sitting in an airport all alone

4 Jan

I’ve been here for hours, and thanks to the delay, I’ll be here for hours more. My boyfriend isn’t responding to my texts and I’m second-guessing fairy-tale boy’s feelings for me–and mine for him*.
What is it about being alone in busy, bustling places that makes us so very aware of our own isolation? Is it the constant reminder of just how many people there are out there (I am alone when there are so many people I could be with)? Is it the sight of so many happy couples and endearing families that reminds us who we aren’t with? Or is it mere paranoia–that feeling of being watched or judged–at play?
I don’t know. All I know is that I’m surrounded by people but I feel so alone.

*Fairy-tale boy is not my bf. He is on a mission in Cambodia, and I have no idea whether I love him as a friend or more.

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wherefore art thou “best friend?”

1 Jan

Image

Best Friend,–

“BEST FRIEND?!” Wherefore art thou best friend?

These words that should smell sweet just pierce like thorns.

What but more words will make my sorrow end?

If only I’d heard sooner those damned battle horns!

I cannot think what more I could have done

to eschew that title which we both now bear–

Such a fool! To think I had the whole war won…

But we (woe is we!) we two can never be a pair.

And yet, I dare not admit defeat:

My victory will be self-sacrifice

When I see you two lovers meet,

I will be nice. I will be nice.

I’ll smile and mean, “I’m happy for you!”

And hope and pray my tragedy’s almost through.

***

I know it’s unusual for the author to analyze a poem of their own creation, but I felt like explaining what I wanted to portray for a few reasons: 1) I don’t want to forget what I originally intended, so why not write it down? 2) If anyone actually reads my blog, I’d appreciate some feedback as to what works and what doesn’t. So. Here goes nothing.

This sonnet is obviously inspired by the bard, but I’ll just explain a bit about some of the things I tried to do. The first line is meant to portray the narrator reading a letter addressed to “Best Friend.” That’s because, well… I got that letter a while back. The admittedly cliche thorns line was meant to be an allusion to the famous rose metaphor (is it technically a metaphor?) associated with Juliet’s balcony scene: “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

I’ll skip ahead to the final quatrain. The repetition of “I will be nice” hopefully makes it clear that the narrator is trying to convince herself as well. I mention self-sacrifice, which initially refers to the narrator playing nice and also alludes to the suicides at the play’s end. This, coupled with the final line, could make the narrator seem suicidal.

ALTERNATIVELY, for those optimists out there, I wanted the last line to also be read as a hope that the tragedy within the narrator’s life, rather than the life as a whole, is almost through. (Or that, as the remaining Montagues and Capulets discover Romeo and Juliet’s true love at the end of the play, so would the narrator find out that her love is, in fact, reciprocated.)

And for the record: I’m not suicidal. Just jealous.

Pic from www.afoolsjourney.com

a spicy semester

20 Dec

Well, it’s done. 

I’m sitting in an airport waiting for my delayed flight to come. As soon as my plane arrives, I’ll get to visit home for the first time since the semester started. It was a pretty awesome first semester of college:

  • I added a major; I’ve been approved as an English/Neuroscience double
  • I kissed plenty of guys
  • I lost 9 pounds without even trying
  • I made some amazing friends
  • I passed all my classes!

I also may or may not have learned that blue cream soda, milk, snow, a whole habanero pepper, and an empty stomach do not make a good combination. Yuck. (See? Mormons throw up in college, too!)

the pedestal

14 Nov

Part of why I love you is that you love

me so much, and treat me so well. I’m

afraid that one day,

you’ll wake up

and I’ll have fallen

off the pedestal

you put me on

And you’ll stop

loving me. Then I’ll be left

 without love for you, nor you for me.

Abuse in six words

22 Oct

He came;

I whimpered.

He laughed.

****

Written for a Hemingway-esque contest for my school. I had about a minute to write it. It wasn’t until after I pinned it up that I noticed the double-entendre that fit disturbingly well. It’s funny to me how accidents, at times, are what make a piece.

Pre-college

22 Oct

The New Student Orientation was like EFY for college students. From the tacky colored wristbands to the awkward get-to-know-you games right on down to the multiple mosh-pit (sober) dances, it felt like camp all over again. I met many girls, and a few guys. I became pretty close with the Y-group leader, who we call Jimbo, and a girl called Gaps. Jimbo took Gaps and I to dinner off-campus–we were that cool. The guy was an upperclassman, with perpetually slicked-back blackish hair and a cheesy smile. We went to a small Salvadorian place, since he served his mission in El Salvador. The unpretentious little woman who took our order smiled with recognition and spoke Spanish to him.

NSO ended and I still hadn’t met my roommate. The girls in my hall were nice: Apple had already met some boy and Kiara… well, hadn’t. Kiara and I lived off of Apple’s stories of dates and holding hands. When we were alone, we discussed how we simultaneously were overjoyed and distraught at her success.
We all got antsy for church to start. The infamous student wards were mysterious to us. Rumors abounded of a wonderful place where you meet your man while learning about your Maker. I had Facebook-stalked most of the boys in our ward, but it was no substitute for really seeing and talking.

