Prague 6/29 - Being Back

I am – to be totally honest – not entirely certain what I’m doing here.

As you can tell from the last entry, my post grad plans have never been something I’ve been 100% on anyway. Well, now I’m here, and I’m haunted. Not in the interesting sense like a Japanese goat god is coming out of my shower drain or that there are violins and rain accompanying me into dark bars where I quaff whiskey and lament to the barkeep with a perpetually dirty glass that if only I’d been better he/she wouldn’t have gotten away/died. Nonetheless, the apparitions following me are so intense some times I think I might be able to actually see them.

 I knew coming back wasn’t going to be the same. Just logistically, I’ll be working instead of attending classes of laughable difficulty. And I know my friends won’t be here this time. But when I was collecting my bags at the terminal, which also happened to be the terminal the Czech dropped me off at when I left in December, I could almost see him. First I was picturing what he would have looked like coming back from a trip he took in January, and then I walked past the place we’d had our last goodbye. Then, driving into the city, we drove past all these places – not even places, just streets – I had so many fond memories off. Like the street where Max and Martin fell in love while Sara and I mocked them from behind, puffing a cigarette, or the place the Czech and I had our first kiss, the Catholic faculty Sara and I took classes at, or the suicide bridge which reminds me of that art exhibit I liked with Max so much. Then it turns out I live literally one block up the hill from the Huskineska stop, which is about seven blocks from my apartment on Slavikova I lived in last fall, so I know the neighborhood well, and it’s not like I’ve actually moved. Everything is the same. I shouldn’t be surprised, if Prague was a card in Magic, it’d have a +20 resistance to change, and it’s only been seven months. I’ve changed, though, and I can’t slip easily back into where I was. First, because of the lack of my two most significant relationships. Second, because I don’t fit into that hole any more. It’s… sad. We were driving past the park with the metronome, and on one side of the street was the park, which I love because of the metronome, and on the other was a green building with grimy cherubs above the door. My immediate reaction wasn’t glee, it was nausea, which is about the last thing I expected. The first time, my first 24 hours were full of wonder. Now… Well, I went down to the clock and got some tredelnik in Mala Strana, and the whole way there, instead of wonder, it was familiarity. But not the nice kind, where you feel comfortable and welcome. It just felt blah. Just normal, but at the lowest end of the scale.

Basically, it’s not magical anymore.

I suppose I can always leave. Once I’ve got this TEFL thing done, international doors are a little easier to open up. And I was sent something of a blessing in the form of another’s suffering. Wait, let me explain. There was a British girl on my flight from Heathrow to Prague, and British Airlines did her the fantastic favor of losing her baggage. We also happened to be in the same room for the first night (I’ve been moved into a flat one floor lower). I spent the majority of today showing her around the city and helping her find the things she needs. We went to an H&M so she could get a change of clothes, Vodafone so we could get phones straightened out for the two of us (sold her my old burner phone, so don’t call that one anymore), and the Super Tesco for toiletries and basic food items. Understandably, she’s overwhelmed. I get the very strong impression she doesn’t want to be here, and then her bags were lost, and now she’s in a foreign country alone with none of her stuff and no clue what to do about much of anything. So while that sucks for her, and I’m very sorry, it was a welcome distraction. Being able to fuel my energy into something productive, especially something for someone else, and not into moping significantly improved my mood.

