Why I Won’t Say It: A L*&% Story

Even though it’s obvious.

This is something I’ve thought about quite a bit lately. More details to come.

Allow me to start at the beginning:

New Years Eve Party, celebrating the long-awaited end of 2016. It was just after midnight and the party was still going full force, at least twenty people that I’d never met before. There’s beer pong in the garage, shots every couple of minutes in the kitchen, the smokers out in the backyard, and some guy playing a DragonBall Z game on the Playstation 4. Then there’s me; sitting on the couch alone just watching everything going on around me, wondering why seven people just came out of the bathroom talking about why something was “sticky.”

This was my normal position at these parties. My social anxiety doesn’t permit me to be able to be one of the “pretty girls” that flirts with everyone. I’m perfectly content like that, it’s so much easier to collect information if no one around is really paying attention to you.

As I’m sitting there, two guys come to sit down on the other couch in the living room. One of these guys I’ve known for years, we even dated really briefly. The other… Now this is where things get interesting. Occasionally my old friend would pull me into the conversation, sometimes I would just interject myself because I can’t stand when people are wrong. After a short amount of time my old friend becomes distracted by other people and conversations, and I’m left to talk with this new guy. Normally, my palms would be sweating and I’d be giving one line answers to anything said to or asked of me. Not this time.

I was enticed by this new person in my life. Words came effortlessly and eye contact wasn’t really an issue for the first time in a really long time. That’s one of the first things I noticed about him. He had the most incredible green eyes, I could stare into them all day while my knees go weak. I could tell he’d been hurt, the pain was apparent and it drew me to him. Here was someone who knew what I’d been through in some way, someone I could talk to with ease. He was intelligent; one of the absolute smartest people I’ve ever met. That meant the topics for conversation could go literally anywhere. Most people of our intelligence think a mile a minute and adding in the spirits and other “party favors,” we found ourselves talking about everything and nothing all at the same time.

Hours I spent talking to him. Learning, trying to remember as many details as I possibly could through my alcoholic drug-influenced hazy brain. For the record, I didn’t retain much. Just his name and the way that I felt while talking to him. I was overwhelmed with how it was so easy for him to make me smile. This is something I never thought I’d feel again. Something I stopped believing in a long time ago.

I knew better than to get my hopes up. Nice things never happen to me because I’m such a negative person. I knew there was a huge probability that I would never see him again, but I at least got him to add me on Facebook. I never expected to talk to him, I never expected…

January 26th.

After talking for a couple of days we decided to hang out. He picked me up and we went to lunch and then we went bowling. I hadn’t smiled or laughed so much in at least two years. After everything was said and done, I had to ask him if that was us hanging out, or if that was a date. It was most definitely a date, and safe to say the best date I’d ever been on. Over the next week we went on another date and talked almost every single day (except when one of us forgets to reply and I have too much anxiety to double text). The following week, I broke all of my normal rules and things got a little hot and heavy.

Holy shit. Sex with anyone else would be a waste of time. But enough of that because I’m already starting to embarrass myself.

So now here I am – a little over a month after our first date – beating myself up because I’m doing everything I told myself I wasn’t going to do. I’m falling for this guy.

A month.

I’m a crazy person.

In defense, it feels like I’ve known him forever. He’s… Me. He’s everything that I wanted BEFORE I got broken. He’s the most wonderful person to have ever graced this planet with his cynicism. He’s just so… Perfect. What makes him even better is that he doesn’t believe it. He’s humble. It’s disguised under layers of depression and anxiety and I adore it. Now before you tear me down for “romanticizing” mental illnesses, hold on. If you’ve read some of my previous posts or any of the posts on my old blog, you’d know that I am no stranger to depression or anxiety or a handful of other afflictions that are unimportant at this point in time.

We have our differences, and yet we’re the exact same person. It’s simultaneously wonderful and terrible.

I’m not going to tell him how I feel. Not because I don’t want him to know, but because I’m not in a hurry to blurt feelings that may not be reciprocated. I believe I’ll be spending quite a bit of time with him in the future though, and I’ll have all the time in the world to tell him every single day after. In the meantime, I’ll continue to tell him in subtle ways. It’ll be in the way I smile at him, when I ask him to make sure he lets me know when he makes it home safely, in the feeling I hope we share at least a bit when we kiss… It’ll be in every movement I make and every moment I spend with him. And when the time is right, I’ll tell him what I so desperately want him to know. And then maybe we’ll be one day closer to happily ever after.


The Dive; A Short Short Story

I had no idea where I was going or why I was following the directions left for me on a napkin in a dive bar, but I continued on regardless. I shouldn’t have gone; it was the worst decision I’ve ever made in my recently ended life. That’s right, I’m a ghost, and this is the story of how I ended up here. My life was simple and boring, I was a run-of-the-mill student with average grades and virtually no personal life. I was a dancer, a writer, a musician – you know, one of those creative types that doesn’t thrive in social situations. You’d think after twenty-five years of life I’d have a little more to show for my “creativity.” Anyway, I promised a story.

After a particularly horrific break-up, I decided to pull myself out of my comfort zone and try a dating site. That was my first bad decision. I met a guy named Dave. He had only lived in town about a year and he was settled in and was looking to meet someone special. He was a surgeon by day, a late-night philosopher, and pretty damn attractive. We had a lot in common: he was an artist, he liked photography, and he was ready to settle down. Or at least this is what he told me. After about a month of conversing, he asked to see me in person. I reluctantly agreed to meet him at a shady local dive bar I usually avoided. Bad decision number two.

As I was headed to the bar, I received a text from Dave telling me that he had left a note with an address he wanted me to go to instead; the bar wasn’t exactly “his scene.” I wouldn’t normally go through with this kind of thing, but against my better judgement I went anyway. This is where I stop counting my mistakes: it’s all downhill from here. The address was a few blocks further; upon my arrival I knocked, and the door swung open from the force. There were no lights, not even light from outside filtered through the windows, and I could taste dust thick in the air. It seemed as though this house had been abandoned for years.

I cautiously walked into the pitch black darkness to search for Dave. I couldn’t see him, but a single lightbulb flickered on at the other end of the room. I remember thinking “this is how crappy horror movies start,” but I continued. I was nervous and called out for him. No answer, so I hesitantly walked toward the light. That’s when I saw it: a table covered with various metal tools with sharp edges and points. My heartrate increased and my breath grew shallow. I called out asking if anyone was there, my voice faltering with each syllable. Still no reply. I edged myself closer to the table, and my feet froze in place once I noticed traces of blood on a few of the tools. I couldn’t tell how fresh the blood was, but I was smart enough to know that I shouldn’t be there. I urged my feet to move, begged my eyes to turn away from the instruments. I needed to run but I couldn’t even move, I was paralyzed with fear.

I abandoned all hope with the echo of a step behind me. The next thing I know, there’s a ten-inch blade being forced through my abdomen. There was no pain, it was like a hot spoon fresh from the dishwasher, plunging into freezer-burned ice cream that had been in your freezer for as long as you could remember. I only felt the blade cold and wet like ice water as it tore through my insides.  Still, it wasn’t nearly as cold as “Dave’s” eyes as the corners of his mouth twisted up into the most sadistic smile I’ve ever seen while he stood over my fallen figure. The sickening sound of his moaning in pleasure from killing his prey will forever resonate in my mind.

That’s my story, no “once upon a time” or “happily ever after,” but it’s realistic enough. Something similar could happen to you, no matter how smart you think you are. So, don’t follow a stranger’s directions sloppily written on a napkin in a dive bar on a bad side of town. You’ll find yourself as every horror movie cliché you could possibly recall, even if you saw it coming the whole time.