Venting July 1, 2006

I hate that Bossman keeps showing up at work. Worse–he’s showing up to see another girl. Not me or my co-workers, her. After three months, I thought we were friends. All of us, a group of friends, but he doesn’t care about us now, he just cares about her. He doesn’t care about me anymore. I’m just the girl he wanted to fuck, but she’s a girl he actually cares about.

I like her. I hate him.

When he’s not around, I really don’t think about him that much. Life goes on and I keep busy, but it hurts me to see him now. Just a week ago he told me he ‘really liked dani’. My eyes must’ve looked teary because he started saying: I never wanted to hurt you. Words don’t mean anything to me–he hurt me–i am hurt. I don’t care about his fiance, I knew the deal from the beginning, but somewhere along the way I began to believe that he was cheating on her with me, because he kind of liked me. Now it looks like he is cheating on her, to cheat. With whoever! Not only I am NOT special, I am easily disposable. We are disposable–our friendship.

He didn’t mean to hurt me. HE HURT ME! ‘Meant to’ has nothing to do with it. I’m hurt, damn it.

As usual, when I’m upset, the walls go up. A wall for every boy who’s ever hurt me. Every boy who’s ever said: I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I like someone else. Walls as far back as 7th grade. 

PAYUM: standing on the steps of the library the morning after I caught him having sex with another girl. “Don’t be hurt, but I’m cutting my summer flings. I’ve found a girl I really want to date”.

JAMES: Amanda, I love you, but I’m marrying another girl in January.

NATE: you’re not enough for me.

I freeze up. At the very moment that history repeats itself–at the very utterance of another girl’s name–my eyes change. It’s not my fault, I’ve always had a very expresive face, and I can’t help but let the world see what I’m feeling. If you looked, you’d see the walls–the concrete distance I create between me and him. Pushing him out of my life. LEAVE ME ALONE, I HATE YOU, GET AWAY FROM ME!

Don’t be upset, he says, I didn’t mean to hurt you.

My first response: I’m not hurt, I’m fine. I suck it up and shake it off. I say: You could never hurt me, you’re not that special! You will never hurt me, because I will feel nothing for you. As time passes, I have time to recover from the shock and digest what really happened. the walls get thicker and higher, and after a week I can’t see you at all. Hurt? Me? Over you?

Whatever.

I dare you to hurt me. Try. You’ll never be my friend again, you’ll never have my trust.

I trusted you, I thought you cared about me. You did, but not the way I guess I wanted you to. In the end, it means, i don’t want to see you anymore. I don’t want to be friends, I don’t want to pretend things are cool, like nothing ever happened. I saw how you looked at me, it wasn’t just sex. Go away, please. Give me some space so I can build some more walls, and cage myself in, from predators like you.

Hurt me? You could never hurt me, because to me, you are nothing. You are vile, indecent, and loathsome. Go hang out with your new mistress, because your old mistress is disgusted by you.

Be careful not to hurt her though. We both know you never intend to leave your fiance. We both know that you’re greedy. You can’t start a relationship with someone else when you’re taken–that in itself says that YOU MEAN TO HURT THEM!

Don’t say you didn’t, you’re not a fool. I knew it was wrong when I did it, but I had little to lose. This is YOUR future you’re messing with. If your fiance is your whole life, then let her be enough for you. Stop looking for other girls. YOU MEAN TO HURT THIS GIRL, JUST LIKE YOU MEANT TO HURT ME.

If you say it was just sex between us, you’re a liar. You’re a liar regardless. Don’t talk to me until September, when we have to work together again. I need some time to forget and forgive what happened between us. I love this magazine, and I love the way we work together, but I don’t love you. I don’t love how you took me for granted.

I’m a very passionate person, and I get carried away sometimes. I am young, and trying to figure a lot of myself out.

I thought we were friends. Good friends. I thought you really cared about me. But I don’t care about you now. I told you three weeks ago that we couldn’t have sex anymore because I was starting to like you. You wouldn’t stop–every day you’d flirt with me.

You’d put your hand up my skirt, in the rare moments we were alone in the office! Don’t pretend it never happened. You prevoked me because you knew I liked you. You used my emotions to get what you wanted from me: sex. Friends don’t do that. Friends don’t take advantage of other friends vulnerabilities.

Who else were you doing this to? How many other girls in the office were you fucking in the massage room? You fucking jerk-off! I ABSOLUTELY DESPISE YOU!!! If I didn’t care about this magazine so much–if I didn’t dream about it every night, and plan for it every day–if I didn’t love it so much, and want so much for it to be successful, I’d never talk to you again.