Being in the HM while she grabbed socks and shirts, it felt like being in there with Julia at Christmas looking for a sweater for her interview, and walking to the Tesco was like walking to the internship teaching English Thursday mornings. And while the context of the whole thing is different enough to bother me, over top the patina is the same. There’s a distinct feel to Prague that’s almost impossible to describe. And while it’s different for everyone, I’m sure at it’s core, it’s mostly the same. For me, that patina, that feeling, radiates not from within, but from without. It’s the smell coming up from the metro stations when you pass on the street, it’s the uneven cobblestone sidewalks, it’s the grime on the walls and the graffiti tags everywhere (my personal favorite). These things wrap you up, and though you’re isolated because you can’t understand the language of the passerby, which isn’t always Czech, you’re also being absorbed into the walls. It’s like something out of a fantasy book. And the first time, it took a month before I was comfortable enough to realize it was happening. When you stop worrying about which tram to take and stop trying to convert what you just spent in your head and stop worrying that you feel so alone, the patina of the city folds up around you and you realize that Prague has slid her ethereal hands up through your pant legs and has got a comfortable grip around your ankles keeping you on the ground. Kafka said something about Prague being a mother with sharp claws that dig into you till you can’t go. I don’t think that’s it at all. Because I’m back, and there certainly isn’t any motherly sensation. Nor were the “claws” I felt ever from the actual city, but instead the people I’d left here. No, I think the reason Prague is addicting is because your feet safely anchored to the ground is a sensation new cities don’t give you, and it’s human nature to want to have a stable place to walk. But this patina, this feeling of having my feet on stable ground, isn’t covering anything else significant. I have nothing here to make that patina a glossy finish over something solid, and instead it’s like holding a soap bubble. Insubstantial. Nor am I at a point in my life where stability is a high priority.

So go back and reread my first post from last fall when I was here. I’m still sitting in a Zizkov apartment listening to the minimal traffic, still drinking Twinings loose leaf earl grey (brought a tea strainer this time so I don’t have to make it in a French Press), still plugging away at my computer. But I’m such a different person now.

Another letter to another important person

I have a friend – my best friend, to be specific. One of many best friends, because I am lucky, though she holds the distinction of being my best friend for the longest period of time. I have a friend who is very different from me, though very much the same in some ways. Some times I think that if we hadn’t met at such a young age, or if we lived in the same city, or if we saw each other in any circumstances other than those we have to laboriously manufacture for ourselves, we wouldn’t be friends at all. And then I’m grateful that those things define the parameters of our friendship, because I like her so very much. I’m writing this because I know she’ll see it eventually and I know she’s about to go do a very hard thing. And I might alienate some of the people in her life because they are telling her very different things, but she needs to hear them again and again until they either stop being pertinent or she has them committed to memory.

Ignore your parents. I don’t mean always. Don’t ignore their advice about not racking up to much credit card debt, or which car to buy. Don’t ignore your dad’s lectures on saving for the future, because one day you’ll be his age, too. Don’t ignore what your mom says about the men in your life because she can see their motivations with a clarity you can’t. But do ignore their worry. Ignore their terror you won’t be “more successful” than them. You get to define your success, not them. They did an excellent thing, setting you up for the life you’re about to lead, but none of that means anything if you let them hang it like an anchor around your neck. I know they mean well and they just want what’s best for you. But if you don’t figure that out on your own, you’re going to resent them. They’ll be mad because they’ll insist they know what’s best, but tell them now you’d rather give them the momentary satisfaction of an “I told you so” than plague yourself with a “what if” for the rest of your life. Let them worry. But don’t let them worry you into inaction.

Ask for help. You are so very proud, and I would fix all your problems every time I get a panicked voicemail if I could. But I don’t have that kind of power, and I think that’s why you come running to me first. I don’t know why you think this, but asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness, it’s a sign of trust. It means you trust someone enough to let them see you for what you really are, which is human. You’re beautiful even when you’re so panicked that you’re calling me and texting me at the same time. You talk with a laugh in your voice, and even when you’re on the verge of tears, I can still hear it there. Your whole body vibrates when you talk about anything, including impending homelessness and failing grades, that makes it seem like you’re so alive that you’re going to jump into a higher level of humanity at any second now. Let people other than me see this. The great thing about being beautiful – and I don’t mean just physically – is that you are in the middle of a crowd of people who would love it if you crowd sourced some of your problems. I promise that for every problem you have, someone around you has the answer. Sometimes it’ll be you, and sometimes it won’t. But they won’t know to give it to you unless you let them see you need it. And they’re scared, too. They’re scared that if they offer help when you don’t need it, they’ll look stupid. So it’s up to you. No one is going to hand you anything… until you ask for it.

