How Will I Know?

If he really loves me? I dunno, Whitney, why don't you ask Foreigner to set it straight and figure out what the hell love is before you find out if that's what he's feeling.

I digress...social networking has been the downfall of dating and crushin' as we know it. The infinite variables that the internet adds to relationships will send any Girl over the edge trying to figure out what Boy's meaning is behind every "like", comment and status update.

How do you know? My advice: the same it's always been. Don't wait around to find out. If he really likes you, he will make it known. Boy will go after Girl. If that isn't enough for you, option B is GO AFTER HIM. Stop fucking around. Girl needs to grow some metaphorical balls and be the man, cause if he hasn't buttered the bacon*, clearly Girl will have to man up and be the pants in the relationship.

To conclude: Whitney Houston got a few things right. The pitter patter of your heart, the nervousness, the drunken dancing..oh wait, wrong song... LOVE IS BITTERSWEET. It involves risk. Is he worth it? Ask yourself and you might find the answer you were looking for all along.

*Butter the bacon is an awesome phrase that makes absolutely no sense. Let's say it more often.

The Metaphor of the Fish

Girl has been liked -- I say liked because love is such a strong word -- by a few gentlemen. For some reason or another though, the guy likes Girl, and she reels him in, only instead of cleaning the fish, gutting it, and making a delicious meal, she throws it back out into the water. I don't know what Girl's problem is because afterward she just feels terrible. She misses the fish, reminisces about her time spent with the fish, and wonders what the fish is doing now...if it got caught by someone else and made a delicious meal without her. Girl never knew what it tasted like -- She never knew what it could be.

Girl likes to think that she's grown. She recognized her issue and made some changes, so that this time around things will be different. But, sitting around waiting for another fish to bite is tiresome and lonely. It's easy to get distracted and think about the old fish, instead of the new ones that await in the untested waters.

....wait, am I comparing Men to Fish? I guess the age old expression, "There's always more fish in the sea" is more revealing than I ever imagined. Because you do catch a fish just like a lover. Sometimes they don't stay on the hook long enough for you to get them, and sometimes you get as far as cleaning it only to find it wasn't the fish you thought it was...and you could never make a meal with it.

Isn't that all this is about? Making something special with someone else?

After all that Girl has been through, it better be one five star, award-winning catch.

(Ps. Let's not get into the symbolism of the Pole. Or should we?)

My Dearest Andy knew it best:

You have permission to "Aww"

So Jenna is throwing this rad party and this guy she's been crushin' on shows up fashionably late and is lookin' pretty bitchin'. He talks the talk, walks the walk, and...cocks the cock, or so they say. Jenna is impressed that he is impressed with her dvd and old school vhs collection. He sees a tape he likes and she offers to lend it to him, but he says he doesn't have a vhs player anymore. Then they do the limbo to a Tom Petty song and talk to one of Jenna's friends about the health benefits of horseradish. At the top of the stairs, a few drinks later, the Stallion pulls Jenna aside, and in all seriousness, says he lied to her. She asks him about what, and he pauses before replying, "I do have a vhs player, but I wanted to come back over and watch the movie here with you."

"I am in the twilight of my youth."

What a phrase, from a classic song.

Sometimes life feels that way.

Life, age, the sun and and the darkness,

it's hard to tell who you are in the confusion.

Give me a flashlight, a match, or your Zippo,

cause I seem to be lost

in this trench of speculations.

Half of me feels so underdeveloped

like a premature fetus in a tube

while the other half feels like an elderly cripple,

faking wisdom and getting by on checks of entitlements.

Oh boy, that's me!

The premie with a cane and a pocketful of pills and checks.

It seems quite dark out now, "do you

know the way to San Jose?"

Blurb-tastical

From the desk of Jerraldine Flannery:

He's just not that into...gay men? Why is is that if a girl finds a great guy, with a little style, heart, and interests that lie in intellectual mumbo jumbo and the Arts, the first thought is, "He must be gay"? What has the world come to that we have such low expectations for our straight men?

