This blog is a collection of a young woman's random thoughts, many tangents, and occasional
short stories and novel excerpts. Stay tuned for plenty of bull and brief moments of brilliance.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

A Tough Decision

This past Saturday, after much hemming and hawing, I came to a final decision I've been wrestling with for about a year now. After being in Ireland, I discovered a lot about myself and wondered how I'd incorporate it into my life back here in America. And with that challenge this year I've figured out who I am and who I am not in this country and at my university.

I decided to quit my sorority.

Yes, I gave two years to the organization, but I think it's time I move on. I think at the end of the day I'm not meant for the Greek community. Maybe I'm simply not meant for my specific chapter...but that's beside the point. I'm grateful to my sorority for giving me the friends it has and the leadership opportunities as well. It's been a bittersweet last couple days, wrestling with how this will all unfold.

I know not everyone in the chapter knows yet and I did not know how to tell everyone; I texted a couple close friends, told my boyfriend and my immediate family, and that's about it. When I was on the phone with my dad, I was sobbing, the reality of the situation hitting me squarely in the chest. This was my senior year and it would not be the same as the last two. I looked through my photos and it hurt to think those were now memories.

I wondered how my senior year would go as I sat in my apartment, packing up sorority memorabilia and shirts. I paused with my badge, looking at the M.J.S. engraving and my initiation date. It will be hardest of all to give back that beautiful golden pin. I gave my lavalier to my roommate who has misplaced hers and most of my shirts as well for her future Little. I will keep my paddle I think or give it back to my Big Sister. Thank God my boyfriend is okay with dating a GDI (kidding).

I wanted to make it through one more year, graduate with my badge and my colored ropes, gather more memories. I wish I could push aside my doubts and trepidations and suck it up, but truthfully I think I'll be happier flying solo this year. Of the people I have told, almost everyone agrees with my decision, that I will have a better year than this last one and feel less pressure and stress. It helps to have the support of my family and friends...yet some of me will always miss being part of Greek life.

This is cheesy, I know, but these songs have been running through my head the past four days, specifically these lyrics:

"I'm seeing all the angles, starts to get tangled
I start to compromise
My life and the purpose
Is it all worth it,
Am I gonna turn out fine?
Oh you'll turn out fine."

"What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger
Stand a little taller
Doesn't mean I'm lonely when I'm alone
What doesn't kill you makes you a fighter
Footsteps even lighter."

"And in the end, you're still my friend, at least we did indend
For us to work, we didn't break, we didn't burn
We had to learn how to bend without the world caving in
I had to learn what I got, and what I'm not
And who I am."

Monday, June 11, 2012

"Home Late From Work"

Here's a little short story I wrote last week in about an hour and touched up the next morning. It's sexually explicit but I think what's here is all necessary to the piece. Hope you like what I've got here for all of you.
*This is in no way connected to any of my other stories I've talked about on this blog, nor is it based on personal experience. This is entirely fictitious. Enjoy.

"Home Late From Work"

She sits up that early morning, knees bent to her chest and chin perched on top of them.  The thin sheet is wrapped around her torso and her long black hair falls just below her chest.  When the sun sprinkles in through the half-opened blinds, glorious patterns dance on her covered feet.  The man beside her grumbles slightly at the invasion of light on his partially closed eyelids.  Rolls over, a quick, “G’mornin,” and back to passing out, this is who she spends the days with when she can.  Or, more honestly, when he finds time to spend with her.
It’s been three years.  “Living together,” she had thought six months ago, “that’ll be what finally pulls us back together…and maybe even a dog.”  But the dog never happened (too expensive in the end) and the apartment didn’t push them together, no matter how small it was.  Amazing how two people can find miles in inches of space. 

When he came home from work the night before, he smiled and said, “I love you,” before eating the dinner quickly she laid out for him.  “You’re late,” she muttered, “you said you’d be home two hours ago.”
He sighed, “I know, sweetie, but work at the office kept me late.  Please, dear God, just…don’t, okay?”
            “I, I understand dear but you’ve been late a lot and I know you’re at work and everything but don’t you miss spending time together?”
            He gave her that look last night, the look that says really-you-know-I-love-you-can-we-please-stop-this-it’s-been-a-long-day-I-can’t-handle-any-nagging-right-now.  She knew she could be a bit much sometimes and that he was working hard to provide for them—he said he was saving up for something special and she could guess the something special would go on her finger—but she missed him, what it used to be.  Late nights talking for hours, laughing at their own ridiculousness, longing looks signaling so much more, showers that lasted longer than they should have…

