I am such her bitch. She drew a quick sketch of me. All was quiet, for once. She made an odd half moan noise which I'm sure was her settling into a better position or just one of those things people do, but it drove me up the fucking wall, in a good way. When she spoke again, her voice was much higher than it usually is. Her eyes were wide. Oh lord.
She told me if I knew what she was thinking at me, I'd blush. God, I hope she was thinking what I'm thinking she was thinking.
I'm a stupid, by the way.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
You secure that shit, Hudson.
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=wangst
Ridiculously overblown self-pity.
I've given up, like the big pussy I am. I've officially become yesterday's news to Ms. WST. The slim chance I had is as dust in the wind, just like the last slim chance I had. I'd settle for being friends, since I am just that much of a dork, but is talking once every couple of days via text really a friendship? Shit, dude, I have people I hate who I talk to more than that. My ego wants me to think that she's pushing me away because she's scared I could threaten what she has, but my ego and I both know that's bullshit. She's bored with me, and frankly, it's about time, since I am after all a boring loser with no job, car, friends, or life. Hell, I wouldn't date me and I'm enamored with myself. So I'm calling it quits on the whole idea. She doesn't need the wangst and I need to find a girl who's interested. Which would be pretty fucking tough going even if I wasn't hung up on the utterly unattainable. I mean...goddamnit. I would sometimes think of Ms. WST before I re-met her, which is probably creepy but whatever. I imagined that if I ever saw her again, I'd be fit, and witty, but it turns out that I'm basically the same clueless dork I was in high school, and I'll probably remain so until I die somewhere in my 50's due to an overabundance of processed nacho cheese in my arteries. I have a really powerful recall, and this hurts more than it helps. Whenever I talk to somebody I met in high school, I remember shit about them they don't remember, and it makes me come off like a stalker. I remember conversations in fairly dense detail. I remember that the day after prom, I called my best friend and told him the stupid bullshit that had occurred, and let slip that I had wanted to kiss my date, before her boyfriend broke up the party. He in turn told said boyfriend, who naturally told Ms. WST, who then told me that I sucked. Not in the sense of, she disparaged me, she said "You suck." I said, "Yeah.", thinking she was quasi-joking. She pissily replied, "No, really, you suck." And that sucked. But who remembers that shit? Does everybody remember these sort of things and just not tell anybody? I remember that she gave me the worst ever brush-off letter the next day. Later than day, there was an assembly. Several rows in front of me, she was leaning against the aforementioned non-boyfriend boyfriend. In concert, it made me so fucking furious that I almost left the building, despite the abundance of school personnel who would have chewed me out. I remember that she was gone for a lot of the rest of the year, at least in the one class we shared. I tried to talk to her, and she gave me the disinterested nod and fake smile which I've come to know as an annoying and talkative person. Specifically, I told her that she had missed my day with pigtails, and my day with a prison outfit. I remember the odd note or two that we would pass, which were usually signed with initials, which in turn became the title of my best and most wangsty fictional work. I remember that I would bring books to impress her, specifically, the Dresden Files. She brought in a CD (the Cherry Poppin' Daddies) and a comic book which seemed...oddly appropriate for me. I will bet anybody, dead seriously, all of the money in my bank account that she only vaguely remembers any of this, if at all. And she's absolutely right not to! It's not just her who I remember weird shit about, either, it's just that I talked to her more than most people. Freshman year, in Phoenix, I had a circle of three friends who I annoyed the shit out of and who all hated me by years end if not sooner. With good reason. Sophomore year, my only friends were a jock who thought wrestling was real and a 13 year old who grew up to become one arrogant little cocksucker. Junior year, I had literally no friends. Like, the whole time. The jock's girlfriend thought I was weird, so we didn't talk as much. (Weird thing I remember which doesn't have to do with WST: She coerced him into renting and watching A Lot Like Love. That poor, poor bastard.) The end of that year, though, I got into football, sorta, even though I'd hurt myself or just be ass lazy most of the time. And I fucking sucked, too, which is why I was roughly treated the same as some of the poorer freshmen. Again, with good reason, because I fucking sucked. But it did get me friends. Or rather, friend. Who in turn brought me into his circle of friends, who were not the geeks, because all of them were on the computers at the library, who were not the jocks, because they were either tiny, fat, lazy, or just fucking druggies, who were not the drama kids, which was the first group I tried to get into because drama girls are fucking hot a lot of the time (I did one audition, but I was stuffed up as hell, as well as homely as shit. There was an attempt to con me into becoming a stagehand. Fuck that noise, I