Comrades

*Disclaimer: This isn't about any one person.  It's about all of us.*

Half empty, half full,

we're starting over.

I wrote you a letter called Comrades In October.  It doesn't make a lot of sense and goes on for longer than it needed to be.  I talked a lot about Pulp Fiction and it got a bit accusatory of Israel.  But I meant well.

Things never really turn out right.  Or at least not how we want them to.

I wanted a lot more than what you gave me.  The minimalist approach to human interaction, the half-hearted blow off.  When it was slow, it was alcohol you turned to.  The feeling that whatever you did didn't count or mean anything turned you on.  You were invincible.

But you didn't even recognize me at midnight when I left.  Telling you I was just a phone call away and you turned the other way and said you really hate the way I look at you when you're drunk.

"I need to get my life together, don't I?"

We're always starting over.  A big hug and an empty bottle.  You'll get your life together maybe if you want to.  But until then, I'll paint you a picture of a girl who is trying to not let herself love you any more than she already does.

But we'll always have October.  And you'll always be that one who sang me songs and cared about my stupid crushes.  You were there from the beginning, when all we needed was our tree.  Our tree, our music, and our wasted teenage lives.

I'm starting over.

Give Out

Oh dear.

I think I've done it again.

I tried so hard to be better, because I knew that better means happier.  I knew that perfect means success.  The closer I get to it, though, the more I realize how similar it feels to normal.  The longer you look at me, the more I want to leave.  The harder you try, the more I dislike myself.

I don't know what it is.  A combination of bad self image and the stomach flu, maybe.  Or misguided passive aggression.  Cuban cigars that smell bad, but are passed around like the neighborhood harlot.

Oh dear.

I was expecting it to be much harder to figure out, but it was as easy as stepping off the roof.

One step is too far, but three steps and I'm flying.

One day, I'm going to look back and know that no one will ever really understand what this all means to me.  No one will hear that song the way I do.  They won't care about the tree.  They don't get it.  How nothing really happened there, but that's why it is so unmistakably pristine.  That's why I can't love you.  Because of that tree, which means so much because it meant nothing.

Well yeah, a year from now, I know we'll all be in different cities.  Missing each others' calls and avoiding chance encounters in the supermarket.  If there are even supermarkets anymore.  Maybe we'll just be downloading virtual carbs from our super iPads or something.

This isn't what I wanted to talk about.

I wanted to talk about making out and not liking it.  I wanted to talk about not the first guy, but the fourth.  The one who actually made an effort to not be an idiot.  I wanted to talk about slow music and perfect moments that were ruined by a never-ending girl brain, but instead I think this is all about missing you.  Even though you haven't left yet.

Because I know that alcohol is promising and cigarettes are your mistress.  I know that your one true love is the back of your jet black motorcycle, and that I am someone who stands with both feet firmly on the ground.  Too afraid to do anything bad.  Watching you suffocate yourself because being young and free and careless is your only wile.  Because we are supposed to mess up right now.  Because that's what being alive means.

I miss you already, and oh dear.  I think I've done it again.

In my own way, I'm trying to tell you goodbye.  Because we used to talk about never growing apart, but I think it's about to happen soon.

Winter, The Song

Okay.

I'm thoroughly embarrassed and ashamed of this song, but I recorded it anyways, so here it is.

Listen if you want to.  

Don't listen if you don't want to.

Thanks.

#vivaparis

Who Says We Can't Have It All?

If there's one thing I've learned from high school, it's that the best way to have success in life is to fill your head with apathy.

I can do that.

Walking In High Heels And Not Tripping

I don't recognize a lot of things about my house anymore, not even the easy things like shapes and sounds.  And so many pieces of my room seem to be missing, like the bedside table.  I can't find the grainy surface beneath the unopened bank statements and illegible post-it notes.  Neither can I see the old nail polish stain on the carpet, or the dozens of tiny holes in the wall from countless attempts at filling that enclosing white space.  I feel sorry for doctors, and new homeowners.  The white space can drive you mad.

They expect me to not be so childish anymore.

"Come, Charlotte," they say, "tell us about how the enchiladas turned out.  Tell us about your choice of interesting fabric for these interesting pillows.  Tell us about how much fiber is in your cereal."

To which I'll reply, "Well, from time to time, I really enjoy a big bowl of Fruity Pebbles."

"Oh, I love Fiber One."

They're only waiting for their turn to talk.

What's worse is I cannot remember that beautiful phrase I came upon in that book I finished last week.  I wrote it down, and then accidentally set it on fire while trying to light a candle.  And when I search my mind for any recollection of it, I only come up with a list of the deposits I have yet to pay for my apartment, and all the things I still need to buy before I move out.

And the strangest part is:
The white space no longer bothers me.

"What a fine young woman you've become.
Such a fine woman."