Get the fuck out of my office and out of my face. We are no longer friends. My friends don’t hurt or use me. I can’t think of a more disrespectful thing you could do, than flaunt another co-worker in my face, and tell me: I didn’t mean to hurt you.

Sick May 23, 2006

I’ve done it now. I’ve really fucking done it. He has a fiance–i met her–she’s a nice girl. He is my boss until Friday and more importantly, my friend. How could I have been so stupid, how could I have fucked him?

I mean, Oh my goodness, what am I doing? I am so fucked up. He is so fucked up. We are both fucked.

All the time I say that I’m a first choice girl, I’m a girl that deserves more. What the hell do I deserve for doing something like this? I feel sick to my stomach.

Couple May 20, 2006

It was so ordinary…so nonchalant…you would’ve never noticed anything had even happened between us…besides the half-faded hickeys on my neck. So ninth grade.

He sat with his girlfriend-as a couple-and we showed up drunk–the women from work. Them and us, seperated by a table. He kissed her in public, in front of me, like it wouldn’t matter. (And it didn’t, I felt nothing for him). He barely talked to me, and when he did, it was about the office. He was with the wifey and I was nothing.

I don’t like him, nor do I want him to like me, but it left me wondering about men and PDA. Not even two nights ago he was kissing me…throwing me down on my living room floor and tearing my clothes off my body…and now…he’s kissing her cheek. Same lips that made my neck turn red, on her.

DISGUSTING.

Is this what men do? Cheat and make up for it by bringing the girl and the mistress together, for a reaffirming PDA session? She’s the girl I love–look–I’m proving it right now. Oh please–like I would’ve ever touched you if I were in my right state of mind. Honestly!

He was the one that wanted to have sex with me. I didn’t let him–I THREW HIM OUT! What is this? How am I supposed to trust a man who kisses me in public again? Or a man that claims to be working late and out ‘with the boys’?

He isn’t with the boys–he’s with me you poor girl.

WHATEV–I’m over it. OVER MEN ALL TOGETHER. Being single when all your friends are married, engaged, or pregnant is one sad place sometimes…but being with a man (a horrible, untrustworthy man!)…is not where I’d rather be.

He Don’t Love Me Enough! May 5, 2006

Hi Nate

Friday is my first day off in almost three weeks. Are you free to hang out?

Amanda

I stared at the screen without entering his email address. I was at work. The screen, a two-dimensional prison sentence with its hard lines and quick blinking picture, dared me to press send, but I didn’t. Send was too big of a committment to make spur-of-the-moment. Entering his email address would’ve forced me over the edge. I couldn’t send it. I couldn’t beg for his attention. For his love. Not anymore.

Instead I waited outside the bathroom for my co-worker. ‘Shevonne, come here with me please?’ When she sat in front of the computer and read my email she said: ‘Amanda, no’. She saw Nate when he dropped by work a few weeks ago. She thinks I loved him because of the way he looked. He’s totally hot. I mean, TOTALLY HOT.

But that wasn’t it. I’ve never been as happy, as I was with him.

SO I deleted the email. Because I’ve never been as destroyed, as I was when he left me…and that’s what I remember more than being happy. Not being loved enough is worse than not being loved at all.

Man Killer April 30, 2006

Lately I’ve been thinking the Bossman is right. Maybe something is fundamentally wrong with me. Maybe there is something about my personality that repulses men when they’re out of my presence. It’s the only explanation, but I don’t know how to change.

I’m pretty much the same with everyone. Funny. Sweet. I know what I want. People usually love me for that. But men are different. They love me while they’re talking to me, and I never hear from them again.

This fucking sales job is making me crazy. It’s not me, it’s my job. It’s not personal. They don’t want my product — not me! right? My boss doesn’t think so. He thinks I do something to men that makes them not want me.

But what?

I IMed the new Daniel after over a week of no communication. It went like this:

Me: daniel?
Him: hi
Me: hey, you’re alive
Him: sign offline

Now come on. The last words the boy said to me was ‘i think its a miracle that i met you tonight’ and could barely bring himself to say goodnight. you tell me, what the hell did i do to deserve ’signed off’ in my face?

When I Think About Him April 20, 2006

When I think about him, I think about me. My butterflies. My blank mind and open eyes.

When I think about his smile, I think about me. I must’ve said something funny. dear God, what am I saying and why am I still talking?

When I think about his touch, I think about him touching me. With his perfect pink mouth and teasing, long fingers.

When I think about his funny, questioning face…his one raised eyebrow and mischievous grin…I think: why couldn’t I make him happy enough to stay?