A Modern Woman's Man-Qualities Checklist:

q Sports Fanatic

q Beer Guzzler (extra check for Beer Belly)

q Insensitive Prick

q halfheartedly attempts to reciprocate sexual pleasure

q enjoys senseless violence and stories with massive plot holes

q thinks plot holes are indents in pavement

But seriously, why the huge loss of faith? While half of all marriages end in divorce, relationships are still more popular than ever. Love never goes out of style, so why are good men?

Dear Paula Cole,

Did you ever find out about those Cowboys?

xoxo

Jerrie

When I Say Pornography...

During the late afternoon class that Girl has with Peter Joshua Johnson, aka The Apostle, the professor went on a detailed tangent about masochism in literature.

The latest of awkward scenes between Girl and The Apostle went down like this:

Professor: "...a bunch of men egging him on...as he quote on quote stakes her. But what about this...now just let me get through to the point. There was this pornographic film--"*Girl looks at Peter Joshua Johnson, a noticeable head turn, as he takes his seat across the room and back a few seats from her.

When I say "Pornographic Film" you look at the first person in the room that comes to mind.

Girl Tells a Story of Folklore (1)

The Knight in the Shiny Silver Audi

Becka grabbed onto the door frame and pleaded, "Just one more."

"There isn't any more tequila, Beck," Fitz moaned. "It's 2 a.m., let's go." The curly-haired blond held up the keys and jingled them in front of the redhead's rosy face.

"You drive," she replied. "I'll..."

Fitz smiled and grabbed her hand, "You screech to Pat Benatar songs violently until we get home."

They quietly left the house and into Becka's new-used Audi sedan. They had been dating on and off for a while. Fitz being half Dutch and half Portuguese, his family life often got in the way of their romance. On one occasion, after Becka had slept over at Fitz's parent's house, she was verbally assaulted by his elderly Portuguese grandmother, whose squeals didn't quite reach the upstairs bathroom in which Fitz was showering. Another issue between them was Fitz's desire to go to grad school. One drunken night, he decided it would be a good idea to get his Master's in a European school. Becka threw an entire cheese platter at him, despite pleas from her friends that were nervously enjoying the assortment that included Brie and Roquefort. But despite their eccentricities and trivial pursuits (some over Trivial Pursuit: The 80s), Fitz and Becka were really good together.

As they made their drive home, Becka sank lower and lower into a drunken stupor, uttering phrases like, "We should make some whip cream of our own." She also was clenching her jaw and looking down at the floor for minutes at a time. Fitz started to get concerned and asked if she needed him to pull over.

"No! Do not stop! Drive straight home!" So Fitz sped up and kept his eyes on the dark, deserted road.

The events of the party flashed over his mind, and he chuckled to himself while Becka adjusted her seat.

The party had been the usual mix of hipsters, wannabe musicians, druggies, and outcasts. Fitz had smoked a bowl with two of his friends and slowly sipped two beers as Becka delightfully downed shot after shot with her girlfriend Avila who, mysteriously, disappeared for two hours.

With Avila missing, Becka moved from group to group, dancing, singing, and unintentionally winning at a game of Twister. Getting bored, she decided to act drunker than she was. She saw one of her friends that had just arrived, pouring himself a Jack and Coke, and she decided to bother him.

"Eric!" she giggled. "You look just liked Jesus! Hey," she pointed at Eric and raised her voice, "Everybody look, I found Jesus!"

Eric, who had a mild beard and shoulder length locks, was almost completely sober and very much unamused. A few people laughed but most didn't even notice.

"Miguel, come here!" Becka demanded. The shaggy haired Latino shook his head and walked away to talk to Fitz. Just then, Avila returned to the party, smelling of cigarette smoke and cough syrup, asking Becka, "What-the-What is up?"

"What's up is I found Jesus!" Becka exclaimed.

Avila laughed and took Becka aside. Whispering in her ear, "Believe me, Eric is no Jesus!" And winked at her red-haired friend.

"PULL OVER!" Becka shouted just as Fitz was getting ready to change lanes.

"Are you sick?" Fitz asked, concerned.

"PULL OVER!"

Fitz took the exit before theirs and pulled into a Christian fellowship Church parking lot. As he put the car in park and looked over at Becka, he was surprised to see her staring at him.

"What? What is it?" he asked.

Becka leaned in and said, "I need sex, now."

