3.23.2005
I am in a dilemma.Yes. Another one. Isn't it lovely? *dripping with sarcasm*My life seems to have the pattern of a Scottish kilt. Undeterminable plaid. I swear it.*sigh* *sighs some more*And not a call from Reb. I am soooooooo peeved. Perhaps he wasn't what I wanted him to be. Isn't that how it almost always turns out? But still. It may have been fleeting, but the memory of the feeling never goes away. At least not with me. I really feel as though I felt something for him. I'll explain a little more specifically why I theorize in that direction in a moment. For one thing, I try not to be fickle. I'm slightly fickle. But loosely fickle [???]. I try not to go from one guy to the next. It's not like I like to savor the hurt or anything afterwards, it's just that...knowing there was an actual real feeling there, it's that extra something that makes me linger. Even if there's something else waiting for me, something good and better. I don't even know if Reb even feels the same way. Like another a hole in the head is what it feels like. Now there are other "opportunities" for me to get to know other guy friends better. And I'm shying away, reluctant, just tapping the surface with my toe, afraid to plunge. I mean, for all I know there has been another girl to whom Reb has grown affectionate towards and it was only I who has been imagining everything from the beginning. And I've become selfish and heartless and only thinking of myself and why he hasn't returned my feelings. Perhaps he was just being friendly, perhaps that's his personality. Perhaps I misread the bloody signals [if he were sending any in the first place; perhaps it is I who has become undoubtedly dim]. I wanted to get to know him better to find out. But no. Since no call, or anything in the slightest, I've begun to feel cut-off, saddened. Though there are friends to confide in, there are others who want to get closer than just "friends." And I'm always thinking, "Wait, I have to see if Reb will still..." Yes. Muy pathetico. Although there is one thing I'm glad about. It's not telling how Reb how I feel. That way I look less of an ass. Standing me up and knowing how I feel about him would be the shit [yea not really].I try not to let it get me down though. I didn't stay inside and mope on my day off from work on a rainy day. Went with Ivan [another Ptowner] and ate out Teriyaki, and he showed me Clackamas mall to which I have never been. Can you believe I've never went to the Portland zoo? Apparently everyone and their cousin has been there except me. Wow. I'm so sheltered. *sigh* Anyway, Ivan's a pretty awesome guy so far [with an awesome Nikon grr]. The Ukrainian accent doesn't hurt ooooone bit :D [shut up Shan] and it's awesome having a guy friend. Different from a gal friend. At least I don't talk about boys with Ivan [what a relief haha]. Although I would want him to translate guy speak and guy actions. Because they apparently are all foreign languages to me.This is utter crap.I'm here feeling sorry for myself and there are people out there who are slowly dying, or are getting dismembered, or who are losing loved ones, can't find homes and starving, selling their bodies for breakfast...I think I think too much."I think therefore I am."My rewrite: "I think therefore I should now stop."I feel like crying.*cries*Bloody flying poo.Or as Georgia says: Tres merde.What dimosity.------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------TRIBUTE TO NICE GIRLS [SNATCHED OFFA MYSPACE]This is my tribute to the nice girls. To the nice girls who are overlooked, who become friends and nothing more, who spend hours fixating upon their looks and their personalities and their actions because it must be they that are doing something wrong. This is for the girls who don't give it up on the first date, who don't want to play mind games, who provide a comforting hug and a supportive audience for a story they've heard a thousand times. This is for the girls who understand that they aren't perfect and that the guys they're interested in aren't either, for the girls who flirt and laugh and worry and obsess over the slightest glance, whisper, touch, because somehow they are able to keep alive that hope that maybe... maybe this time he'll have understood. This is an homage to the girls who laugh loud and often, who are comfortable in skirts and sweats and combat boots, who care more than they should for guys who don't deserve their attention. This is for those girls who have been in the trenches, who have watched other girls time and time again fake up and make up and fuck up the guys in their lives without saying a word. This is for the girls who have been there from the beginning and have heard the trite words of advice, from "there are plenty of fish in the sea," to "time heals all wounds." This is to honor those girls who know that guys are just as scared as they are, who know that they deserve better, who are seeking to find it.This is for the girls who have never been in love, but know that it's an experience that they don't want to miss out on. For the girls who have sought a night with friends and been greeted by a night of catcalling, rude comments and explicit invitations that they'd rather not have experienced. This is for the girls who have spent their weekends sitting on the sidelines of a beer pong tournament or a case race, or playing Florence Nightingale for a vomiting guy friend or a comatose crush, who have received a drunk phone call just before dawn from someone who doesn't care enough to invite them over but is still willing to pass out in their bed. This is for the girls who have left sad song lyrics in their away messages, who have tried to make someone understand through a subliminally appealing profile, who have time and time again dropped their male friend hint after hint after hint only to watch him chase after the first blonde girl in a skirt. This is for the girls who have been told that they're too good or too smart or too pretty, who have been given compliments as a way of breaking off a relationship, who have ever been told they are only wanted as a friend.This one's for the girls who you can take home to mom, but won't because it's easier to sleep with a whore than foster a relationship; this is for the girls who have been led on by words and kisses and touches, all of which were either only