Sometimes I wonder what it will be like when I die. And when. And how. I wonder how often other people think of it. We don't think about it as often as we should probably, in fact, I think most people do everything they can to not think about it. We scurry about trying to cram all these meaninless and trivial things into our daily routine, altogether ignoring the fact that at any given second you can have a brain aneurysm and drop dead without warning. What good will your credit score be then? Won't you be glad you purchased that flat screen TV earlier in the week?
I'm sitting here in my little cubicle, plugged in to a headset. I'm nibbling on a bowl of overpriced pasta, sipping on an energy drink because I didn't get enough sleep last night. I've got my headphones in, listening to the steady calming drum beats and atmospheric notes of a song called Blues for Uncle Gibb. I'm taking calls and listening to complaints. I'm plugged in to a job I care nothing for, sitting in a huge building with no markings, talking to customers that I will share five minutes of my life with and then never speak to or think of again. I'm spending eight hours of my day in a little cubicle, five feet wide and four feet deep. I'm surrounded by people, yet I can only hear the dull roar of the crowd. I can't pick out any distinct voices.
Is this really what I want to be doing with my life?
Working a nine to five and then taking the hour drive back home. Putting my sweats and baggy t-shirt on, and flopping down on the couch. Maybe a movie before bed. I'll call my mom on the drive home from work, we'll exchange pleasantries and talk about our days, and then five minutes into the call I'll recieve a pseudo-lecture about how I should be in school, I should be dating a nice Mormon boy, I need to start going to church again. I should be saving my money, I should be more outgoing, I should decide what I want to be when I grow up. I shouldn't drink, I shouldn't smoke, I should eat better, I should call my parents more often. Be nice to my aunt and uncle, get along with your younger sister, help her to make more friends. Say, "I know". And, "You're right". Promise to start doing better. Promise to do what you know is best for me.
Still haven't finished my overpriced pasta. Haven't talked to my mom in two days. I've gone way over my breaktime. Didn't go to church yesterday. Made a mess on someone else's desk. Been ignored for the most part by the guy I like. Thought about my ex and smiled at a random memory, then cursed myself for it. Decided to postpone school for another semester. Came up with some wild, liberating ideas and then cowered at the thought of putting them into action.
This is what I want to do today. I want to stand up, slip on my shoes, and walk out of this building. Drive home, silence in the car. Walk inside the house, get the duffle bag from under my bed, and fill it with clothes. Drive to the bank, withdraw my pitiful pile of savings, and fill up my tank. Then I'll drive. And I'll drive and I'll drive and I'll drive north. I'll travel down deserted sideroads and drive on the freeway going the speed limit and not a mile over. I'll travel through sagebrush and cracked earth, then through fields and dirt lots. The land will be flat for a long time. Then I'll start to see some pines, things will start to turn green. The dry weeds will disappear, dirt will be replaced by moss. I'll begin to pick out signs saying, "Watch for deer", depicting a buck leaping with its hooves tucked beneath it's chest, as if clearing an obstacle in its path.
I'll find the coast, I'll stop at the ocean. I'll get out of my car, sit on the beach with my headphones in and then take them out when I realize that the waves create music more lovely than what man can birth. I'll get up and walk to the edge of the waves and let it roll over my feet. The water will be freezing, but that's okay because I'd rather feel those pinpricks of ice on my skin than feel nothing at all. I don't feel enough these days.
So what's holding me back?
My parents' expectations. My job. My family. My lack of savings. The fact that I should really be saving my money for school.
The world and all it's ideas of what I should be doing with my life is holding me back from
complete
and
utter
freedom.
This is my life. I'll be twenty-one in thirty-four days. I'm in no relationship, I have no house payment, and I have no car payment. I have a car, which makes up for it's lack of style with a fierce loyalty and dependability. I have nothing tying me down.
What are you waiting for?
Monday, January 31, 2011
Thursday, January 6, 2011
01/05/2011
Dear You,
I hate your filthy stinking guts. I hate every second of my life that I spend thinking about you, a common occurence these days. I want to take a soldering iron to my brain and burn away every memory I have of the two of us. I want to picture in my mind every good day I had with you, every time you made me laugh so hard I couldn't breathe, every time you kissed me goodnight before you left my house - picture it in my mind then paint it on a canvas, and then hide that canvas in the attic so I never have to look at it again.
I want to rage at you every time something reminds me of our three years together. When I flip through the channels and see that Criminal Minds is on I want to scream and throw my remote at the TV. When I go to Taco Bell and place my order, then start to eat and see those stupid little squares of red crap I want to throw it out the window because you always remembered to tell them "no tomatoes" when I forgot. And then I'd smile at you or squeeze your hand. And now I despise tomatoes all the more.