"What?" Fitz laughed.

"You heard me," she replied, and grabbed his shirt, pulling it with her as she nose dived into the backseat.

"This is not a good idea," Fitz whispered while Becka threw off her pants.

"That," she huffed, "is what you said last time."

About sixteen minutes later, when Fitz was back in the driver's seat wiping the fog off the windows with his sleeve, he laughed and pointed out the window.

Directly in front of the parked car was a massive statue of Jesus.

Oh Waiter, Check-----me out.

Girl had a lovely dinner with two partners in crime at a somewhat upscale Americanized Mexican dining establishment. Having been a server herself, she immediately noted the table had no napkins or silverwares. The atmosphere, food, and of course, the company, made up for the service inadequacies.

The waiter was a little plain, but he was tall, lean, and refilled Girl's Coca-Cola in an impressive and timely fashion.

Ages after the meal, the three confidants were still talking away, when the waiter came to clear the dishes. Check had been paid.

Friend #2: "...and it's not like we...screw each other on the table at work, or anything."

the waiter laughs, and all the girls follow suit.

Friend #1: "No need to censor yourself for him!"

Friend #2: "I did censor myself. I was going to say 'fucking' each other on the table."

Waiter: "It's alright. You can say fucking in front of me. I'm a big boy, I'm old enough to handle it."

Enchanté, sir Waiter, and please elaborate on what exactly you're old enough to handle.

Lesson One

submerged wood

NOUN.

1. Heavily forested area that is flooded

2. a clothed male suffering from engorged genitalia

example:

1. "Did you see all of that submerged wood after the storm?"

"It was so destructive."

2. "Did you see Kenny's submerged wood at dinner?"

"Yes and I was not impressed."

Never Were There Two More In Sync

Today, after one of Girl's afternoon classes (actually the one with the Boy from the Hallucination post), Girl, in a common fashion, had to use the restroom. She had been in a funk all day and had drunk two full bottles of water in the hours after noon.

Doing her business, Girl took her time, for there was no need to rush. She methodically washed her hands and grabbed a paper towel (to add to the pretentious air of Girl, she likes to use the dryer in front of others who opt for paper towels).

In the seconds that passed between walking to the door and opening it, Girl heard the sound of the boys room door next door open. She popped herself out only to find that Boy (the one she hallucinated) had just popped out of the restroom as well. He was facing the opposite direction, with his back to her, and had a pair of dark headphones in his "covered-with-disheveled-hair" ears.

And this was lucky for Girl, who unintentionally exclaimed, "Oooohhhhhh!" at the sight of Boy. The noise was not in her head, evidenced by someone down the hall turning and looking on the sight with amusement. Boy did not turn around, however, and walked on his way down the stairs and to what is probably an amazing and meaningful life.

Girl plopped down on a decades old, uncomfortable chair to regain her composure.

For reasons undisclosed in this blog, Girl has named this Boy Peter Johnson. There is no possibility that this is his real name. If it is--well, folks, that makes it fate.

First comes Pre-Historic birds, then restroom syncing, and then four months later, making out on your best friend's couch. A word to the wise: at the first sound of a "CA-KAW!" run for the hills...because after that...there's no telling where you might be destined to run into each other. Take Girl's word for it.

Morale

morale

–noun

emotional or mental condition with respect to cheerfulness, confidence, zeal, etc., esp. in the face of opposition, hardship, etc.: the morale of the troops.

The thing Girl uses to boost her "MORALE" is making her question her sanity, as of late. Does the motivation for the thing invariably affect the attaining of it?

Can Girl's thinking really be healthy? If it will lead to better outcomes and fulfillment?

Does the end justify the means?

Two words: potato salad.

If I Hallucinate It, It Must Be

Today Girl was walking out of (hopefully) the last mathematical class she will ever have to take, when she happened to see, upon a quick glance, a boy of interest. This Boy, a common sight in one of her Tuesday/Thursday classes, was actually not there, on the brick walkway, upon further examination.

Girl looked away in hurried disappointment.

A few paces down the walk, Girl looks up to see Boy walking toward her. How terribly confusing to hallucinate a person and then see them not ten seconds later!

