March 21st, 2005

(no subject)

Ahh, the saga continues.

I always considered my relationship with a certain individual to be somewhat funny. I dated him back in high school and we watched each other become first loves and massive parts of each others lives. You've all heard the complaints in the past; the stories, the betrayals, the drama, and the sex. It's all been there and it's all been ripe with lust and confusion, with a touch of raspberry flavoring. Times changed, and two years from that point in time, we live separate lives. Mine consists of one constant background struggle to fade his existence from my life and pretend I spent that year in a coma or something. It was all a dream, right? Right.

Well, playing the good game of pretend only lasted until he started popping up in the lives of people I knew. At first it was my best friend, with whom he fell head over heals in love with. Then it was the only girl I had ever harbored romantic feelings for. Said feelings were tossed around to the point of extinction under his bed sheets as they fucked behind my back, and when he later complained to me about how she was too tight. Then it was back to me, for a go-around of bootie calls and sex without strings. We'd fuck like animals at least once a week, and in the heat of passion scream the words "I love you," even though "I hate you" would have meant the same thing, and been much closer to the truth.

I guess it was easier to have great sex with him (dare I say "make love to him") when the only thing I wanted to do more than make him come was make him cry. I would fuck him, and he would fuck me, and we would go back to our normal lives which rarely ever consisted of each other unless there was a bed involved. Eventually I managed to find twisted closure even in our bouts of secret seduction. I fucked him the best I'd ever fucked anyone, simply because I hated him the most.

So I was happy to finally say that he was gone. Sure, he was still there, living his life and sometimes intertwining with mine, but for the most part, he was dead and rotted to me, and I liked things that way. I could poke and prod at him with sticks, for the sake of my own entertainment. I was a content, uplifted, bright and sunny individual without the drama we loved to cause for each other. I was convinced I'd been somehow informed of every little thing he had ever done to betray my trust, fuck me over, or act as a brutally evil human being, and I had moved on from every single incident in confidence. "Bring it on!" I would say. "I can take anything you dish out to me," because with him, the worst was in the past, but was still yet to come. It was always going to be that way. "Bring it on asshole," I'd say with eager eyes and a look of determination that only turned him on more.

And he'd dish. He'd bring it like the badass little cheerleader he was. He'd stoop lower and swing harder than ever before, but I'd learned to dodge the punch. The guy's gotten some solid hits on me in the past, but I'm untouchable to him now. I wasn't quite sure if this day would ever come; the day I finally realized I really didn't give a shit what the most important person in my life did to butcher my happiness or play carelessly with my emotions. I wasn't sure I'd ever witness the day when I would laugh at his bizarre mannerisms, but today I lit cigarettes in celebration of his stupidity and oblivion. Yep; he'd fucked my third and final best friend. That meant that somehow, he'd managed to get in the pants of every single girl I'd ever exerted a little energy into as a friend. The only other two girls left were thankfully engaged and, well, not complete idiots. Bless their pretty faces and untained vaginas.

So, first lover, fuck buddy, and douchebag of the year, I am finally enjoying a good laugh at your expense. I'll make sure I'm still laughing many years and many affairs from now.

(no subject)

In order to get hired at Abercrombie and Fitch, one must attend a group interview. Wow. They get that many applicants that they must interview them by cluster. I must say, I'm a bit anxious to see how this is going to turn out for me. I'm obviously not an Abercrombie personality. I'm hot, but not the kind of hot they're used to. Now, even though I plan on going dressed as preppy as possible (which means I'll sadly have to remove the neck bandana), I'm still intimidated. I'm guessing if you have to interview a group of people at a time, the way to get hired is to stand out; to be noticed. It's like applying for the Real World or a television show. If you're charasmatic and interesting, you're in. If you're quiet and timid, you're out.

The thing I'm worried about is speaking up. Not because it's something I'm bad at, but because it's something I'm good at. I am different from these people. My lifestyle, my look, my attitude, my personality, and way of life are all completely different from these people. Simply being myself is what tagged me as such a weird-minded girl with all the popular kids back in high school. But being myself is what employers are looking for. Do I speak up and rule any conversation, while risking being so damn interesting that I'm perceived as someone totally bizarre? Or do I tell them exactly what they want to hear? Is there middle ground?

Funny -- whenever I write about the beautiful people, I always come back to a familiar theory of black and white, and the gray area in between...