Choose every morning what kind of life you want. Make daily the choices that will point you in that direction. If you don’t make a conscious decision to be always who you want to be, the path of least resistance will pull you into someone you don’t like. Probably not someone you hate, but is that a risk you’re willing to take? Be with who makes you happy, do what makes you smile, and most of all, make sure that if you had to confront yourself in the past, you could honestly tell yourself you’ve improved. But you’re stubborn, and I know that you’ll think this means making the things you want to happen, happen. That’s not true, either. The only thing we can control is our reaction. To anything. You cannot force your way into the school or job you want, you cannot force someone to love you, you really cannot force much of anything. Certainly you can pursue these things, and you should, because inaction is a reaction too. But please, carry with you the clarity to know when something isn’t your fault. Continually act and react like the person you want to be, and through that habit, make it a reality.

I know I don’t have the answers. In fact, five years from now I’m sure we’ll laugh at this because it’ll be hilarious how much I thought I knew. But right now, we’re young enough not to know better, so it’ll suffice. And in five years I’ll write you a new list of things I want you to remember as you start the next hard thing. Finally, a couple more things you already know, but it won’t hurt to hear again. I love you in that totally lame way that inspires needlepoint platitudes. You can do anything, and the only thing stopping you is your own fear. You are surrounded by people who feel the exact same way, even if they don’t say it or say it as nicely. You look good in red lipstick. I love the sound of your laugh, especially when you snort. Stop hunching, you’re tall and you just have to deal with it. And when all else fails, hug the buffalo. 

Denver 5/7

I really ought to be reading a book. Specifically, I need to be reading the first hundred pages of Manuel Castell’s book Networks of Outrage and Hope. I’ve finished and turned in my thesis, so for the next four weeks, my focus needs to be on securing A-s in two of my three classes so as not to jeopardize the summa cum laude distinction I’ve been chasing somewhat aggressively for a year and a half now. But instead I’m sitting on the porch of my apartment which I share with my best friend while a thunderstorm begins what it’s been threatening to do for most of the afternoon. Namely, drizzle a bit, make a great deal of noise, and then go on its merry way until tomorrow afternoon when we’ll be accosted by another storm that’ll make more noise than actual fuss. Even though my lap top screen is suffering the occasional speckle of moisture under our awning and the street is already black instead of the normal muted grey, I can already see the edge of the clouds off at the horizon, pinching the setting sun between themselves and the mountains. Of course, having grown up here and lived here for all but 12 months of my life (9 in Spokane, 3 in Prague), I know that what I’m seeing isn’t the mountains, but rather the foothills. I can see the mountains from my balcony on a clear day, but the clouds being what they are and the sun being where it is, only the foothills are in sight.

And while I’m sitting here, four pages into what is going to be a very dull night, I’m waxing pensive. As I do, when I’m procrastinating something. Specifically my decision to move after I go abroad. It’s a decision I made a while ago, and it’s gotten quite a bit of couch time during my various forms of formal and informal therapy, but I haven’t really ever sat down and written much about it. I don’t know why that is, though that’s another subject to bring up next time I have a table full of friends drinking my tea and telling me exactly why I need to stop worrying. I want to talk about it now, I think, because I’ve finally made up my mind about it.

We might as well start at the beginning. I don’t know if you could say I lived in Prague because I didn’t really do any of the things that really make up the mundane and simultaneously frightening things that constitute being an independent adult, like paying rent, or getting a job, or really dealing with the consequences of any of my actions. I don’t want to invalidate the experience at all, but the Cydney who spent time there was not the Cydney who’d spent 21 years prior trying to become an adult. It was definitely a childish experience, and I don’t mean with any of the negative connotations. But I want to emphasize that because it basically rebooted my system far back enough that I was able to take a good hard look at who I was, and which changes I really wanted to make. I think I’m still kind of doing that, even now. But I decided at the end of my first month there that instead of getting a real job, I would come back and teach English. How much of that was influenced by having a local paramour is a matter of debate. On the surface, at least, the decision survived two break-ups while there, and a third once home.