true for the moment, or never real to begin with. This is for the girls who have allowed a guy into their head and heart and bed, only to discover that he's just not ready, he's just not over her, he's just not looking to be tied down; this is for the girls who believe the excuses because it's easier to believe that it's not that they don't want you, it's that they don't want anyone. This is for the girls who have had their hearts broken and their hopes dashed by someone too cavalier to have cared in the first place; this is for the nights spent dissecting every word and syllable and inflection in his speech, for the nights when you've returned home alone, for the nights when you've seen from across the room him leaning a little too close, or standing a little too near, or talking a little too softly for the girl he's with to be a random hookup. This is for the girls who have endured party after party in his presence, finally having realized that it wasn't that he didn't want a relationship: it was that he didn't want you. I honor you for the night his dog died or his grandmother died or his little brother crashed his car and you held him, thinking that if you only comforted him just right, or said the right words, or rubbed his back in the right way then perhaps he'd realize what it was that he already had. This is for the night you realized that it would never happen, and the sunrise you saw the next morning after failing to sleep.This is for the "I really like you, so let's still be friends" comment after you read more into a situation than he ever intended; this is for never realizing that when you choose friends, you seldom choose those which make you cry yourself to sleep. This is for the hugs you've received from your female friends, for the nights they've reassured you that you are beautiful and intelligent and amazing and loyal and truly worthy of a great guy; this is for the despair you all felt as you sat in the aftermath of your tears, knowing that that night the only companionship you'd have was with a pillow and your teddy bear. This is for the girls who have been used and abused, who have endured what he was giving because at least he was giving something; this is for the stupidity of the nights we've believed that something was better than nothing, though his something was nothing we'd have ever wanted. This is for the girls who have been satisified with too little and who have learned never to expect anything more: for the girls who don't think that they deserve more, because they've been conditioned for so long to accept the scraps thrown to them by guys.This is what I don't understand. Men sit and question and whine that girls are only attracted to the mean guys, the guys who berate them and belittle them and don't appreciate them and don't want them; who use them for sex and think of little else than where their next conquest will be made. Men complain that they never meet nice girls, girls who are genuinely interested and compelling, who are intelligent and sweet and smart and beautiful; men despair that no good women want to share in their lives, that girls play mindgames, that girls love to keep them hanging. Yet, men, I ask you: were you to meet one of these genuinely interested, thrillingly compelling, interesting and intelligent and sweet and beautiful and smart girls, were you to give her your number and wait for her to call... and if you were to receive a call from her the next day and she, in her truthful, loyal, intelligent and straightforward nice girl fashion, were to tell you that she finds you intriguing and attractive and interesting and worth her time and perhaps material from which she could fashion a boyfriend, would you or would you not immediately call your friends to tell them of the "stalker chick" you'd met the night prior, who called you and wore her heart on her sleeve and told the truth? And would you, or would you not, refuse to make plans with her, speak with her, see her again, and once again return to the bar or club or party scene and search once more for this "nice girl" who you just cannot seem to find? Because therein lies the truth, guys: we nice girls are everywhere. But you're not looking for a nice girl. You're not looking for someone genuinely interested in your intermural basketball game, or your anatomy midterm grade, or that argument you keep having with your father; you're looking for a quick fix, a night when you can pretend to have a connection with another human being which is just as disposable as the condom you were using during it.So don't say you're on the lookout for nice girls, guys, when you pass us up on every step you take. Sometimes we go undercover; sometimes we go in disguise: sometimes when that girl in the low cut shirt or the too tight miniskirt won't answer your catcalls, sometimes you're looking at a nice girl in whore's clothing - - we might say we like the attention, we might blush and giggle and turn back to our friends, but we're all thinking the same thing: "This isn't me. Tomorrow morning, I'll be wearing a teeshirt and flannel shorts, I'll have slept alone and I'll be making my hungover best friend breakfast. See through the disguise. See me." You never do. Why? Because you only see the exterior, you only see the slutty girl who welcomes those advances. You don't want the nice girl.. so don't say you're looking for a relationship: relationships take time and energy and intent, three things we're willing to extend - - but in return, we're looking for compassion and loyalty and trust, three things you never seem willing to express. Maybe nice guys finish last, but in the race they're running they're chasing after the whores and the sluts and the easy-targets... the nice girls are waiting at the finish line with water and towels and a congradulatory hug (and yes, if she's a nice girl and she likes you, the sweatiness probably won't matter), hoping against hope that maybe you'll realize that they're the ones that you want at the end of that silly race.So maybe it won't last forever. Maybe some of those guys in that race will turn in their running shoes and make their way to the concession stand where we're waiting; however, until that happens, we still have each other, that silly race to watch, and all the chocolate we can eat (because what's a concession stand at a race without some chocolate?)