I don't want to think of what you're doing now, or who you're with, or how your classes are going. I don't want to care about whether you're happy or not. I don't want to hope that you're missing me. I want you to cease to exist. And if you have a new girlfriend I want to punch her in the teeth because that was my spot.
I'm so mad that you haven't tried to call, or write, or text. I told you I never wanted to talk to you again, but forever is a long time. I texted you a month after we hung up, just to say goodbye, because the way we ended the call didn't do our three years justice. I told you, please don't text me back but I have to say this to you. I sent it first thing in the morning and then jumped in the shower, terrified that you would text back but also terrifed that you wouldn't. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest when I heard my phone go off. I tried to stay away from my phone for as long as I could stand it, then I turned on the screen.
This isn't ****'s phone number anymore, sorry.
So I hate you, and I hate how pathetic I've become. But I hope you're having it hard too, because three years is a long time. I hope you're having a worse time than me, even though I know that's not true. You were always stronger than me. You were always my rock, my foundation. No matter how hard the wind blew or how fast the world seemed to be spinning around me I could always hold on to your hands and feel completely secure. And now you're gone, and it's been six months and I feel a little lost in the world. And for that, I blame you.
Did you know that I can't even look at other guys anymore? If a boy smiles at me as I pass him I quickly put on that fake, cheesy smile of mine and then look at the ground or pull out my phone. Why? Because you trained me to do it, you bastard. When I told you that the checkout guy at the grocery store was flirting with me you pushed me off the couch and wouldn't talk to me for an hour. Even after six months, I can't shake that mentality. So thanks,
Even the fact that I'm writing this is pathetic. You've probably moved on, and here I am, stuck on you.
Still, after writing this I feel purged, as if exhuming my anger and frustration would allow my feelings to finally burn out and blow away. I want to forget you, to set the canvas on fire and never think of you. When a boy looks at me and smiles I want to smile back and say hi. So I'm going to never think of you, or move on, or start taking care of myself or whatever it is that people do when their reality crumbles around them. So goodbye, and I hate your filthy stinking guts.
Dear You,
I hate your filthy stinking guts. I hate every second of my life that I spend thinking about you, a common occurence these days. I want to take a soldering iron to my brain and burn away every memory I have of the two of us. I want to picture in my mind every good day I had with you, every time you made me laugh so hard I couldn't breathe, every time you kissed me goodnight before you left my house - picture it in my mind then paint it on a canvas, and then hide that canvas in the attic so I never have to look at it again.
I want to rage at you every time something reminds me of our three years together. When I flip through the channels and see that Criminal Minds is on I want to scream and throw my remote at the TV. When I go to Taco Bell and place my order, then start to eat and see those stupid little squares of red crap I want to throw it out the window because you always remembered to tell them "no tomatoes" when I forgot. And then I'd smile at you or squeeze your hand. And now I despise tomatoes all the more.
I don't want to think of what you're doing now, or who you're with, or how your classes are going. I don't want to care about whether you're happy or not. I don't want to hope that you're missing me. I want you to cease to exist. And if you have a new girlfriend I want to punch her in the teeth because that was my spot.
I'm so mad that you haven't tried to call, or write, or text. I told you I never wanted to talk to you again, but forever is a long time. I texted you a month after we hung up, just to say goodbye, because the way we ended the call didn't do our three years justice. I told you, please don't text me back but I have to say this to you. I sent it first thing in the morning and then jumped in the shower, terrified that you would text back but also terrifed that you wouldn't. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest when I heard my phone go off. I tried to stay away from my phone for as long as I could stand it, then I turned on the screen.
This isn't ****'s phone number anymore, sorry.
So I hate you, and I hate how pathetic I've become. But I hope you're having it hard too, because three years is a long time. I hope you're having a worse time than me, even though I know that's not true. You were always stronger than me. You were always my rock, my foundation. No matter how hard the wind blew or how fast the world seemed to be spinning around me I could always hold on to your hands and feel completely secure. And now you're gone, and it's been six months and I feel a little lost in the world. And for that, I blame you.
Did you know that I can't even look at other guys anymore? If a boy smiles at me as I pass him I quickly put on that fake, cheesy smile of mine and then look at the ground or pull out my phone. Why? Because you trained me to do it, you bastard. When I told you that the checkout guy at the grocery store was flirting with me you pushed me off the couch and wouldn't talk to me for an hour. Even after six months, I can't shake that mentality. So thanks,
Even the fact that I'm writing this is pathetic. You've probably moved on, and here I am, stuck on you.
Still, after writing this I feel purged, as if exhuming my anger and frustration would allow my feelings to finally burn out and blow away. I want to forget you, to set the canvas on fire and never think of you. When a boy looks at me and smiles I want to smile back and say hi. So I'm going to never think of you, or move on, or start taking care of myself or whatever it is that people do when their reality crumbles around them. So goodbye, and I hate your filthy stinking guts.
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