"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.

 

There are so many things I wish I can say to you, but I can’t. Partly because of my pride. Another part because you don’t deserve it, and another another part because I deleted all of your texts and calls and contact information from my phone.

So what further to do? Join Tinder. Swipe till I can boost my ego to a certain level.

"You’re pretty." "You’re smart." "You’re funny." 

"Thanks." I reply. I really wish it was you telling me all those things. Because I knew you’d mean it. Or maybe it’s because I wish I could be in front of you, hearing it from you, watching it form in your mouth, around your tongue, across your lips, and the speech is absorbed by me. You were reality. Not anymore. What’s my reality but a social app and some flat compliments.

There is this guy though on Tinder - a hopeful. Someone normal, someone not steering the conversation to Snapchatting tit pics. We even have mutual friends. We  have nearly real conversations over text and not over Tinder. But this stupid, so fucking stupid nagging feeling comes upon me. He’s not you. And that fucking sucks, because I never even had you in the first place. What happened? Do you fancy someone else? Did you realize I’m more “crazy” than “hot”? Did you finally lose your virginity? Yeah, I went straight for that one. Was it just because I’m me and me isn’t what you’re looking for? Please let me understand. I thought I dimmed it all. I was sure of it. I lied.

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.