Chewin' the Cuds. Four.

 Hope. 

I couldn't wait until he gave me the opportunity to cuss him out.  Up until this point our relationship had never consisted enough of anything for me to really get upset.  There were rarely any promises made, therefore, no reason for me to flip out about promises not kept.  Thirteen months later and I stood in the kitchen, feasting on a glass full of ice.  I stood there, looking about the house and with every crunch I could imagine what I wanted to say to him.  "Go away," would be the last thing.  Just go so I could get on with getting over him, moving on from him, or whatever the hell it is I do.  Out of sight, out of mind right?

Yes, but you- you keep popping up!  You just apparate out of thin air on my phone, in my face, in my bed!  Its nice to know you can set aside your general disregard for me every once in a while.  And though I cannot fault you for the foolish way I lap up your text messages and dinner dates, I can however be insanely irritable about the texts you don't send or the dates you never get around to canceling. 

I guess I should feel fortunate you thought enough of me to call from the bar.

The amount of though I am giving this man is asinine.  I can more than guarantee his mind hasn't fallen on me in hours, maybe even days.  Crunching on more ice, I wonder how I got the sourpuss.  Then it hit me, as long as I kept dealing with this person I would always be the one waiting around disappointed. I made my way to my bedroom, brie and crackers in one hand, cup of ice in the other.  I like to treat myself to good food when I'm feeling this way.  Something about eating comfort food makes would make me feel defeated.  Like he's won somehow because I'm at home shoving chocolate ice cream in my mouth by the bowlful.

I closed the door with my shoulders and kicked my slippers off, shuffling over to my dresser slowly.  There, next to my mirrored tray of jewelry, my phone lay face down, charging.  Admittedly, I had to force myself not to calculate just how long I had been in the kitchen.  How many missed notifications might there be in the last twenty minutes?  About two hours before, I spazzed after realizing I had left my phone in the car.  I was already dressed by then, hair done, nails done, everything on point.  For all I knew (well, I hoped), he was downstairs calling for me to buzz him in, or that he was stuck in traffic, at the liquor store- "Champagne or Hennesey?"  But even before I slipped my shower cap over my hair and rushed downstairs, even before my foot (booted in brand new black suede) landed in the biggest puddle, I knew he hadn't called.  There was no sign of him on my screen, just every application I'd downloaded since that August. 

Its after midnight by the time I finish fluffing my pillows and spread another blanket over my bed. Christmas is right around the corner and the house will be freezing in the morning.  I set my snack in the center of the bed along with my lap top and switched off my closet light.  The candles I lit before I knew he wasn't coming flickered  and glowed brightly now that the wax had melted down thin.   I checked my email and watched True Blood re-runs by candelight. It got real late, real fast and as the credits rolled, I shook my head. 

I was less furious when I settled down to sleep, but still angry.  Angry because my best candles had burned out and my boots were ruined, but mostly because I knew if he called, when he finally decided to call, I would still answer.

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Piffle.

A friend of mine told me (advised me) to think before I post.  Write, read, then read again prior to posting.  Clearly there's some MLA format to Blogspot.  Won't lie and say I didn't resent it.  However, I did ask her opinion.  She simply gave it rather than sugar coating it.  I'm on the Metra as I think all this over and quickly jot down a list of all things sugar-coated.  "Sugar-Coated" is underlined fiercely.  In my chicken scratch, I can make out reference to a long-since passed relationship.

Truth be told you feel I am too simple and I think you may be a little too pretentious and damn you for making me feel like it was wrong to feel the way I did.  Damn you for letting me explain myself away and apologize when you almost never told me how you really felt.

Maybe, mostly, but after-the-fact, now that we're done you just judge.  However quietly, you just judge.

As long as I am writing on my own blog in my own bed, I'll write what I want!  This is an experiment (note the first installment), to keep me writing, keep my fingers moving, my mind fluid. Its more important to me right now that I get the words out at all, rather than the format they happen to spill out in.  For shame, I haven't appeased the reader.  It is a great skill (which real writers eventually seem to master), siphoning one's thoughts from behind the eyeballs down onto paper.  Its a challenge for me, but I'll combat it now by ranting and raving.  Most days, in the real world, I have to sit down and hush up.  Here, in the wee hours, I can type, say, indent, capitalize, italicize and punctuate however the hell I please. 

Far be it from me to censor anyone else.  That makes it a slightly difficult to censor myself, to edit away my own thoughts.  Honestly, I think The Ramble is indicative of anything with my name on it.  Even my senior thesis, although very good, full of interesting points, was simply very full- meaty.

But here, I can't trim away whatever emotion is fueling my fingers typing.  These days, all I seem to talk about is relationships.  Try taking some emotion out of that.  Use one less adjective with that.  I can take criticism just fine, and I guess when I asked my friend I wanted her to comment more on the conetent versus the execution.  Maybe she couldn't get past The Ramble. 

Breathe Again.

Three weeks ago I made a pact.  I promised to minimize my availability and my reliance on the people around me (especially men).  In making myself less tangible I would have to a) end all relations that were-just that- relations b) cut off my sponsor entirely and even c) do away with all those late night phone conversations I find so necessary before bed.  Something about the depth of a man's voice and mind at this hour, when you're both settled in bed- to tired to bullshit.

As much as I enjoyed my sponsor:  the expensive dinners in dimly lit downtown restaurants, surprise gifts and quiet cash flow... Said sponsor, along with empty relationships, and bedtime drunk dials all leave me entirely too vulnerable.  It puts me out there, susceptible to all sorts of unnecessary mishap and circumstance. Mess.  Admittedly, last year I vested entirely too much energy into my personal life.  Other than becoming a workaholic, there was very little work or restructure on me or my person.  I may have changed a few wigs here and there, but after a year I was still no closer to knowing what I wanted to do or needed to do for myself.

So now that it is almost 2012, I am learning to write again.  Slowly, I am teaching myself to maximize my alone time (or not maximize it), so long as I do it alone.  I spend Friday nights reading instead of seeking places to be out in, perches to see and be seen. On weeknights, I might sift through my ever-growing stack of books rather than scrolling through my text messages, deciding only after much deliberation who to call back.  Additionally, I have stopped frowning because this particular one only calls when he's drunk.

Cutting all this out-all of them out-I have created a bit of peace.  The smell of a good book helps me filter all the garbage out.  The notes of some Benny Golson song stirs the contentment in my chest and sends it rippling across my face.  This pact is going very well.  I have learned to re-enjoy my own company.  For the first time in a long time I can focus on my writing, on anything else I know I want to do.  In fact, the pact has become a regiment that I am trying my damnedest to apply to all aspects of my life.  If by sticking to this, I can create further clarity, find that ember of self motivation that I lost somewhere along the way, then perhaps I shouldn't talk to boys at all!

Syke.

All jokes aside, I feel I'm onto something here.  I have set my own pace, and can once again "keep it moving" without arms around me.  I have reminded myself that I can pick up the pieces without my girls in my ear.  And in the eleventh hour I can lull myself to sleep just fine without him "telling me something good".  Quality solo time, writing again, breathing easy, and learning again how to live with just me.