During the month of January, returning to Prague was something of a Holy Grail/Sorcerer’s Stone panacea I was grasping towards to keep the paramour’s attention. “Just six months, baby, it’s not that bad.” I could say all sorts of things about him and why the relationship faded almost the instant I left the country, but I’ll leave that for a different discussion. Suffice to say, it didn’t work, and most of February I put the decision on the back burner, explaining “That’s hardly a choice I can make now. I’ll wait till I’ve calmed down and my head’s cleared.” March it felt like that had mostly happened, and halfway through the month I sent in a deposit to secure my place at a language school in Prague to get my TEFL after graduation. It didn’t feel like a decision, though. I guess part of that is how I mentally conceptualize decisions. A decision is something I put a lot of thought into, and takes will power, and if I’ve made the right one, I’ll be excited about it. This didn’t feel like that. It felt like I’d taken the easiest option, the one offered to me with the fewest obstacles and the least amount of opposition from anyone around me. And as anyone close to me will tell you, if someone tells me which decision I ought to make, I will 9 times out of 10 take the opposite choice. I just don’t like being told what to do. And I wasn’t excited.

Most of April I spent trying – and failing – not to think about it. How unsure I was that this was the right call. And terror that I might be making it for the wrong reasons. My mother is still convinced that I’m returning to Prague in an attempt to recapture something that’s gone. She specifically means the relationship. I think it’s more than that. Something happened in Prague, that system reboot I mentioned, and 3.5 months wasn’t enough time for it to finish. I’ve had a sensation (that’s mostly gone by now) that something started in Prague that was put on hold when I got home, and I needed to restart it, let it finish. Maybe the feeling’s gone because the statute of limitations has worn out and I’ve lost my momentum. Maybe I accidentally finished it here. But I know I can’t recreate the experience the first time around, for a handful of reasons. The two best friends I met there won’t be returning, they’ll be finishing school, so there won’t be long walks discussing everything from porn to politics or tea in a basement apartment at the top of Wenceslas. I’ll have to get a job, and deal with those terrifying little adult things like rent and taxes, and the first time I get sick, no one’s going to take me to the doctor and then show up with soup and antibiotics. But most importantly, I’ve finally reached the point where my bluster about not wanting anything to do with the former paramour has stopped being bluster. It was a very important step for me, but I realized that instead of “I want you in my life and can’t have you,” it’s become “I can have you in my life, and don’t want you.” And that’s big for me. It means any residual control he had over my thought process and decision making is gone. It’s relieving.

But now, the month of May, two months before I go, one month before I graduate, I’m finding a new thing needs to be grappled with. All the reasons I had for going – relationship, it’s easy, finishing something, reclamation – are all sounding hollow. I’ve been accused of ruling by committee, not trusting myself enough to make my own decisions. I choose to look at the panicked mass texts I send out to the (astoundingly large) circle of friends who mostly act as bar stool therapists as crowd sourcing. Everyone always comes back with a different iteration of the same answer. “You can do it because______” Someone observed, though, that my terror at the little things really just is me shooting holes in my own boat before it leaves harbor. And I think she’s right.

So after long deliberation, I have come up with this. I am going to write it on the inside of my eyelids if I have to, so I remember this moment sitting on my porch in the rain, which is profoundly reminiscent of the first time I sat down and wrote a blog post in Prague. I described myself then as a “young lady of mostly sound mind and healing heart in a foreign city.” Now, I think I’m a young lady of debatable sanity, healed heart, and tenacious soul about to leave on a grand adventure. I’m leaving the city where I am most comfortable, safest, with easy access to a miraculously large group of infinitely loving people who care about my well being to go have an adventure whose only goal will be to see how far I get. That’s all. I’m going to go have an adventure and see how far I get. I can’t fail with that goal, so it’s not scary any more. And for the first time since I sent my deposit in, I am genuinely excited.

So very excited.

My Baking Guide for Morons

So few things on the internet both me enough I feel I need to rant and rave about them for more than a couple minutes. This, however, has had me pissed off long enough to make a cake, eat a cake, and then post about it.

LAZY BAKING OUT OF BOXES IS THE BANE OF MY EXISTENCE AND SOMEONE DECIDED TO MAKE IT WORSE. Seriously, is the only thing preventing you from eating TWO CAKES in nightly, cup sized increments ease of access? IS THAT YOUR PROBLEM, INTERNET? God fucking... I hate this so much I am inarticulate! THIS IS WHY THE WORLD HATES US.