To make matters worse for Girl, after Boy was a few paces past, a somewhat Pre-Historic natured bird made a loud "CA-KAW!" causing her to look back, only to meet the sight of Boy doing the same.

AwK = Awkward on the Table of Elements -- And Girl breathes it like oxygen, let me tell ya.

Ode to a stranger's eyes

It's the type of thing I think about to make me smile on an overcast day, when I forgot a sweater and have to walk a ways with the shivers and a threat of rain.

His brown eyes aren't even really brown at all, not like the kind you're used to at least. They're like the color of my coffee before I put in the last drop of cream, the moment it's sweet but not too sweet, the perfect balance. The brown of most eyes is a dark and deep one, rich with a shade that dances between the lighting, ever changing with the surroundings. His is a fluid color, light and infinite, a color that never changes with the light but still manages to never stay the same upon each glance.

It's mesmerizing, meditative, and marginally captivating on a scale from one to infinity. It's something I try to forget but am hard pressed to remember--something to get lost in like the dirty brown waters of a river recently flooded. Only you want to get lost in this one because it feels like it could be salvation: rescue. It's undeniable, intrinsic, the thing you spend your whole life trying to figure out until realizing you knew what it was all along.

It's a problem, but one that is worth filling up the chalkboard of your soul trying to solve. The variable? A blink of an eye, something that subtracts a few moments of sight. The constant is simply the static of the stare and all the unchanging grace present there inside the hue.

The color born from the concentrated brown tucked away in the plastic case of watercolors, which when added with the water and aided with a brush, slowly spreads itself over the white; never to be changed, never to be taken from, never to leave the once blank canvas--your canvas.

It's just the thing I think about--on days like these--to make me smile.

Missed Connections

There is no such thing as a "Missed Connection".

The eyes meeting, the chit chat at the Starbucks counter while waiting for your soy lattes, while it was fabulous, and filled with excitement, that my friend was all it was meant to be.

Because if it's going to be something more, it will be. It will come to pass. It will play itself out.

Don't spend time worrying about the "one that got away" or the "possibilities" or "the what if's", because the time spent worrying distracts you from the time you could be spending making the connections that will last; the ones that aren't worthing missing.

Let's caravan to sudden death!

Recently, Girl went into the fog. Literally. (But perhaps She was always there.)

There's this quaint, isolated town nearby that is an old port. The road is isolated, unruly, and descends down through sharp turns and steep hills. Add the element of zero-visibility fog, and well, folks, it ain't nothing but a good time.

Recently, Frankie and Girl took this journey at an A.M. time, to bring some havoc to a few bar goers at the one alcohol establishment in the town. Black Coat Mafia had been idle for far too long, and the thought occured to "start some shit" if you get the meaning. Unfortunately, the plans backfired.

Because while Frankie was mostly unattached to the situation, Girl was not. These situations, drive-by apple pie-ing, drive-by booking, etc., etc., always seem to arise when a Mafia member wants to do something to a Boy who "bad romanced" her. Or in this case, vice versa. Our Girl, you see, inevitably screws up everything she sets her mind to, and one screw up, as it were, was at the Creepy Port Town's Alcohol Establishment, having a few drinks after quite a large health situation arose.

The senses make it real. When someone that once had your heart is gone, by choice or not, they aren't around: they are eventually forgetable. But a scent, a picture, a movie, a song, anything sensual that reminds you of what once was, are useless ice picks. By ice picks, I mean to say, the once loved (or hated) person has been enshrined in ice, and left to sit inside one's head, frozen away in some Northern Cerebral glacier, until, inevitably, those memories melt it and pick at it, and it drifts back into the consciousness of the here and now, to haunt you, anger you, force you to bitterly drink it away while only being able to focus on either the good or the bad of it all.

It's not the destination, but the journey, as the old saying goes... in this case; Girl should've guessed from the perilous journey, start to finish, what was awaiting her at the end point, and turned around, back to safety.

Because more often than not, you get what you weren't expecting. But that's life, isn't it? Driving headfirst through the fog, visibility always changing, uncertainty looming about what's to come. Also, getting lost and having to turn around...quite a few times. Ahh, the joys of being alive...and in a fog.