Speed, Sean, and Semester's End

A brief summary of the recent developments peppering my life:

SPEED

As Avery would say, I've taken to using "performance enhancing drugs." As I don't participate in any activity considered remotely athletic, the expression refers to my academic performance with "study medications" or, quite bluntly, amphetamines. I've been using them sparingly, of course, but the usage itself is quite strange, seeing as I've always been against this sort of thing. I suppose one should never underestimate one's fraying willpower during a transitional period. I turn 21 in a month. Adulthood is fast approaching. Watch me retreat back into the foxhole.

SEAN

Sean is a great person. Sean also happens to be my boyfriend. This all came about because I invited him back to my apartment to pick up some extra granola bars at 3 am and he kissed me. Of course, the actual story is far more involved and amusingly complicated, but I think the simplest explanation of our relationship is preferable for this here blog. Pardon my gushing, but Sean has the most charming, big, bubbly, winning, melt-worthy smile that he manages to flash at all the right moments. He also has a Bermuda triangle of birthmarks on his left cheek and I often lose myself right there, in his face...his most perfect face. Sean is very good at talking. He could talk you away from jumping off a ledge and he could talk you out of your pants and he could talk you into doing anything because he always uses the right words. We went to the Met last weekend and as we strolled through the hall of Hellenic statues, he looks around, looks at me, and says "You're my favorite thing in here." I'll never forget that feeling of my heart sinking straight down to my ankles while my they struggled to adjust to the weakness in my knees. I'm in love with this remarkable creature who spits out sentences better than anything Cameron Crowe's ever written. Say Anything, Jerry Maguire, Almost Famous....Sean's got better lines.

Sam Griffel says that I'm in the "new car smell" stage of the relationship. Perhaps that's true. Perhaps this technicolor spectacle of blood pumping through my ventricles will give way soon enough to a dull throbbing sensation. Perhaps I'll wake up one morning to resent the indent his body makes in bed next to me. Perhaps he'll grow weary of my laundry list of self-proclaimed inadequacies. But for right now, right this instant, I cannot fathom any of those possibilities. The world may be hurling around me like a hurricane of impending doom, but love is good. Love is good, love is great, love is safety, love is keeping me sane right now.

SEMESTER'S END

I woke up this morning to December. This semester has flown by like hell, and I cannot wait for it to be over. HALLS OF ACADEMIA, I SHALL SHUN YOU IN T-MINUS TWO WEEKS!

Until late January, of course.

Just stating the obvious

My History of Italian Cinema teacher Stefano is a hot bitch.

Other hot bitches in Italian cinema class:

Alain Delon - hot bitch...french yet still in hot bitchy italian movies

Claudia Cardinale - hot bitch

Both are in this hot bitch of a movie, Rocco e i Suoi Fratelli (Rocco and his Brothers) which I highly recommend.

Moments of Stasis

I believe I ended my last entry by saying "things like this never last," or something along those lines.

It didn't last. He ended it twice, once after an apologetic coffee meet-up, standing in Astor Place, which concluded thusly:

He, leans into kiss me. Stops. Moves back.

Me: WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?

Him: I don't know.

I watch him walk away.

And then a second time, a month later, after we had reconciled briefly for one last museum visit/movie screening, after we both had gone home for a month, after we exchanged addresses yet he never wrote to me. After we both got back to New York. And it concluded thusly:

Him, standing in my doorway: I just don't know what I want right now. I'm sorry.

Me: Okay.

I shut the door, not having the courage to say anything else in response to that.

So, that's how it ended. Not with a bang, but with two whimpers. And I've spent the last two months or so (there's some overlap in time, because I started treating it like it was over before it actually was) trying to understand why. And I've come up with plenty of reasons why it ended - I'm not delusional - but I'm still awful sore about it. And I think I'm still sore because it came at a strange time in my life, as I was entering a new stage of adulthood and I just felt everything so deeply this summer.

Anyway, enough about him. I've got someone new, who's very nice, can grow a beard, and makes me laugh. I'm predicting good things in our future.

