It’s been a while, eh?
I’m in Connecticut for another 8ish months of attempted education with a heaping side of underage binge drinking (well, come early October and then the “underage” becomes “of age”). This welcome week has felt like a welcome decade. Reminiscing all the way back to last Friday, it is awfully hard to believe that it was 9 days ago because it surely feels like nostalgia. Maybe the lengthy week is due to the introduction of new classes or possibly the wonderful apartment I have come to call my 8-month home. I am going to attribute this never-ending week to everything horrible that happened. Without reliving this week via text, I am going to simply state that anxiety sucks and magnifies every issue, problem, and emotion. One thing worth noting is that if you do not have anxiety or have never experienced true anxiety, you have no idea what I am talking about. Trust. Anxiety is a bitch but worse. Hopefully the overwhelming worrying will soon subside, because this on-edge, churning stomach, constant teary-eyed feeling is nothing I will ever get used to and I am over it.
I am officially and happily over C. He is a wonderful friend, but I am no longer goopy and wide-eyed when I see him, and the butterflies have seemed to fly far, far away.
B is home from his over seas working extravaganza. We talked most of the summer and half the time he was away, but since he’s been home I haven’t heard from him. I knew it would never be more than a sexually-based friendship so I’m okay with his absence. Who knows if he will ever talk to me again. I hope he doesn’t disappear, but I don’t think I would ever hold it against him…well, there’s a lie.
It is well known that I become attached to boys quickly; I fall hard and fast. Well, I have come to believe that in my long, long, long week of hell, hell, hell that my feelings of drunken/sober lust are no longer followed by the butterflies and longing. Instead it is emptiness and the slightest feeling of regret and disgust that follows. Don’t take this in the wrong way; so far my grimacing anxiety has not replaced the adorable butterflies…give it time.
The boys in my apartment have friends over all the time, and the other night I found myself attracted to one tall, broad boy from the always wonderful Garden State (a turn on in itself). Saturday night brought the inevitable drunken attraction that was undeniably ever-present the night before. Walking with the group to Celeron Apartments, we kissed. (Some trivia for you: I love kissing. I can make-out and snuggle forever, but beyond that, well, that’s a rarity for me. I am the drunk hookup every boy dreads, because they expect more and I just want to cuddle. I am an admitted tease and damn proud of it.) We kissed and kissed well into our drunken night at Celeron. Most of our night consisted of me trying to convince him to stay in Celeron and him trying to convince me to go to Carriage. Eventually everyone that had gone to Carriage came back and my conversation with boy turned to “You come back to my place,” “No, you come back to my place.” I won.
I woke up this morning not feeling lovey and adorable, but instead desperately wanting him to leave. This has never happened. He was good looking – tall, muscular, nice eyes, a Mets fan, a non-fist-pumping Jersey boy – not to mention, he was kind of an ass, just my taste!
In a bout of self discovery, I have figured out my weekendly “need” to kiss and cuddle, blah, blah, blah. It has been three-years since my last real relationship. I want to feel wanted. I love to feel wanted. These make outs serve as a drug. They give me a short but pseudo-fulfilling feeling of being wanted…of being needed…of being desired. Unhealthy? Absolutely. Truly fulfilling? Hellz no.
So why did this weekend’s drug not bring on those annoying feelings of attachment that normally follow the high? I am scared that I have either turned into a college boy, void of any emotion except for those in the morning: “Get the fuck out before she wakes up!” Similarly, I am scared that my feelings for C that have finally subsided have robbed me of my ability to enjoy the opposite sex. I do not feel that sexual necessity that horny, drunken college boys feel – the feeling their penises tell them they feel. I feel the need – the desire – to be wanted, to be loved. But what if I can’t love back. It is clear that I am not willing to settle; I could have done that by now. I am not exactly your big-ole-whore, although my need for money ASAP may lead me straight into prostitution. I just have an addiction.
I am absolutely, positively pathetic.
But all I really want is true, undeniable, real love.
