"No one wants to talk to a girl with green hair!" - my Mom

I'm a theatre student. These are my ramblings. Enjoy my ramblings. I like all mediums of art and good laughs. I do not like cooked carrots.

 

Self-fulfilled.

I didn’t want to write this about you, never mind have it be acted out. What will you say? Will you come see this? Will your blue eyes bulge wide? You weren’t supposed to be the monologue. You were supposed to be a happy ending, a reality, an “oh, so she doesn’t actually hate men!” exception. You were supposed to watch the uncut Lord of the Rings trilogy with me. You were supposed to be my proofreader, and red pen what sucked, and asterisked or bolded what was awesome. You were supposed to take me to a Local Natives show (remember you promised that?) You were supposed to teach me how to like the taste of black coffee. You were supposed to visit me at my work desk and bring me Chicken McNuggets. You were supposed to come to San Francisco so we can look at redwood trees (your idea not mine). You were supposed to be the replacement of the pillow I sometimes tuck between my legs when I feel discomfort whilst sleeping. You were supposed to be the one who can touch my breasts and not make them feel small. You were supposed to let me teach you how to kiss properly. You were supposed to be the number on my phone I can call when I’m scared of driving at night. You were supposed to win. You were supposed to be mine, but you aren’t. Still. Not at all.

You didn’t call. You didn’t text. You didn’t Skype. You forgot? You abandoned it. I was 5000 miles away from you and wishing, begging, dying to be closer. I sent you a postcard – did you get it? Or were you 5000 miles away in your head too?

I didn’t want to write this about you because I thought I wasn’t supposed to. I suppose I shouldn’t have supposed. You’ve just sent me an email to read your script. You text me water fountain conversation questions about my day and what classes I’m taking. You don’t know this because you never asked me because you didn’t care to, but you missed my birthday.

I didn’t want you to be a monologue. I guess I’ve given myself too many self-fulfilling prophecies.   

Why I’m Probably Secretly a Masochist

This has been bothering me for quite a while. Well, depends on how much time accounts for “quite a while.” A couple weeks maybe…or a few months. On and off. When I space out during class or when I’m trying to fall asleep or when I get off track from making the week’s grocery list. That’s when I think about it. Or him. Or it? I don’t know, but basically and essentially, it’s about a boy. I know, groannnn. I’m not some type of girl to get hung up on a boy. 

THAT’S A LIE. Every girl gets hung up on a boy no matter how fiercely independent and forward-thinking she makes herself out to be or actually is. I guess what I meant to say is that I’m really good at making it seem like I’m not the type of girl who gets hung up on a boy. We’ll call the boy, “Bucket” (why? It’s easy, uncomplicated, and oddly cute - like him…sigh/vomit). I talk about Bucket so friggin much it even annoys ME. 1) I’m an awfully annoying person 2) though I’m awfully annoying, I have an incredible tolerance for my own self-annoyance. It’s a gift, I know. My best friends know all about him. My sister. My roommate back in Southern California. My flatmates here in England. The obnoxious housekeeper for my block of flats is probably clued in too because that’s how much I talk about him/obsess over him/overanalyze any type of conversation he gives me. It’s stupid. It’s pathetic. It’s desperate. It’s exhausting. So that’s why I think I must secretly be a masochist. I’m totally aware of my situation and that only I can stop it, because Bucket has ignored me for more than a month already and I STILL CAN’T GET THE FUCK OVER IT.

I’m covered in a million bug bites because I’m pretty sure my Dublin hostel was infested with demon crawlers. And I’m packing 6 months back into my carry on. And finally, I miss him and I want to know how he is and if he got my postcard but I can’t. Because I suck. And I’m probably secretly a masochist. The end.