Friday, August 26, 2005



"Also, why are you made at me now? Honestly, I can’t keep up."

Seriously, how could you not love a someone who is so brilliant, he's getting his Ph.D. at one of the best schools in the country, but is so doofy, he can't spell three letter words?

If I were to sum up my perfect man in a sentence, it'd be something like that. No wonder I'm so devoted.

Thursday, August 25, 2005



I went to the movies with the boy I'm in love with and another friend last night. As we were sitting in the theatre, waiting for the movie to start, the boy i'm in love with and I started bickering, as we just about everytime we are together. And I turned to my friend, so she'd take my side. She just shook her head and said, "No way. You two leave me out of your strange relationship."
And I didn't know whether to be happy or sad. I mean, did that comment mean, "I can't compare with with complexity and uniqueness of your delightfully quirky and clearly romantic interactions with one another, so I don't even want to try" OR "You two are grossly bizarre and a trainwreck that I want to stay the hell away from, lest some of the inevitable blood and carnage spill over onto me"? I guess there's no way to know for sure.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005



The boy I'm in love with is really starting to know me a bit too well. It used to be when I was unreasonably upset, he'd just do anything he could to cheer me up, so I'd stop being mad at him. And maybe sometimes I'd tell him what had originally set me off. And sometimes I wouldn't. Most of the time, I'd just bask in the glow of his attention.
Now, though, if I try to be a little quiet or a little cold, to teach him a lesson for some real or imagined slight, he'll almost always knock me for a loop by identifying exactly what it is that set me off ("Is this because I wanted to meet at 9:30 instead of 9?" "Are you being a bitch because I waited a couple hours before I emailed you back?"). It's really disturbing. Because everyday, he realizes more and more not only how much of a basketcase I am, but the specific ways in which I am one. And I have to wonder if that is going to make getting him to fall in love with me a harder sell.
It's moments like these that leave me terrified that he's right when he says we're just friends. But, no, I'm more stubborn than he is. I know it.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005



I just watched a short film about a little boy who is afraid of cockroaches. His father tells him to keep one in a jar by his bed and say hello to it each morning and night, until it doesn't seem so scary anymore. He's scared at first, but then it works so well, that he ends up with jars full of every sort of gross animal, from mice to snakes, and everything you can think of, a whole room full of jars. Then, one day, he meets a pretty little girl, and she asks if he's scared of her... so he puts her in a giant hole in the ground with a cover on it, so that he can come see her each morning and night until he's not scared of her anymore. It made me wish I had a giant hole I could keep a boy in. But I know that it's only cute when the adorable little boy in the movie does it. If I did it, it'd be all scary and criminal. Life's just not fair sometimes.

Monday, August 22, 2005



I'm pretty much okay with being a person who fades into the background. I don't much like attention, unless I've set my sights on you, in which case I'll probably take any attention at all, even the bad kind. So, every once in a while when someone notices me, or remembers me, it always throws me off. Tonight, I had an orientation for my part-time after-work job. The fellow who's going to be overseeing the logistics of my work, as he was giving me my tapes to watch and PAL-enabled VCR (and how much of a complete film nerd am I that I got excited over the fact that I got to bring home a PAL-enabled VCR... like, why, other than for work would I EVER need such a thing), he says, "I think we live in the same neighborhood. I've seen you around." Now, that's polite, and fairly nice, and so I start explaining exactly where I live, which in retrospect may not have been the brightest move. Because, he continues, "A while ago, I was at the Post Office, and I was at the end of the line, and I saw you there. You were lodging a complaint because they lost a package and you had to say your name over and over again." Now, I'm searching my memory - a lost package... do I remember that... oh yeah, Grandpa's birthday... LAST YEAR. Okay. He remembers seeing me at the post office a year ago. That's still not so bad, I guess. Not creepy or stalker-y. He just has a good memory. Then he says, "and since then I see you around the neighborhood, walking by or pumping gas, and I always think to myself, there's Heidi (fill in last name here)." Now, I'm a stalker, totally admit that, but still, it creeped me out. And he seems like a nice, normal, non-stalkery guy, so why am I creeped out instead of feeling flattered? Then it occurred to me: He TOLD me. The first time he met me. That's just not normal, right? I don't know. Who am I to be talking about normal anyway?

Sunday, August 21, 2005


Crazy Part 2

Since my current obsession is asking everyone who surrounds me for their opinion on my sanity, I decided to take it to someone who really ought to have some insight - my mom. So, I called her up and asked, "Mom, do you think I'm crazy?" And she answered, "Well, probably." That wasn't so much the answer I was anticipating. She went on to explain that it wasn't anything about me personally, but more the fact that genetically, I got the crazy end of the stick for sure. Hell, I'm the only person in my immediate family who isn't medicated. So, I guess that makes sense, and I've been trying to accept that I'm probably crazy. But then, I reported these results back to the boy I'm in love with, and he reminded me that whatever your mother says in a situation like that is probably at least 250 times nicer than the actual truth. Like, "Mom, do you think I'm ugly?" "Don't be silly, Heidi, you're the most beautiful girl in the world." And so forth. Therefore, if my own mother tells me that I'm probably crazy, it most likely means that I'm a fucking nutbar. So... that's good to know, I guess.


phone etiquette

I really love and hate my cell phone. I'm one of those truly horrendous individuals who has programmed in a particular ring for just about every person who calls me when any sort of regularity, so that I don't even have to move to look at the phone if the caller doesn't inspire me to. As much as I love my Mom, if I'm hungover, I'm most likely not getting up to answer the Mexican Hat Dance. Depending on my mood, I may leap up for or totally ignore my roommate's Fraggle Rock. And god knows there isn't much of anything that'll keep me from answering Bittersweet Symphony. And I mostly like being reachable all the time, so I never have to miss out on anything because someone couldn't find me. But, of course, the flipside of that is that when I do miss out on things, I can't blame the limits of communication the way that I could before I had this little piece of plastic that I take with me wherever I go. If I don't get the message that someone wants to see or hang out with me, it's because they didn't call to tell me so. And that, I really hate. When I'm really truly psychotic about my cell phone, though, is when I'm expecting a call. It can be a call about anything that's important to me. When I'm waiting for that call, every second that it doesn't ring literally makes my muscles tighten up a little more, my face feel a bit more flushed. And this isn't just when a call is late in coming; this can be maybe an hour or more BEFORE I have any right to reasonably expect the damned phone to ring. So, usually, by about a half-hour or so before the deadline, I've become so tense that I have to turn the phone to silent so that I can tell myself I'm the one controlling the phone's non-ring, not whatever bastard is choosing not to call me when I want them to. I can look at every 5 or 10 minutes to see if they've called, and only be upset for a few seconds at each of those intervals. Most of the time, that works okay. However, as the minutes or hours go on, and the messages don't show up, my need to check the phone increases faster and faster until I'm looking every five or 10 seconds instead of minutes. At that point, even the look of the display of the phone feels as taunting as the silence of its non-ring had an hour or two before. When it comes to this, my only option is to shut the fucking phone off altogether before I chuck it out the fucking window and then jump out after it to get it. And I have to wonder if those few minutes every once in a great while when the damned thing is tearing my life apart does more damage than all the convenience and aid my cell phone provides me the rest of the time.

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