So to show you exactly how easy it is to make coffee mug cake BECAUSE IT AINT THAT FUCKING HARD, I've made this nice guide with pictures and everything for STUPID PEOPLE JUST LIKE YOU, DUNCAN FUCKING HINES.

GRAAAAHHHHHHH

1) Find a mug. It doesn't have to be this big, but you need a mug. YOU HAVE A MUG.

2) Find a Tablespoon and some flour. Put four tablespoons of flour in your mug. YOU HAVE A MUG WITH FLOUR IN IT.

 3) Find some sugar. Put four tablespoons of that in the mug. NOW YOU'VE GOT FLOUR AND SUGAR IN YOUR MUG... stupid.

4) Hot coco mix, get three big'ol tablespoons of that all up in your mug. OKAY I'M NOT DOING THIS ANYMORE.

5) Find your salt. It doesn't have to be as fancy as my salt, I won't judge. And I don't mean "salt of the earth" like "I'm stupid, I eat cake from boxes," I mean actual fucking salt. Put a big pinch in your mug.

6) Get baking powder, shield it from the sun while you take a picture, put two pinches of that in your mug. Only you don't actually have to take a picture.

7) One egg. One "I'm better than you" egg. Crack that jerk, stick him in your mug. Show him who's boss.

8) Make sure your milk isn't sour, then put three tablespoons in with all this other junk in yo' mug.

9) Tablespoon of veggie oil comes next. Or melted crisco, if you just want all the cholesterol ever.

10) See, all that stuff is in your mug. Don't worry, this takes like 30 seconds. Be patient, we'll get there. Grab a fork.

11) Mix all that junk up with the fork. Technically you should whisk it, but I know you're bad at this, so we'll call it mixing so I don't scare you off.

12) Look! All mixed! Couple chunks or bubbles are fine, but it should look like this.

13) Put whatever the hell you want in your cake.

Chocolate fudge: yes

Cinnamon: yes

Garlic: no

Instant stuffing: no

Caramel sauce: yes

Peanut butter: yes

Beer: maybe? I mean, if you need beer in your cake, maybe just have a beer.

Spinach: no

13) Stick that mug full of junk in the microwave

14) Give it a minute and thirty seconds, then an additional 30 seconds if the cake is goopey. Keep doing that till your cake looks like cake.

15) Stare wistfully out the window while your cake cooks. Dream of cake.

16) Eat your cake like the fatass you are.

Being gross: There's an app for that

So I’ll admit it, because as many jokes as we make, no one else wants to. I have a Tinder account. I also have a Lets Date, which I actually started back in January. And while the two apps are functionally the same thing, turns out in the aggregate, people men are nicer on Lets Date than on Tinder. Lets Date people genuinely want to date. They’re interested in who you are as a person, they want to know your likes and dislikes, and they want to buy you dinner. Tinder people are only concerned about your likes and dislikes insofar as they pertain to sexual fetishes, and they most they’re interested in springing for is a drink. Possibly with a roofie. So once Let’s Date had dried up and I had effectively gotten bored with everyone in the Denver area willing to buy me dinner (there was one person it would have genuinely been nice to spend time with, but he lived in Nebraska which might as well have been Pluto), I signed up on Tinder for shits and giggles, and then made my discovery that EVERYONE ON TINDER IS GROSS. Basically it’s the straight person’s Grindr, and if you don’t know what that is, I highly suggest you google it. I’m still using it, though, because it’s fun to be shallow and judge people based on a snapshot and yes I know I’m going to Hell or whatever the ambivalent agnostic’s equivalent is. Maybe it’s reincarnation in Nebraska. Also, I have complied a list of things that will get people’s attention on this shallow app and what will promptly end the conversation.