;it's something sophiscated.
11:42 PM
3.22.2005
Sometimes I want to refuse to believe it, the fact that boys can be very dim. What the hell man? Why couldn't God have made them a little smarter? I swear, there would be less zits and wrinkles in this day and age. Honestly.Now don't immediately assume that I'm a female sexist pig, but well, at least you know I'm being, at the most, truthful. Right? Right. *half smile* or more like *forced smile*ErLACK...or so what Georgia Nicolson says, haha. Okay well, yesterday I worked till 2:30(ish) and I was finishing up sweeping and in comes Brenda. Sorry. His new codename now is Rebecca. If you really want to know why well too bad. Ask Shan, haha. Anyway. "Miiiriam," I hear my name called and, argh, it had to be when I was bending over and trying to sweep up a piece of shredded wheat cereal that I happened to step on from my hurry to fill my orders. And you know how shredded wheat is when it's crushed. It gets everywhere. I look up and almost instantly a disgruntled frown smacks my face. Don't. Ask. Why. Ah crap, you asked why. Jeeeeezus. "Oh, hi," I greet half-heartedly. Or so what I wanted to be half-hearted. May have more came out as cold hearted. Nice touch, eh? "What're you doing here?" I noted, with little effort I must say, that in normal civilian clothes [and out of the work attire that we sport while on the job] he, as in "Rebecca" looks so different. Not as in bad different, just different. He was wearing a t-shirt - I think it said something like California or whatever [what the hell is it with guys and Cali??] and it was big and white. Jeans...skater shoes. Why?? I don't know. I doubt that he even listens to skater music, i.e. punk, punk rock, emo, blah blah blah. Toss in some Bob Marley and there's your boarding tunes.Anyway, off subject. "I came to pick up my check," he explains. Right. He could've gotten it any time of the day but he happened to get there when I'm about to ship off. *sigh* I can never really understand boys. Maybe I'm not supposed to. I perk up at the sound of anything monetary, and I suddenly smile and genuine smile. A tired smile but a genuine tired smile at that. "Oh! That's right. I've gotta go pick that up." Then I go back to sweeping while Reb asks Adelina [workmate at the sink] who was working with us earlier. Who was Rosalba. Who has a baby. I did not know. That. Okay I'll stop. Then Reb goes toward the back and says yello to Tim, the new cook. I think Tim's pretty awesome. He confided in me while I was taking out the trash that he wasn't so sure he wanted to work there. To be truthfully honest, if it wasn't for the people, I wouldn't really want to work there either. "So what do you guys get paid? Minimum wage? Isn't that like, $7 and a quarter now?" he asks me while zipping around to do whatever it is that cooks do."I thought it was $7 and 50," was what I said.
"Well, whatever it is, that's pretty little for what you guys do. I mean, you guys bust your ass out there everyday." You bet. But eh. It's a job.
"Actually...I shouldn't be telling you but I don't get paid what everybody else gets paid..." I start to mumble then my eyes dart to the camera fixed to the ceiling corner. Nice. Hope Gary can't lip read, hahahahaha. Ha. "Oh yeah, did you notice all the cameras?" I ask nervously.
"OH yeah, they're everywhere [no shnit]. But they aren't audio though. That's illegal."
"No kidding?? I didn't know that!"
"It's true. They can't video/audio tape you unless they tell you first. That's why audio evidence is dismissable in court because it's against the law to record someone without their knowing it." Whoa. Awesome.
"Hm. Well, I learn something new every day, hahahaha." I swallow a little and start putting trash bags in the bins. "But anyway, as I was saying before," I pause as Tim goes over to see if there was anybody else in the kitchen [*ahem Gary ahem*] who might overhear. "I actually get paid $8."
"No shit? Really?" Yes, mucho ludicrous, I know.
"Yes...I feel a little guilty but, I don't know why I get paid that much more. I think it was because of the job I had before this, I got paid $8 there - guess Gary was a little desperate to hire someone," I smiled. Haha, what a sap, that Gary. Just kidding. No really.
Tim gets in a good laugh. "That's awesome. You should all get paid $8, seeing as how hard you guys work."
