Chronicles of the Lonely: Chapter Three–The Move pt. 1

The situation with my family wasn’t ideal. My parents were starting to struggle with being apart for so long, and my brother and I complained every time we had to trek down to my dad’s house for the weekend. The strain was unbearable, at times. I was halfway through second grade, very much still enjoying school, when my dad came across a private school similar to the one they had us attending. This one was much closer to him, and we could all live together.

Much to my chagrin, halfway through the academic year, they pulled us out of our school and enrolled us in another. There was very little conversation with me or my brother about it. One day I was telling fantastic stories in a class full of people who weren’t really listening, and the next, I was saying goodbye and hopping in a car that would take me away from everything I found comforting. In a world without wifi, I would never talk to any of them again.

My first day of school was all kinds of awful. It was far worse than even my wild imagination could depict it to be. The school was tiny. I walked into a second-grade classroom that housed five students and a teacher wearing the brightest orange lipstick I had ever seen. In my terrified eyes, not one face seemed friendly.

I don’t remember every second of that day, two things are unforgettable: the spelling test and lunchtime.

During lunch, the other girls in my class were in the bathroom with me, putting on lip gloss from tiny tubs they had in their pockets. They asked me if I had one, and I said I didn’t like makeup. Two of them rolled their eyes and walked out of the bathroom. I followed them to lunch and sat with them, and one of them started talking amongst themselves. I couldn’t really hear them.

Finally, one of them looked at me and asked, “Are you a Blossom or a Bubbles?”
I didn’t immediately realize what they were talking about. Powerpuff Girls had just made its debut. They saw the blank look on my face and started laughing. A few seconds later, it clicked. I tried to tell them, but one of them held her hand up at me and told me it was too late. I let it go and fell silent for the rest of the break.

The other incident happened with the psycho with the orange lipstick. We came back to class after lunch, and she announced that we were having a spelling test. I didn’t know a single word. I hadn’t had time to study, and no one had informed my mom. I tried to explain that I couldn’t take it, but the teacher yelled at me and forced me to take it. Of course, I tanked harder the The Green Lantern did in the box office.

When our time was up, she snatched the paper off my desk and told me I needed to study, next time. She wrote a big red ‘F’ on the page, showed it to the whole class, and walked away. To a total nerd, this was the equivalent of someone telling me that I was getting a piece of coal for my birthday, and nothing more.

I went to the bathroom and cried until my mom came and got me.

Angry Empty Expressions of Anti-Adulatory Excitement

Today, my boss brought me into her office just to talk. Somewhere along the lines of the conversation, she said that, when I’m quiet, I have facial expressions that make me seem angry.

Which is an unfortunate problem for those of us with Resting Bitch Face.

However, if my facial expressions seem angry during a work gig, it could be because I have a short attention-span, and we sit and look at powerpoints for 3-4 hours at once. I can’t stay with you for that long. One hour in, and I’m gone until you send us packing.

Which is a pity, because I know that the presentations are excellent.

I zone out completely for hours at a time, just thinking about the stories I want to get home and finish.

Because seriously, living in a fictional world beats the fuck out of the real one.

But it isn’t a case of RBF that makes me look like I’m ready to pounce for bloody murder. Not all the tales I think up in my head are pleasant. Most of them are pretty damn dreary. I’d need pharmaceutical help if I was smiling while I was dreaming up a scenario very reminiscent of a scene from Passion of the Christ.

Alright, not Passion of the Christ, but on a scale of one to terrifying, I’m probably swimming somewhere in the realm of a chainsaw massacre. Just not in Texas.

Connecticut. Yeah. In Connecticut.

The other problem she brought to my attention is that I tend to say things that make it seem like I’m lazy and unwilling to work.

I do say things of that nature, but it’s always in jest. I can’t control my mouth. I make jokes when I’m uncomfortable. Anxiety blinds my rationality.

Excuses, excuses. Get it together.

Time to get to the chopper. This world ain’t big enough for all of us, hombre. I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse. Funny racist Arabic phrase. Everybody start Kung Fu Fighting. Lemme just cause two World Wars.

I have a right to bear arms.

‘Murica.

Graduation Bell Blues

My graduation is exactly two months away. I am exactly eight weeks from receiving a Masters Degree in Applied Psychology from New York University at Yankees Stadium. I have ordered commencement ceremony tickets, a cap and gown, and even a grad sweatshirt. I had been over the moon since the moment I applied for graduation.

But lately, things have been out of focus. I can’t see a happy picture perfect moment on May 16th. I don’t feel a sense of excitement at starting my life. I’m starting to question whether I should be proud of any of this.

I jumped into grad school a year after graduating from undergrad. I gave up my hopes for a writing career after just one year, and then I dropped the ball and went to NYU. I gave up. It wasn’t working, and I had this amazing opportunity at an amazing school that I never thought I could possibly get into. I should be happier. I should be excited.

But I’m not.

With a job around the corner and the next couple years already set for me, I’m starting to question whether I really wanted this, or if I just ran away to a sure thing. Is this going to make me happy, or am I playing it safe because I’m too much of a bitch to take a risk?

What would have happened if I had really stuck it out? If I had just taken a real chance and worked for it?

The fact of the matter is, I have never had real confidence in my writing abilities. I have always felt that the people around me praised my writing because they cared about me. They built me up because it was my passion, and they wanted to support me. I wasn’t really talented. I was mediocre at best. I wasn’t good enough to be a writer.

Maybe I would have never made it, and I would have been nothing, in the end. Maybe I would have been wasting my time trying. Maybe I would have become a complete failure for the rest of my life.

But now, I’ll never know. Now, I’m going to be something I never really wanted to be. Now, I take a job I don’t like, get married to someone I can’t love, have children I can’t be honest with, and grow old knowing that I have spent my entire life working on nothing.

Now, I’m the loser who chose to settle, and there’s no coming back from that.