Sociopath defined

I've been so screwed over by men, I don't think I know anything better. I practically expect it now. And now that I told Fred that I was surprised that he cared, he hasn't said anything back.

I owe him better. At least he felt badly about being a dick to me. Most don't, and I owe him better for it.

I wonder what being treated with respect would feel like. I guess Phil tried to, and I told him not to. Maybe that's what it feels like - as if you're being held at a distance.

Today was a hard day. I'm not quite sure why, but today was a hard day.

To address the title, I must admit to something I haven't admitted out loud for a long while. I don't actually care about anyone or anything else other than myself. More or less, the only two feelings I feel are self-hatred and depression, and joy and exhilaration.

I need cigarettes more than I need a bathroom.

I try so fucking hard to be a good person because I know, deep deep down, I actually don't care about anyone. On one hand, it's fucking terrifying. On the other, it's funny to think about. I mean, I've felt like this for as long as I can remember. I only feel bad when I lose friendships or people because I miss how they make me feel about myself (read: better). I am really, honestly, not that good of a person. And I hate myself for it. And I pretend as hard as I can to convince everyone else that that's not the truth.

I owe Fred better. He cared enough to apologize. And because he cared, I pressed the advantage. And look at what that got me - more of what I already fear. Abandonment and desertion.

Maybe that's why I fear it so. Because if people actually knew what I was, they would run in the opposite direction. How can I talk about this with anyone else? How would that conversation start?

"Look, I don't actually give a shit about you. So let's talk about it. Honestly, if you died today, I'd be bummed. And probably semi-suicidal. But only because I have a predilection for depression, and - honestly - give me any legitimate fucking excuse at this point, and I'll probably end it. Your death included."

Holy fucking shit. I am seriously fucked up. Going to go drink more and forget I know this about myself. 

I'm just a little lost, that's all

A little without direction. A little lonely. A little uninspired, and a little useless. Everyone here is so directed. Or on time or something. I am not. I am getting lost in the second and third waves of becoming an adult.

I kept telling myself that everything is relative, but it's getting harder and harder to keep feeling like I'm not a complete failure.

Clearly, I'm boy crazy

Because I keep moving continents for boys.

Well, ok, no.

I don't keep moving continents for boys. I keep moving continents, and I happen to have men in mind when I'm moving. But still, that's what it feels like. Like, for this latest move, there is this boy in London named Luke.

Now, I just want to make something clear - I wanted to move to London ages, YEARS, before I ever met Luke. And, undeniably, I would still be moving to London even if I never met him. But knowing he's there, knowing he's alive, makes the move so much sweeter and more excited. The possibility of a man who I cared for once is intoxicating. That he is a total babe doesn't hurt either.

Nothing is going to happen. That is the truth - nothing is going to happen between the two of us. But my friend Courtny once said that I should keep him my perpetual dream, which I have been doing. That is latest move of mine could make my dream into a reality, though, is almost too sweet to bear.

Timer

I've been told that one day it will happen. That even if it ends badly, one day it will happen. That one day, I'll be standing in a coffee shop, or a party, or a meeting, and then he'll walk in the door, and everything will change. That I'll have met HIM. And everything will be dated bc/ad after that first meeting.

And the worst part? It's not just popular media telling me this. Although I will admit I've had a LEEEEEEttle too much red wine and have had Ally McBeal on nonstop, I know it's not just me or the popular media or Hallmark because I've seen my best friends fall victim of it. Meeting someone and knowing, within the first 48 hours, that this is, well, IT.

And it's devastating. Because I KNOW it's real, because I KNOW it's a possibility, I'll always be looking. Always. I'll always be looking for Him because I know he's out there. I mean, he has to be. There wouldn't be such things as kismets or soulmates if there wasn't one for everyone. I mean, the cosmic injustice would just be too brutal to withstand.

And there are kismets. And there are soulmates. And there is someone for everyone.

So this is hard. This waiting. This knowing. And worst of all, this uncertainty. Maybe it's already happened for me. Or maybe, because of karma or whatever, it will never happen.

Or maybe, just maybe, it's just about to happen.

There is a word in Spanish that means both waiting and hoping. And that, I'd suppose, is what I've been doing. In my own, young way. Hoping that one day I'll have earned it.

But my heart has grown weary. Because whereas before, I used to hold my breathe every time someone new walked in the door, now I don't bother. Now I don't try to dress my best because I probably won't need to. Now, I eat too much and don't try to do my hair.

So where am I? In the middle of youth and forever. In the middle of hope and apathy. In the middle of Ally McBeal and too much red wine.

But with too much belief for my own good.

God, I miss him.

I'm embarrassed. I shouldn't miss him. I never really knew him. But I miss him. A lot.

We loved each other from the first minute we met. We made the mistake of liking each other too much when we slept together. I was too young. He was too reckless. But he was (is?) smart, I was pretty, and he was long from home and, in his own way, lonely.

I was too young. I didn't understand. I didn't understand that when a man tells you that you're beautiful, you have to take it with a grain of salt. I didn't understand that when a man sings to you, you're not special, you're just at the right place at the right time. I didn't realize that when a man cries to you, you're nothing more than a spontaneous therapist. And I definitely had no idea that sleeping with a man ruins all the esteem he ever held for you.

I was young, and I thought I was in love. I fell in love with him, I know, when he sang his favorite song to me in his hoarse and rough voice. It was a Gallic song, and he smiled when he sang it. I still remember his drunk, embarrassed grin, flashing quickly in the orange lamp light.

But I was stupid. And he was drunk. We met in the summer, and he was wearing a stupid Hawaiian shirt, and I was earnest and bright.

I miss him. If he had asked me to, I would have done anything for him.

Yet I learned. Hard. And maybe I should thank him one day.

I learned that men will treat you like shit. I learned that blind dedication and uninvited loyalty gets you nowhere. I learned that men don't respect you if you give them leeway to make mistakes. I learned that goodness on your part isn't necessarily reciprocal. I learned that men are men. And that the ones who are wrecks won't change just because you hope they will.

I learned that no one owes you anything, not even decency, and that being a young girl is perhaps the most painfully hopeful existence on the planet.

I can't forgive him for looking at me and asking "why do you allow me to treat you like this?" I'm forever grateful, but never forgiving.

And, despite all this, I just, god, I just miss him so much.

Instead of consuming...

...I shall produce.

Let me tell you about roads. There are roads where I live. There are roads that take you to neighborhoods of houses that look all the same. There are roads on top of leveled mountains that look like curled pieces of yarn. There are whole clusters of identical roads that have names of tropical places (or maybe gems or flowers) that intersect in ways that kids on bikes know by the people who live on them.

There are roads that take you from places. Desperate roads that are always the first to be repaved in the spring. Roads colored artificial black with spoiling, yellow lines.