signed up for the drama class because I didn't want to do any work, like most people who sign up for drama.), who were not the cool kids because they were for the most part bright but unable to handle too much bullshit, as well as, let's face it, mostly homely (admittedly, I upped the ugly factor tenfold when I joined), but who were just...you know, there. (That was one hell of a run-on sentence. I must remember to pat myself on the back for that later.) I played in garbage time of one game that year, skipped practice the next week and so wasn't able to go on a road trip, the whole reason I joined, and then got the shit knocked out of my knee in practice (I tore pretty much everything, because I was a pussy and stopped to brace for the blow rather than keep running), and so blessedly was able to leave without the shame of quitting for no good reason. Having nothing to go to school for, I, well, didn't. I mean, I did have grades and all that, but I realize now that I was in some sort of deep malaise from about age 12 to age 18, and any chance I had to miss school was fine by me. I came back several dozen pounds heavier, with a shitty, nasty proto-beard, and somehow even less agile than I had been. But I started talking to Whitney, who I had thought was totes hot when I first saw her, really hot and smart when I had her for a class junior year, and near fucking perfection by the time senior year rolled around. So she had a boyfriend, who was a fat emo with bad skin and worse hair and according to another of his ex-girlfriends (the guy basically plowed his way through every girl I had a crush on at Cobre, except presumably Taylor Nuzzo), bitch tits. That was an adversary I felt I could top. (Eerie parallel: my competition this time is apparently a fat guy with pink hair. Probably hung like a horse. Or just not a loser. Whatever. Point is, another guy who isn't out of the Abercrombie catalog. Is it possible that WST is not really all that good looking? I submit that she absolutely is, and she could get way hotter guys. But I digress.) What I'm getting at here is that I should have made my fucking move instead of pussyfooting around. It is nigh impossible to friend your way into a girl's heart or pants. She told me recently that I should have carried her off like a caveman. Problem of course is that I was an even bigger pussy back then than I am now. She oh so unsubtly told me, around prom time, when I was considering asking her, that she didn't have a date and thus wasn't planning to go. Santiago, shit-stirring little junkie that he is (still a totally cool guy), gave me a stage nod and smiled as he said "No date, huh?" This...did not go unnoticed, and so when I asked her later that day I did not receive an immediate reply. It was days later. I was wearing pants with a huge tear in the crotch. I literally fucking danced when I got the note. I called her kiddo later that day, in reference to Kill Bill, but coming off more like Wooderson. I'm a fucking dork in summary. I've hit the wall. Probably won't write any more on this.
Ridiculously overblown self-pity.
I've given up, like the big pussy I am. I've officially become yesterday's news to Ms. WST. The slim chance I had is as dust in the wind, just like the last slim chance I had. I'd settle for being friends, since I am just that much of a dork, but is talking once every couple of days via text really a friendship? Shit, dude, I have people I hate who I talk to more than that. My ego wants me to think that she's pushing me away because she's scared I could threaten what she has, but my ego and I both know that's bullshit. She's bored with me, and frankly, it's about time, since I am after all a boring loser with no job, car, friends, or life. Hell, I wouldn't date me and I'm enamored with myself. So I'm calling it quits on the whole idea. She doesn't need the wangst and I need to find a girl who's interested. Which would be pretty fucking tough going even if I wasn't hung up on the utterly unattainable. I mean...goddamnit. I would sometimes think of Ms. WST before I re-met her, which is probably creepy but whatever. I imagined that if I ever saw her again, I'd be fit, and witty, but it turns out that I'm basically the same clueless dork I was in high school, and I'll probably remain so until I die somewhere in my 50's due to an overabundance of processed nacho cheese in my arteries. I have a really powerful recall, and this hurts more than it helps. Whenever I talk to somebody I met in high school, I remember shit about them they don't remember, and it makes me come off like a stalker. I remember conversations in fairly dense detail. I remember that the day after prom, I called my best friend and told him the stupid bullshit that had occurred, and let slip that I had wanted to kiss my date, before her boyfriend broke up the party. He in turn told said boyfriend, who naturally told Ms. WST, who then told me that I sucked. Not in the sense of, she disparaged me, she said "You suck." I said, "Yeah.", thinking she was quasi-joking. She pissily replied, "No, really, you suck." And that sucked. But who remembers that shit? Does everybody remember these sort of things and just not tell anybody? I remember that she gave me the worst ever brush-off letter the next day. Later than day, there was an assembly. Several rows in front of me, she was leaning against the aforementioned non-boyfriend boyfriend. In concert, it made me so fucking furious that I almost left the building, despite the abundance of school