When i think about him, I wonder why I can’t get him out of my head. I think: if I talk about him, I’ll keep him on my lips, outside my body. I can’t swallow him, digest him, absorb him into my blood if he stays on my outside. If he’s not in my blood he can’t get to my heart and kill me again. He can’t get close enough again, to hurt me.

When I think about him, I know he’s in my brain. I know he’s in my dreams and on my mind. When I think about what he did to me, how he treated me, I want to vomit. When I think about his eyes — the way his eyes oozed contempt onto my grandmother’s quilt. I think about his hands, pushing me away. When i think about him I can’t breathe and I want to melt into the city and walk with my eyes down at my feet.

When I think about US…and the way we were…when we used to do crazy shit and laugh for hours…I think: what happened? What went wrong? Did I love him too much?

Yes

He loved me when I kept him laughing. He loved me when he was sober. Was he just too drunk in the end?

Yes

Was I too vulnerable? Did I pressure him for something he wasn’t ready to give me?

Yes

When I think about him, I think about me. When I think about me, I think: I’m happier without him.

Twice in Three Weeks? April 13, 2006

It was a little after six and I was meeting with a client who had rescheduled at least three times in the last week — part her fault, part mine. My manager set her up for the week and I was doing a half-hearted version of the official tour, as she was telling me about her boyfriend the surgeon who recently came into trouble with the IRS. At the beginning of her explanation we turned a corner and I saw a familiar figure out the corner of my eye. I knew it was Nate. I didn’t have to fully see him to know what he was wearing and I realized, I know all his clothes. I looked down at my skirt and thought, he knows mine too. I wore this to his house one night, and the next day on the subway when I walked away he watched me climb the stairs and he said later that, at that moment, (in that skirt) he wanted to jump me.

Embarassed at my memory, and still trying to sympathize with my somewhat unstable client, I kpet walking towards him. When we passed each other he smiled and waved and I pretended he was just another co-worker or client. Frank was with him. Frank his best friend, whom I detest. Frank who said to me, on more than one occasion, that I should know my place, I’m just a woman.

Uh. Can you even imagine?

The tour ended on a slightly shakey note and I bounded up to the front desk to ask questions. Well, only one question really: What was he doing here?

Apparantly he drops by every now and then, maybe once a month, to say hi to his old co-workers. Interesting that he picked today, knowing that I work there now and he just emailed me last night saying he’d give me a call about dinner sometime next week or the following week.

At first seeing him AGAIN was normal, I wasn’t surprised, but once I saw him with Frank and I rememebered what it was like dating him (and essentailly his friends), I shuddered at the thought of ever seeing him again. I dunno about love anymore, I only know that the thought of kissing him is beginning to repulse me and I want to run far, far away.

We Women March 24, 2006

Thank God I’m a girl. Girls feel things. they care about people. Relationships don’t end, love doesn’t just stop. Girls care! About other girls, about past boys. They miss their friends. I miss MY friends — the ones I don’t see or talk to anymore! Corinna from Germany who was my close friend in boarding school. We fell out of touch in the past 4 years and I miss her and think about her all the time. Just because she’s not in my life, doesn’t mean she’s not part of it. It’s not a ‘me’ thing either, it’s a girl thing. Every girl I know is this way. We feel and we remember. That’s why boys call us crazy.

While men — that cold, cruel, flippant complimentary gender — are content to drop people out of their lives, women aren’t. Men are capable of loving and leaving. Forgetting. ignoring. They stop communicating after goodbye. Goodbye is the jump off for women — that’s when things start being said!!! But men stop listening because their ability to care closed with the slam of a door.

For every man that’s done this to a woman, the woman is worse off and more afraid to try again with another man. There’s that hurt. The lingering fear of becoming ‘that crazy girl I used to date’ again, with a new guy. Are we women ‘crazy’ though? Absolutely. We are fucking out of our minds and you, as men, deserve it! You make us crazy. You make us feel tossed aside and used! By not talking, by ignoring and forgetting, you belittle the entire relationship! you crush every beautiful moment into a jabbing knife that comes back years later to stab us in the heart, at the very moment when we actually meet a nice guy. When we think we’re over it, we discover we’re not. Because we care, feel and remember.

remember with love.

remember with affection.

So maybe we send an email a few months later, to express the fact that ‘we still care’ and ‘want to maintain a friendship’. Maybe we forgo pride on the ticket of ‘perhaps he misses me too’. We give you a phone call to say ‘what’s up, are you ok?’

We send an email offering no strings attached sex on your lunch hour.