Girls:

Getting liked:

Being petite (or appearing small)

Being white

Being slightly nerdy

Smiling

Boobs

Evidence of a pulse

Bone structure

Getting blocked:

Accidentally typing “heh” instead of “hey”

A large vocabulary

Being an actual nerd

Talking about your senior thesis

Talking about Marxism, Burkean Rhetoric, Fordism, etc

Talking about literally anything other than sex after the first 24 hours of contact

Guys:

Getting liked:

Having your stars line up

Shirtless pictures

Sunglasses

A dog

Being some kind of athlete

Being employed

Brooding

Smiling

Evidence of a pulse

Getting blocked:

Using “describe your sexual fantasies” as an opener

Using “So are you into Star Wars role playing?” as an opener

Using “We should have a baby and name it Alex” as an opener

Using “I have a boner” as an opener

Demanding naked pics

Not understanding and not pretending to care about Marxism, Burkean Rhetoric, Fordism, etc

Calling yourself “a less murdery Patrick Bateman”

Of course, these are just personal observations. But I don’t think I would recommend Tinder to anyone. Unless your dream guy is “a less murdery Patrick Bateman.”

A functional list of shitty things that I have to deal with

Hey, do you remember how I started this blog to be funny and now I mostly just use it as therapy? Good times... Anyhow, I haven't updated lately, though the last two posts probably make it look like I've been dedicating a lot of time to my exboyfriends. Which isn't the case because school and a shockingly full social life more or less keep me occupied 90% of the time. Also, if I've been dedicating a lot of emotional and mental energy to anything, it's been my post grad plans. I've decided I'm going to move back to Prague to teach English. And as exciting as a thing that is on paper, every day I come up with another stupid reason to be pants-shittingly terrified. So I'm starting a running list here of shitty things that are going to happen and there's no point worrying about them until they actually happen. And they might be a little funny.

1) Problem: All my cooking at home centers around cheese, and the only flavor of cheese I ever found in Prague the first time around was "styrofoam."
How I could avoid it: Pack a second bag only full of cheese. Or learn to make my own.
How I can deal with it like an adult: Learn to cook less dairy-centric food.

2) Problem: I don't speak Czech and I'm not going to have a staff of four locals on call at all times to deal with my petty shit like doctors, taxes, and rent.
How I could avoid it: Marry a local who speaks Czech. Added bonus of making a visa easier to get.
How I can deal with it like an adult: Learn enough Czech while I'm there to survive and practice my "I'm stupid, please pity me" smile.

3) Problem: My ex is going to find out I'm back in the city eventually, and not only is there no foreseeable happy ending to that, I don't want him thinking I moved back in a desperate attempt to win him back.
How I could avoid it: Hide my presence from all our mutual friends, his coworkers, and constantly wear a mask/burqa any place I might run into him.
How I can deal with it like an adult: This one I've mostly figured out already. I don't hate this guy, I really don't. But he served his purpose, and now I'm much happier without him in my life than I ever was with him. Also, every time my brain imagines running into him, I repeat this: "Get coffee with you? That sounds about as much fun as a auto-hysterectomy. And I know English is your second language, so let me explain: I would rather sit in the bathtub and pull my own uterus out than be your friend."Of course, by the time I see him, if I see him, I might not feel that way. Or I might just not see him at all. Basically what I'm saying is, this one I mostly just have to stop thinking about.

4) Problem: I wasn't planning on staying in Prague for very long, I was going to go to Seoul. But now North Korea's being all uppity.

How I could avoid it: Have my grandfather call in a drone strike on Kim Jong Un. He knows people.

How I can deal with it like an adult: Find somewhere else to move. Because Prague is cool, but I'd be an idiot if I didn't go other places when I had the chance.

5) Problem: It's really hard to keep your friendships the same on the other end of the globe.

How I could avoid it: Kidnap all the people I like and bring them with me. In a couple cases, against their own will.

How I can deal with it like an adult: Accept that relationships change, and the people who really genuinely care about me will put in the effort to stay in my life. The only thing I really can do is to find time for them, even if it means waking up at 4 am to skype.

6) Problem: I'm going to teach English, and not only do I speak quickly with big words and a slight lisp, I am not a patient person.

How I could avoid it: I think this one could also be solved by marrying a local, as long as she/he's wealthy enough that I can be a kept woman.