            The man that rolled over next to her isn’t really there, she thought.  Where he is she does not know and her search has left her empty handed.  She reaches out to touch his back and he flinches before relaxing once her touch runs down his spine.  The sheets around him have fallen below his waist and her heart beats in her throat at the sight of his body.  She misses his waist pressed firmly against hers, his lips down her neck, his hands working magic on her breasts.  This lingering wall between them, growing stronger by the day, kept their bodies from the other.
            Every so often they would be pressed against the wall, pounding loudly with their fists, desperately trying to cross to the other side.  The force was too much though; when they did cross, the effort to move to the other side of the bed was as much energy as was put into the night.  Half-hearted sex felt like freshman year of college drunken night fucking.  It was even worse when the word “love” was attached somehow.  At least in college at those house parties, no one expected you to call the next morning.  Few if any soul mates were met this way.  Her other half is next to her right now, and she wants him.  Yet does he want her out of love or to avoid having to come in his own hand?
            He rolls again the other way towards her and gives her a half smile, whispers, “Come here,” and she then lets herself be pulled into his embrace.  Her breathing is labored when his lips leave hers and travel downward.  Licking, sucking, nibbling even, he used to make love to her with his mouth.  Like this though, she can’t see his face buried between her legs and that’s what really gets her off now: seeing him.  Seeing what she does to him, how his body falls into hers and they mold into one, seeing how he sighs and holds in those grunts with his clenched jaw. 
            When he climbs back up her body, he plunges in without any more warning and she winces; it’s been a while.  He notices, pauses briefly to kiss her on the lips, and continues.  His head is hidden in the pillow beneath her and she reaches for his face with her hands.  Their noses, pressed together, are leaving them cross-eyed.  He tugs himself free of her hold and looks at her body up and down.  The eyes though, those gorgeous eyes of his look glassy and are staring at some random spot of the wall behind her head.  His thrusts are their usual mundane pattern and she only feels the occasional swipe of his fingers through her hair.
            “Fuck this,” she thinks, “fuck no, not like this again.”
            She grabs his back and flattens her chest to his, digging her nails violently into his skin.  Bucking her hips upward, she moans for the first time in a while.  He rams harder against her, his nostrils flaring.  She tries again and he pins her arms above her head and leaves her immobile.  She struggles against his hold and although she likes the force, she wants to fight.  Every movement is an attack.
Fuck me like you mean it.
Fuck me like it’s been months.
Fuck me because it has been months.
Fuck me harder than ever before.
Fuck me like you don’t give a damn who hears us.
Fuck me like the first time.
Fuck me like you need me more than anything.
Fuck me like you want to be inside me.
Fuck me like you love me.
Fucking love me!
            He hops off of her and heads to the shower, “Fuck, I needed that.”
            She needed it too, to let go that early morning, to feel agony and pleasure in one, to be needed.  But as soon as he came, she was forgotten.  So she pushes her knees back up to her chest, rubs the few tears away on the sheets around her legs, and sighs. 

Monday, June 4, 2012

Almost a Month into Summer

I'm almost a month into my summer now and don't have much to show for it besides my first big paycheck coming tomorrow. I've written about three pages of Autumn Leaves and worked out twice...not that much really. However, the summer boredom that forces my work ethic usually has not sunken in yet.

I'm getting used to now the thirty hour work week and I even picked up two extra shifts this last weekend to make up for some shorter shifts I took to give more hours to other people. Everyone wants hours in the summer and I'm glad to have the ones I do, so I'm more than willing to throw a bone to some of my fellow coworkers who have taken hours for me during the school year without anything in return.

Alex is working at his "big boy" job with the insurance company and enjoying it thus far from what I can tell. We talk a bit every day and see each other on the weekends. Yeah, sometimes when I lay down to go to sleep I'm sad he's not next to me, but most nights (if it's Tues-Thurs) I'm exhausted and give zero fucks as long as my head is on a pillow.

Money...that has been the biggest hurdle of this summer so far. I made the same mistake in Ireland last year: thinking I could live on 50 bucks a week. Correction: it's more around 75-100 a week realistically. I'll save a bit this summer but most likely break even. That's sad to think about for long so I'm not dwelling on it; I have the school year still and a pay raise on the way to help fill in the gaps.

It's only 70 days until work week for my sorority recruitment preparations. I'm the head of the logistics committee this year, meaning I oversee a team that keeps track of the behind-the-scenes aspects. I think a lot of non-Greeks would be surprised how much time and effort goes into recruitment. Being downstairs working with paperwork and beverages allows you to see how hard your recruitment team is working.

Working behind-the-scenes is a double-edged sword. On one hand, you get to jump in and fix minor problems to make everything run more smoothly. On the other, you don't get to speak one-on-one with the potential new members and feel a bit lost on Bid Day. This will be though my second year in the background so I know what to expect. I'm proud to be the head of the team and am actually looking forward to August.

Autumn Leaves is my main stress point, besides money, at the moment. I'm lacking the motivation and drive to finish this project. I know it's lurking there somewhere in the back of my mind, but finding it is the challenge. I can make the time for it, absolutely. It's easy though to give up for the day and flip over to Pinterest or Facebook.

It's like doing laundry. What a wonderful feeling when all your clothes are clean and warm right out of the dryer...but first you need to do it. Taking cash specifically out of the ATM to walk to a convenience store to get a bunch of quarters, packing up all you clothes, having a chunk of time to get it all done, and finally folding it is annoying as hell. Unlike writing though, I have very real repercussions if I don't do my laundry. For instance, my uniform will be unsightly, I'll have no clean underwear, and I'll smell like shit from re-wearing outfits.

With writing? I'll feel horrible about myself and wonder why I'm such a fucking failure, but then I'll find that one beer lurking in the back of the fridge and be fine. No harm done at the moment. I need someone to yell at me for not writing after work and on Monday nights. I need it to be a friend who doesn't mind me yelling at her for lecturing me.

...yeah, I know a couple people. Hell, I'll even pay them in shitty poetry to do this for me (or even better, the promise of a lack of shitty poetry coming their way).

I'm looking at my Starbucks coffee cup, wondering why it doesn't magically refill. I see my cell and am dying for someone to text and offer to take me out to a free dinner. I see Facebook with two notifications but am guessing their boring. I see the flowers my friend's boyfriend bought her and would like some myself *cough cough*. I see how empty our apartment is and wonder how the hell I'll pay for furniture in the fall. And I see my reflection in my computer screen, and wonder why I'm not manically typing something more productive.

Damn it.