I couldn't agree more. "Yeah, and did I tell you how I dressed up for the interview? I wore a suit! A friggin' suit. While everybody else dresses in something in the most formal like, slacks or something. I wore a suit jacket with a skirt that reached above my knees. I was just about hired on the spot." Sad, really. Oh well.
Again Tim gets in a good haha. "Hahahaha that's hilarious!" And so on and so forth. Then he proceeds to tell me about Sam, the other cook, and how bossy he is. I do think Sam is a TAD bossy, but maybe it's because he's been there for a while, longer than most of us except for Rosalba, and he's like, head honcho over the cooks [poor Cheryl, cook numero tres]. But yeah, he thinks Sam's a little on the tight-ass side. Ah well. What can you do.
So I walk out there and "Rebecca's" in the lobby with his check, talking to Edgar the caretaker [who I might add, trimmed his hair surprisingly; just the day before I was telling him it was getting a little too wild, to which I was only teasing but whatever]. "Reb" turns around and smiles at me and urges me to get my check. I only shrug and he asks Kristina the receptionist and overall check horder if he could search for mine in the pile, and she refuses. "Well, can she?" Talking about me. To which again Kristina refuses. Bitch. Then the phone rings and she has to make me wait for a minute while she goes into fake mode. Aye.
I chat a bit with "Reb" and finally Kristina gets some time in her busy schedule to hand me my check, and I open it and voila, lovely lovely lovely mulaaaa. Reb asks how much I got and Kristina says, "You're not allowed to do that." What the hell. So while she's busy doing her office shit, Reb shows me how much he got. Sadness. Then I flash him mine [hahahaha] and his face droops.
"What the hell! You get paid a helluva lot more than I do!" He whispers loudly and I just shh him a little and Kristina turns to us with a frown.
"Is there a reason why you two are standing around here?" And Reb immediate response to that was walking off really quickly while I linger for a moment and say, "Well, because Kristina, you are our favorite person."
There's that doubtful look while the other caretakers sort of smile and laugh. "Oh, see, now they're just trying to be funny," Kristina mutters.
"That was funny? Huh..." And I walk off. Bitch, hahahahhahaha. Anyhoo. Toodle-doo.
I then give Reb directions to my house [not very good directions, but well, I was in a hurry to leave], because I wanted him to pick me up [Mel's idea, not mine, oh no, definitely not mine] and the reason I gave to that was because I didn't have much gas. He says he didn't have much gas either but he would pick me up. I thought we were going to go somewhere tonight but I guess that didn't happen. We sat in the lobby seats while I stood behind his chair and explained my directions. Then he got up to go get Fern [one of the elderly residents] a plastic spoon because she asked for her ice-cream. He comes back while I'm sitting down and looking through the photo album sitting on the table. He sits in a vacant spot behind me and I have to turn around a little to look at him. I told him I wanted to go home first. Freshen up. Yadda.
Then I walk out through the automatic doors and he calls after me. I turn around. "What??"
"So I make a left on...Frederick street??"
"No! It's SW Richard Ct!! What, you can't READ that??" He gave me a funny look and I throw my hands up in the air in frustration. "Aw, Christ!"
"So what's the house number?" We're practically yelling at each other across the asphalt. Funny.
"It's 1-7-7-...." I'm not going to say the whole thing, someone out there might read this and rape me in my room. To which I'd be glad to, hahaha. I'm kidding. For real this time around. I'll letcha know when I get that desperate though. Heaven forbid. Good grief.
So he writes it down [where he got a pen from I have no clue] and I just nod in confirmation and turn around and run. I was too tired to deal with him. I really was. *sigh*
So I was made to wait and wait and wait and wait and wait and wait and wait and wait and wait and wait and
wait
some
more
and the bloody whatsit never came. What the shit. At least call me you facking idiot. [though it'd be long distance for him since I haven't yet changed my area code from 541. Argh] Buy some minutes! Better yet, get a bloody mobile! Nyaaaaaaarghhhhhhhhhhhhh.
The surprising thing was, I think I was too tired to feel too disappointed. I was a bit relieved. I would have thought I would've cried like a wet rag wrung out, but weird. I was like a dry sponge. Sad. Then Mel persuaded me to call him. Argh. So I called his house and he wasn't home; instead a guy named Travis answered. Whoa. I'm gonna have to ask Reb who this Travis person was. He sounded hott. hahahaha JK. No really.
Guys are so dim. Like 1.5 watt lightbulbs.
If you guys [if there are any males in the audience who is reading this] want to please a girl, you do exactly what you agreed on, be very clear about your intentions [when, where, why, what, how, etc.], and not be so facking dim!!!! I hope that was clear enough. Damn.
;it's something sophiscated.
12:21 PM