We do it out of love. We do it because we remember how it felt to be happy with you. We women. We ‘crazy-girl-you-used-to-date’ women.

Rant March 19, 2006

Am I never going to get over him? Is this how my life is going to be? Pining over some stupid boy from some stupid summer. Comparing everyone to him. Comparing me now to me then. What if he met me now? What if it never happened? This summer! This summer maybe it’ll be different. But the boy won’t be him so why should I bother!

I hate him! HATE HIM HATE HIM HATE HIM!

Leave me alone Nate, get out of my fucking dreams! You’re making me fucking crazy over here! You and you’re hateful eyes and repulsive condescention! You and you’re stupid laugh and stupid pouty lips!

I hate those lips!

I hate them for what they said to me. How they kissed me! I hate your blue eyes and your baby blonde hair. I hate the way you’d be kind to me. I don’t want your kindness. I don’t want your orange juice or a glass of red wine.

I hate red wine. I only drank it because you asked me to. Because you loved it and said: Please try this, Amanda. Don’t say my name! I hate how you say my name with your non-existent mid-western accent. I’m from Detroit, we don’t have accents. I hate Detroit! The whole middle America disgusts me, because of you.

Kaela’s boyfriend broke up with her. She’s crying herself to sleep. It makes me hate you more! How could he do that to her? How could you do that to me! I blame you for every boy who ever hurt any girl! You are the reason. They learned how to be that mean from you.

Get out of the back of my mind, get out of my dreams! leave me alone. Why do I wonder if you think about me anymore? You don’t, right? You haven’t in a long time. I hate you for not thinking about me. I hate you. You make me sick and crazy and bitter. I don’t think any boy will ever love me because of you. I don’t think I’ll ever be good at anything because I wasn’t good enough for you. I hate that you make me think this way. I hate how I feel when I think about you.

It’s not your fault, it’s mine. I put you in my head, I put you in my dreams. But I can’t hate me so I hate you. But I can’t hate you, because I love you, and that makes me want to throw up. I can’t love you, I can’t go back. So leave me the fuck alone! Get out of my head! Get out of my sleep.

Be Weary March 12, 2006

Be weary of the white jamaican boy who:

1. Says he wants to buy you a house
2. wants to take you on a trip
3. invites you out to lunch…on his boat…at a pricey restaurant
4. offers to send you a plane ticket to miami for the weekend
5. introduces you to his family
6. talks about marriage
7. eludes to stability, safety, financial security…
8. holds your hand and kisses your forehead
9. tells you ‘you’re not like other 22 year old girls’ he knows…
10. likes what you wear, how you wear it, and imagines how it would look on the floor beside his bed…

Be weary of the blonde American boy who:

1. Waits a week before calling to ask for a date that same afternoon
2. Won’t call you his girlfriend after a month of basically ’shacking up’
3. Says he’s falling in love with you then threatens to walk out of your life if you ask for a committment
4. Dabbles in social and not-so-social drug use…
5. Is a self-proclaimed alcoholic with no intention to cut back
6. Makes you laugh and cry harder and louder than you ever have before
7. looks at you when you talk to his friends, without any apology, reason, or anything more than a slight, appreciative smile on his lips
8. says you make him crazy sometimes. crazy in a good way.
9. meets your eyes through the closing doors of a subway car, and holds them in his until the train moves out of the station
10. Mummbles a casual ‘thanks for letting me stay here last night’, and walks out of your life for good

Be weary of the black American boy who:

1. speaks loveingly with his hands rather than his words
2. looks back twice after saying goodbye
3. Flirts with the room, but stops when he sees you
4. kisses with his eyes closed in public places
5. chases you for months, begging and promising, then stops talking to you after the first night you say ‘ok, maybe..’

Be weary of the foriegn boys, they think they’re pimps because they speak two languages. (Two languages to lie to you in, my dear…)

Be weary of the local boys, they mistake time with you for an eqivalent of an elongated spring break. (If you can’t get to cancun, cancun will get to you…)

Be weary of boys that call you sweetie, honey, sexy, gorgeous, and baby.

Be weary of the shorter boys, they have something to prove.

Be weary of the ballers/shot callers, they have women on the side and you’re probably one of them.

Be weary of the nice, shy, decent guys, they’re into urination, defacation and strangulation during orgasm.

Be weary of the indians, they won’t marry you. (well they won’t marry me).

Be weary of the Latin lovers, they like to spread it around.

Be weary of the boy who makes you feel the safest, prettiest, and most yourself. He is the boy who holds all the cards, and the one who can make them all fall down.