How I can deal with it like an adult: Practice speaking slower and with smaller words, and make a conscious effort to not be sarcastic when my energy and patience run thin.

7) Problem: Everyone else in my life is moving on and turning into adults with houses, careers, and families. I feel like I'm kicking the can down the road.

How I could avoid it: Get a desk job instead, become the Don Draper of whatever industry I enter, alcoholism and philandering included.

How I can deal with it like an adult: Pretend (acknowledge?) that everyone else is just as confused and scared as I am. And while I'm jealous of their picket fences, they'll be jealous of how unattached I am.

8) Problem: There is not a big culinary range in Prague. Don't get me wrong, I love me the hell out of svichkova and goulash, but bye bye ethnic food of any type.

How I could avoid it: Abduct Gordon Ramsay. Keep him chained to my kitchen sink.

How I can deal with it like an adult: Make ethnic friends who can cook it themselves, find all the back alley restaurants that might serve what I want, and learn to cook it myself.

9) Problem: Netflix and Hulu don't work in Prague.

How I could avoid it: Buy Netflix and Hulu. Make them work in Prague.

How I can deal with it like an adult: Pirate all my shows. Learn to do with out.

An open letter to someone who made waves in my life

I wrote this to someone who- fuck it, you read the title. I liked it so much cause I'm in love with my own writing and because it could go to any number of people, that I decided to post it here with a little faith that it'll end up where it need to go.

---

Hey. 

I just wanted to say a couple things. And I hope this isn't long or long winded. And I hope my timing doesn't suck. Like, I hope I'm not sending this on the day you also find out your dog has cancer or your book ends badly and you see this and are like "Oh christ, why now?" Also, I'm rambling a little because I think I'm nervous. I'm debating, while I write this intro that is defeating my own wish that this not be long or long winded, if I should tell you anything about what's happened in my life since you-know-when.

I don't think I will.

If your curiosity overcomes you and you need to know, ask M---. He's been here the whole time, but I also trust him to be heterosexual enough to shrug and be like "I dunno, dude, a lot." Because I need to tell you this one big thing, but I don't want to talk to you. I don't want you in my life. We were bad for each other. Really, really bad. Abusively bad, and that is not an accusation I make lightly. So the same way alcoholics don't have even just one glass, I don't want to have even just one conversation. I don't want to reopen that door, not even a little.

And also, if you and I talk, it ruins my fantasy. Not that you'll get hit by a bus. I want to believe that you are happy. I want to think that you have friends, and that you do things that fulfill you, and that you've learned to stick up for yourself when someone is being mean, and that you've learned to forgive people for the stupid things they say. I want to believe that whoever is sharing your life right now makes you happy, that she (or he) looks at you with eyes full of wonder, and never wants to let go of you, and more than anything else makes you feel wonderful about yourself. Not validated because she (or he) loves you, not in a way that your life's meaning is couched in her (or him). I just hope that they love you enough that you wake up every day knowing that you are worth loving. And I know this sounds like an "Ermahgerd ah misssssssh yerh" kind of thing and it's not. Because I don't want to talk to you, remember? But here's the thing I wanted to say: I'm sorry for the way I made you feel. I'm sorry I dug my heels in over stupid shit all the time, I'm sorry I didn't pay attention to you, but most of all I'm sorry I spent so much time being angry at you when all you did was demand something better than the abuse I was dishing out. You get a lot of crap in your life. "You" here being the abstract pronoun standing in for everyone, because crap is not something that discriminates. And without going into details about how, I moved on.

I hope you did too.

I hope you have an adventure. I hope you learn to love yourself unconditionally and still admit when you've been wrong. I hope your heart becomes durable enough to let everyone in and not break when you let them back out. I hope you bury your toes in the sand of a foreign beach. I hope you learn a new language. I hope you nap in the December sunshine with your arms around someone beautiful. I hope you see something big enough to make you feel insignificant. I hope you make something wonderful enough to be proud of. I hope you love yourself, because no one is going to love you always unless you do, too. And I hope that you never think of me because I don't need you to. But if you slip, and we all slip, I want you to think of me happy, because I am, and I want that for you, too.

-C