look a gift horse in the mouth, as young as he might be. Good advice, when relevant, can be fairly disarming.
Life Lessons
self-sabotage
I think one of my greatest failings as a human being is never massaging my face for the full thirty seconds with my expensive ass organic facial cleanser as the bottle advises.
Little Guy
I drive a 1990 Ford Ranger. He’s a good truck, however tempermental. He has a good engine, though he really doesn’t like to go over 20 miles per hour for the first twenty minutes he’s driving, especially in cooler weather. He also doesn’t like it when we call him “Little Guy”, which unfortunately is his name.
The other day he got his front left wheel stuck on a train track. A busy train track. Surrounded by rocks. The trains using this train track have been waking me up for days now–at all hours of the night. It is now four a.m., and I am confident that I, my roommate, and my vehicle, are in danger of annihilation.
I assure you, this situation has nothing to do with me, the driver. And everything to do with Little Guy’s negative attitude. He thought he’d get to see the ocean from his spot in the Ventura County Fair parking lot, and unfortunately this didn’t turn out to be the case.
Regardless, here I am, without a room in Ventura, and my truck is stuck on the train tracks. I may or may not be partially drunk. The tires are spinning, I can smell the rubber in the cab. I am definitely nearly hysterical. The truck won’t move, and we empirically ascertain that a truck just too heavy to lift.
Finally I insist on calling the police. My roommate insists on leaving. It turns out, for whatever reason, that she’s on probation. Not that I would hold that against anyone. I might, however, hold it against her that she lost the key to the motel room that we paid for in cash. She must have lost it in the motel parking lot, for only that could explain how the people who were in our room had gotten in there. It was her birthday though, and I incurred my portion of the two hundred dollar loss in respect for her continual existence.
A long story short, miracles happen, and Little Guy, however scarred, is freed from the train tracks. No one died, however perilous the evening. And the five hour stay in a motel that night only cost me a mere hundred and sixty dollars.
As young as I might be, I will never trust anyone else with travel arrangements. That is my lesson. That and train tracks are actually quite tall. Who knew?
Tonight a fellow says to me, “You look like a train ran you over.” I found the irony hilarious, though he was merely referring to my obvious exhaustion.
Unavoidable Truths
I realized last night that I am necessarily destined only to age.
a day trip to Luxemburg
and we weren’t all that impressed. The trip to the Geldautomaat yielded nothing but Belgian francs, of which we’d become accustomed to spending.
A walk up a street lined with trees. Some store fronts, nothing impressive. We were hungry, but did not know where to eat. It was Sunday, and much was closed.
We continued walking. The weather was clear and crisp, sunny. We both had our sunglasses on, and were happily without our packs. We passed houses, vacant deli’s. They didn’t want our francs, and we acknowledged out loud that we did not know where the town center was.
Deciding that aimlessly wandering was not going to fill our stomachs, we retreated toward the train station. We turned left, heading away from the station. G. spied the yellow umbrellas advertising beer-a sure sign that the restaurant catered to tourists, and thus would be open late on a Sunday afternoon.
We each had a fairly mediocre croque monsieur, a Stella Artois and we shared a bowl of American ice cream. The sun was in our eyes, but it was nice to sit outside. We had another Stella and smoked cigarettes, complacent in our acceptance that this was what Luxembourg had to offer.
We headed back to the train station, and bought some fruit and beer at the train station store for our ride back to Oostende. We sat outside the station in the sun to wait for our train. G. went inside to use the W.C.. We knew almost everything about each other right then.
I sat, leaning against a wall, stretching my legs in front of me. I read my Henry Miller novel and waited for G.. A man approached, and spoke to me in broken English. My nationality must have been obvious, for him to assume that he should speak English. He let me know that they could see my underwear beneath my skirt. He assured me that it was very sexy, he just wanted me to know.
My face burned, and I thanked him, crossing my legs and tucking my skirt under them as to end their peep show. G. came back right then, and asked what that was about. I shrugged, dodging the question, and we went inside the station to catch our train.
the curse of Time
Maybe it’s because I’m a Leo, and I crave perpetual drama, but I’m having a really hard time getting over the fact that I am over my ex-boyfriend. I always thought the hard part was the initial moving on, but I have definitely initially moved on. I’ve been initially moved on for months now. Or years even, depending on your interpretation of events.
but here I am…
…back to square one, still pissing and moaning about this stale relationship.
It’s just that this initial moving on that was so healthy has been slowly growing. It’s begun to envelope me. I can feel it, when I think of him. I know it, when I think of oh how much I like other people. And it’s especially obvious whenever we interact. My lack of patience for his eccentricities that I used to find so endearing – even sexy. My lack of patience for his everything. What a loving fool I was, in retrospect. What a loving fool I am, now, to be so distraught by this marked decrease in emotional investment.
Perhaps I’m a nostalgic to a fault (a consequence of the perpetual drama that rules my life?). Perhaps I’m not actually over him.
I could be not over him being over being over me. I could be jealous. People should know not to make a lion jealous.
I think I just miss missing him, miss loving him. I miss being in that state post-relationship where everything reminds you of the two of you together and how much fun you had. I miss looking at my clothes and thinking of how he liked that shirt, or didn’t like that skirt. I miss being unable to wear the jewelry we got together for fear of bursting into tears. I miss being unable to walk the streets of Berkeley without thinking about holding his hand. I miss having sex with other people and wishing it were him.
I miss being heart broken.
Fuck you Time. I didn’t want you to heal this wound. But thanks anyway. You’re like Mom. You always know what’s best.
And will you please send me a new one, so that I might be heart broken again?
