me. I deny it. But he’s right. And I’m so uncomfortable that I can’t speak or move. I just drive. And I beg him to just drop the conversation and turn on the radio. He won’t do it! Like my pain is amusing to him.

“Does he do things that upset you? Or does he do things TO upset you? And are you aware of the difference?”
“i am aware of the difference. I don’t like to believe it, but I’m pretty sure he does things TO upset me.”
“Good, because that’s exactly what I think, too.”

What the fuck is wrong with me? Why do I keep entertaining this? He drains me emotionally. And I don’t even have the courage to scream at him WHY CAN’T YOU JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!? WHY CAN’T YOU JUST GET OUT OF MY LIFE!? Because I’m afraid that if I did, he would listen. And then what would I do without him?

This is the sickest form of self destruction I’ve come up with yet. Addicted to a boy that brings a heaping pile of that awful tight pain in my chest. Every. Fucking. Day.

Today was horrible. I couldn’t manage to break away with the pathetic feeling he always curses me with. I was so dead inside, that I couldn’t even be excited about my “lunch date.”

And then something amazing happened. I sat down to a thai iced tea with a man I am attracted to and I found out that he is a good guy. Since when do I become attracted to good guys? This was so relieving to me. Mind you, the bad news following was that he was taken. Because that would just be too perfect for me if he wasn’t. But you know what? That’s ok. Because I walked away knowing something about myself. I have the capacity to like someone who may be good for me.

I’m stuck in this fucking hell hole right now, but maybe one day, I’ll make a romantic decision that isn’t totally fatal my wellbeing. Just maybe…