Come On, Son

All I keep thinking is that there has to be a guy who will love all the things about me that seem to be reasons for all the others to count me out. How nervous I get when meeting new people. My preference for the indoors, and my reluctance to go out. My talents for nothing, but my dalliances with everything. I am nothing special. I'm not intriguing or adventurous or exciting.

But there has to be a guy for whom all of this is exactly what he's been seeking. I am exactly what he's been looking for. To him, I am special. And over the years I've wanted that guy to be you, whoever you are in that moment.

It never is. And that's been pretty heartbreaking. Because however bad for me you actually were, however wrong I was about you, and as much as I knew I couldn't hold it against you, being made to feel you're not worth a shot hurts.

This probably seems pretty pathetic to you. I'm seeking attention and pity, or probably some kind of compliment or encouragement. Well, yeah, compliments and encouragement are nice, but I don't want them. This is something I don't understand. I can't understand it. This is what I do when I don't understand. So what I really want is an explanation.

And not those lame explanations I've gotten all this time I've been waiting to understand. I'm not too intimidating. Are you kidding me? I'm like a spider. I am way more afraid of you than you are of me. It's not even the same continent of afraid.

I want to know why you didn't like me. Give me something to work with. Because I'm about two unlikely girlfriends away from imploding.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

On the Subject of Love

Image
I could have sworn there was a Fall Out Boy song with the words "on the subject of" in it, and I was planning on quoting it to you, alas, I could not find it. Oh well. I might have confused Fall Out Boy with another similar-sounding band. All I have to go on is the broken record of "on the subject of" going over and over and over in my head. Usually that helps, you know, usually it makes me think of the next few words, or from the tune I can pluck out the rest of the song, or even just recognize the voice playing in my head, but not this time. This time my memory is failing me. Although I'm pretty sure it was Fall Out Boy. Oh well. And, with that, I'll move on to the actual topic of this week's blog. Someone told me yesterday I needed to write a new blog entry (probably because I'm so addicting and they couldn't get enough, I'm sure =D), so I thought the whole way home from work about what I could write on. I thought about singers and wh...
Read more

God Hates No One

Image
Did you ever write a paper, and the words came to you so naturally, that you were done proving your point in less than the words required? Not to sound boastful, but that happened a lot when I was in school. So, I'd say it again, using different words in a different order, like maybe they didn't get it the first time. I feel, after reading this article , that that was a bad idea. I guess I can't base my reaction entirely on the needless repetition, because I also didn't necessarily agree with the content. But when the author goes on and on, saying the same thing about three times in different and clever ways, he loses his credibility as a reliable source of information. It seems obvious that personal emotions at least partly fueled his writing. It's all right here, the problem with his argument: "It's been so long since someone was actually honest that none of us even knows what that looks like. And if you don't act that way -- a patently false way th...
Read more

To share, or not to share, where is the question?

I despise pet names. I hate them. If anyone ever calls me baby--well, let's just say, you can be sure they would never think to call me baby again. I don't know why, but this morning while driving to school, I thought about how much I detest pet names, and what I would say if anyone ever brought up pet names in my presence. And I figured it out: "Pet names are just words that try to portray affection but don't really mean anything." Poetic, right? So why does no one ever ask me the questions I've found the perfect answer to? They ask plenty of questions I have no idea how to answer ("How much is left in my Ozzie bucks?", "Est-ce que tu as cours cette été?"), but no one ever (or, rarely) asks the questions I want them to. Why is that? Why can't people read my mind and give me what I want without having to tell them what it is? (Yes, I know, we're not mind readers, but that would be so cool, wouldn...
Read more