Sunday was like any other day: I met many girls and talked to a few guys. Curse the 2:1 ratio at this school. I did meet my roommate, though. Tay is sweet, pretty, intelligent, funny. At first I worried that she would get all the guys. So far that hasn’t happened, so I can laugh and moan with her at our boy failures.

Sunday night, though, was ward prayer. I went down to the lobby of my hall, where we were told to meet, in comfy clothes. Comfy, as many of you know, is girl-talk for ugly. To my chagrin, everyone looked cute. Including the–is THAT what a boy is? I hadn’t seen one for so long, I’d forgotten. A short intro speech by the Bishop, a few announcements, a talent (two people sang and ukelele-d), a hymn and a prayer. And then… magic. We talked to BOYS.

I half fell for a blond boy (not my usual type) on the diving team. Something about his smile and his whatever attitude made me crazy. It helped that I’d met him before, at a dance during NSO.

The next day was Labor Day, the day before classes started. I don’t remember what happened during the day, but the night I can tell you all about. It was our first Ward FHE (Family Home Evening), and it was all get-to-know-you type stuff. Naturally, I won longest name–I always do–and was a tie for most exotic place lived/travelled to. There were some crazy stories of near-death experiences and embarrassing stories. But the really fun part was, for me, afterwards. I got to talking to this one guy with short brown hair and green eyes. He was ridiculously easy to talk to, which was convenient since I’m a-scared of boyses. After a while, some other girls came up to the two of us and asked if they could join our conversation.

“Oh, sorry,” they said, “are we interrupting something?”

UM, YES! ONLY THE FIRST SUSTAINED GUY-GIRL INTERACTION I’VE HAD SINCE WE CAME! “Oh, no, of course not,” I answered. 

So, we all talked about who knows what, until Spiderman came.

Yup, Spiderman. For some reason, somebody somewhere thought it a good idea to put on a Spiderman morph suit and a pair of red high-tops and parade around Campus. We quizzed him on Spiderman trivia and he seemed pretty legit. The guy knew his stuff. Ya gotta respect that. He told us how two girls had earlier asked for the spiderman kiss. So some big guy held him upside down… and he kissed em. COLLEGE!

I dropped and shattered my phone trying to get a pic with Spiderman. But I got it.

THE PHOTO THAT KILLED MY POOR PHONE

THE PHOTO THAT KILLED MY POOR PHONE

Note: this post was going to be much different, except that I never finished it. It’s been almost two months since I wrote the bulk of it… and oh so much dirt’s gone down. I have so much going on I hardly ever get the chance to write anymore. Or read, for that matter–sorry fellow bloggers.

bowling

28 Aug

After being shown some wonderful “Don’t judge too quickly” commercials by my fabulous cousin Kay, I was inspired to write about people meeting for the first time for this week’s trifecta challenge. We had to use the word turkey in the bowling sense. Word count: 333
•••
Finally, some me-time. It’s been too long. But… What to DO?
The TV boasts a couple going bowling. I realize I haven’t been since that disastrous double date with Jerky Jim. I wonder if I really hate bowling, or if the game was tainted by my company.

Within the hour, I find myself donning rental shoes (thick socks: a must). I don’t let the mid-fifties man leering at me from two lanes down skeeve me out. Tonight is about me, me alone. No crappy ex-boyfriends, no work, and definitely no creepy lurkers. Me.

Clueless which ball to choose, I pick the prettiest one. I lug it back to my lane and throw it, ungracefully, with two hands. It hops into the gutter, then bounces out and touches one of the mocking white pins, which quivers for a moment (I’m holding my breath) before it, shocker, stays upright.

Sheepishly, I check if anyone saw. A dark-haired man, early twenties, looks my way; I blush. His eyes, an annoyingly penetrating green, remind me of Jim. He smiles. I grimace and turn away. Another lousy attempt (hey, I got a pin!) and I glance at Greeneyes… spotted. Crap.

“I could help you with your form if you want.” Why do I only meet guys with sexy voices on my didn’t-even-bother-to-shower, no-men-allowed-me-day? “I’m Matt, by the way.”

“Sandra. And I think I’ll be fine.” I see his smile fade and add a hasty thank-you (just too late to sound natural). I wince back to my ball, and endure endless crashes of (his) pins clattering to the ground. I’m fed-up with his strikes. He gets another. Three in a row… not that I’m counting.

“Fun fact,” he leans over a counter at me, a stupid grin across his face, “three strikes is called a turkey. Just thought you should know.”

“Why’d ya think that?”

“If I bowl a turkey again, we go to dinner. If I don’t, you bowl in peace. Deal?”

“Done.”

Turns out, bowling’s pretty fun.