Evie

Someone told me today how great you are with children. She probably expected a glowing agreement. Honestly, I was just stunned.

Fat old guys on rickety ladders.

Skinny young guys on coke and lawn mowers.

Not much else.

Only problem is, certain drama can text you at any hour of the night and leave you confused and less strictly on the path to getting the fuck over it.

So couple that with a little bit of stress and a lot a bit of exhaustion and what you get is me taking every last item out of my room, cleaning it, organizing it, and hopefully someday soon putting it back, although this "unpacking" business hasn't actually led to me opening a bag yet, and I've been wearing the same bra and mom's socks because the 48 intervening hours have put too much crap on top of my suitcase to crack the top.

There are things I haven't done in a long time - like go to bed before two, sleep completely and utterly alone, plan and stick to a schedule that alotts eight hours per night to sleep, wake up on time and be completely productive.

Everything still feels strange.

"Tell me what can possibly be more masculine about trying to fuck a girl instead of comforting her."

like catching up to you with the money you dropped crossing the street

or walking you home when you really don't need it

(or especially when you do)

or swooping in with a random complement when you're feeling insecure

or even just clearing your plate from the table

or carrying your homework to the box.

<3

Or maybe I should get drunker, and eventually find my own bed but not have the sense to stay in it.

and if you make me I'll probably just cry

because pouting seems to work these days

because you don't really want to make me unhappy, do you?

a stuck-out lip here, a stamped foot there

a smile and I'm yours when you do the right thing

and you give me a look like I could have anything in the world

and I feel like I could

but I'm a little drained right now

and I don't want to smile like it's all better after a hug

because there's nothing wrong

this just happens sometimes

and like a paradox, it's life.

but his godmother died the day after he came out of a coma

and no one's told him yet.

There will probably be a time in my life when it will seem strange to own only one cup, a smattering of mismatched silverware, and enough bowls to feed my neighbors tea in a pinch.

To wake up on a Saturday with 2-3 girls passed out in and around my bed, the door wide open and everybodys arm around someone else.


But I know there will be a time when I will wish I could stay up all night, walk to breakfast feeling guilty in his coat, and hear all of those words but the last three.

Or what he thought would be.

But maybe I have great friends, who play me pretty music and take me to parties to meet cute boys but sit and chat on the couch with me when I'm really not up for strangers yet.

And who call assholes assholes when they see them. In the street or the hall. Maybe in class.

But come on now, a spade's a spade.

Not Comforting: He's seen you in so much less than that anyway.

Thaaanks roomie darling.

I haven't finished unpacking yet (but maybe that just means I don't know how to pack right), and while I've been bored, I've certainly had free time, but I don't want that forever, and the futility that screams at you when you first return to this dump (I'm sorry if you're partial to it, and I know that my sweeping generalizations about it don't apply to every single person) just gets sadder the longer you stay.

So why I'm sad to leave I'll never know.

Part of having no idea what you're doing with your life is trying to prepare for every possibility...such as, for example, finding that special someone in the next two years so we can date for three and still get married before I get barefoot and pregnant with baby #1.

Which is so not what I want, but I don't know what is, so I'm trying to lay out the lazy housewife route as a fallback (sidenote: my grandmother says I would make an awful golddigger. I don't know how to interpret this).

Not to mention that other question of the guns.

My countdown is turning the opposite way.

And it still doesn't.

When you're out of bed by 8:30 (thanks Walter), back in bed by the time your roomate gets home from tai chi, sleeping soundly through her alarms going off later, waking up to the tiny noise of the water boiler switch after that, studying hardcore for two hours and taking a study break to go nuts remaking your bed, studying again, botching a meal credit shopping trip, studying some more, and taking a (freaking cold) midnight walk to the minimart because you just can't take that weird stain on the mirror anymore, never mind that it says Fidel across the top in dry erase marker that never quite went away but it makes you think of Cuba in the morning so really it's not too bad, but damnit that streak is annoying!

Two pages into a ten page paper and watching the last traces of my sanity taunt me from ten feet away.