personnel who would have chewed me out. I remember that she was gone for a lot of the rest of the year, at least in the one class we shared. I tried to talk to her, and she gave me the disinterested nod and fake smile which I've come to know as an annoying and talkative person. Specifically, I told her that she had missed my day with pigtails, and my day with a prison outfit. I remember the odd note or two that we would pass, which were usually signed with initials, which in turn became the title of my best and most wangsty fictional work. I remember that I would bring books to impress her, specifically, the Dresden Files. She brought in a CD (the Cherry Poppin' Daddies) and a comic book which seemed...oddly appropriate for me. I will bet anybody, dead seriously, all of the money in my bank account that she only vaguely remembers any of this, if at all. And she's absolutely right not to! It's not just her who I remember weird shit about, either, it's just that I talked to her more than most people. Freshman year, in Phoenix, I had a circle of three friends who I annoyed the shit out of and who all hated me by years end if not sooner. With good reason. Sophomore year, my only friends were a jock who thought wrestling was real and a 13 year old who grew up to become one arrogant little cocksucker. Junior year, I had literally no friends. Like, the whole time. The jock's girlfriend thought I was weird, so we didn't talk as much. (Weird thing I remember which doesn't have to do with WST: She coerced him into renting and watching A Lot Like Love. That poor, poor bastard.) The end of that year, though, I got into football, sorta, even though I'd hurt myself or just be ass lazy most of the time. And I fucking sucked, too, which is why I was roughly treated the same as some of the poorer freshmen. Again, with good reason, because I fucking sucked. But it did get me friends. Or rather, friend. Who in turn brought me into his circle of friends, who were not the geeks, because all of them were on the computers at the library, who were not the jocks, because they were either tiny, fat, lazy, or just fucking druggies, who were not the drama kids, which was the first group I tried to get into because drama girls are fucking hot a lot of the time (I did one audition, but I was stuffed up as hell, as well as homely as shit. There was an attempt to con me into becoming a stagehand. Fuck that noise, I signed up for the drama class because I didn't want to do any work, like most people who sign up for drama.), who were not the cool kids because they were for the most part bright but unable to handle too much bullshit, as well as, let's face it, mostly homely (admittedly, I upped the ugly factor tenfold when I joined), but who were just...you know, there. (That was one hell of a run-on sentence. I must remember to pat myself on the back for that later.) I played in garbage time of one game that year, skipped practice the next week and so wasn't able to go on a road trip, the whole reason I joined, and then got the shit knocked out of my knee in practice (I tore pretty much everything, because I was a pussy and stopped to brace for the blow rather than keep running), and so blessedly was able to leave without the shame of quitting for no good reason. Having nothing to go to school for, I, well, didn't. I mean, I did have grades and all that, but I realize now that I was in some sort of deep malaise from about age 12 to age 18, and any chance I had to miss school was fine by me. I came back several dozen pounds heavier, with a shitty, nasty proto-beard, and somehow even less agile than I had been. But I started talking to Whitney, who I had thought was totes hot when I first saw her, really hot and smart when I had her for a class junior year, and near fucking perfection by the time senior year rolled around. So she had a boyfriend, who was a fat emo with bad skin and worse hair and according to another of his ex-girlfriends (the guy basically plowed his way through every girl I had a crush on at Cobre, except presumably Taylor Nuzzo), bitch tits. That was an adversary I felt I could top. (Eerie parallel: my competition this time is apparently a fat guy with pink hair. Probably hung like a horse. Or just not a loser. Whatever. Point is, another guy who isn't out of the Abercrombie catalog. Is it possible that WST is not really all that good looking? I submit that she absolutely is, and she could get way hotter guys. But I digress.) What I'm getting at here is that I should have made my fucking move instead of pussyfooting around. It is nigh impossible to friend your way into a girl's heart or pants. She told me recently that I should have carried her off like a caveman. Problem of course is that I was an even bigger pussy back then than I am now. She oh so unsubtly told me, around prom time, when I was considering asking her, that she didn't have a date and thus wasn't planning to go. Santiago, shit-stirring little junkie that he is (still a totally cool guy), gave me a stage nod and smiled as he said "No date, huh?" This...did not go unnoticed, and so when I asked her later that day I did not receive an immediate reply. It was days later. I was wearing pants with a huge tear in the crotch. I literally fucking danced when I got the note. I called her kiddo later that day, in reference to Kill Bill, but coming off more like Wooderson. I'm a fucking dork in summary. I've hit the wall. Probably won't write any more on this.
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