I'm taking a class on Italian Cinema with the most charming-accented teacher - Stefano - and whenever he talks about NeoRealism, he talks about it in terms of "Moments of Stasis" - moments in real time that don't affect the plot but develop mood, character, and add to a sense of realism. I feel like my life right now is full of these moments of stasis, where I'm not doing anything productive and I'm not feeling anything except malaise. Where the summer felt like it was moving by so fast, autumn is just dragging its heels. Part of this has to do with my seasonal depression, but I do really feel like I'm stuck.

Kind of a bummer of an entry, next time will be better.

Power Plants and Battleships

The events of the past two days as recounted by me, alone in my room, eating a cheeseburger:

Thursday, Emily came up on the Bolt Bus for a 24-hour visit. It was rather impromptu, yet we managed to engage in some very "New York" activities. Or, at least what I consider "New York." We had dinner at Momofuku, and to my utter shock, were seated after waiting for only five minutes. Her friend Allie joined us, and a good time was had by all, despite the fact that I could barely make a dent in my ramen (per usual). Afterwards, Em and I retreated back to my room whereupon we witnessed my lovely roommate Arami and her equally lovely friend Makenna primp and pregame for a night of clubbing. It was horrifying.

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:
That night, I had a dream that I wore Arami's red dress, which elicited an outcome not unlike a tale I remember from "Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark," where a woman became impregnated by spiders underneath her skin:
The following day, Emmy and I went to Soho for some shopping. My purchases? Two Japanese artist-print tshirts from Uniqlo, a flowery dress from Topshop, and a sexy, amazing, military-influenced black pencil skirt by Vena Cava at Barney's Co-op on sale for $100. I also took home a new bra and undie set, after much searching. At Bloomingdales, they don't carry bras for A-cups apparently. I ended up having to go to the specific Calvin Klein underwear store for more selection. Again, I hate my breasts.

Emmy left at around 7:00, and at around 10:30, I met up with the boy. It was still hot outside yet misting rain, so my hair frizzed up and my back got sweaty, but none of it mattered because I was with him. He wanted to walk to the East River park, but we went in the wrong direction and ended up by the power plant, with its imposing blue gates. It was silent and Pittsburghian, or what I'd imagine the wasteland of Pittsburgh to be like...but don't let that describer detract from how lovely it was. It was indeed lovely. I swung around to kiss him by the wet black highway, and hadn't felt that nice in a long time.

I brought a bottle of wine back to his place and we started watching "Out of Sight," but it took only two glasses for me to get particularly giddy and by the time J.Lo is introduced, I'm no longer paying attention.

We woke up at 6, and kept trying to fall back asleep until 11, whereupon we dressed and played three games of Battleship. He won two.

I like kissing him and I like how affectionate he is with me. I love his drawings and the way he writes. I even like how he bites his nails and has ink stains all over his fingers.

Obviously things like this never last.

Fast Eddie

Ed Mazurek messaged me today over facebook chat.

Three years after the fact, I'm pretty sure he's the coolest person I've ever dated. He gave himself the nickname Fast Eddie, made rambling keyboard music under the tome Gargoyles Benedict, and his senior yearbook quote? "Tu es la vague, je suis l'ile nu," a Serge Gainsbourg lyric that translates to "You are the wave, I am the naked island." Swoon.

I remember driving around with him in his car listening to L'Histoire de Melody Nelson trying to find a Walmart down the shore. It took us over an hour after getting lost, but once we got there, we stole My Little Ponys. I still have the remnants of the packaging on my wall at home...along with song lyrics he wrote for me, and a picture I drew of us. After the purloined ponys, we ended up back at his Grandfather's bed and breakfast on 10th and Central, sneaking into a basement apartment to fool around. I was sunburned. We both were clumsy. My father kept calling me, but I repeatedly ignored my cellphone. He was furious. He picked me up on the corner before Ed and I could consummate anything, and it took us four hours to get home in traffic.

I believe that was the last time I saw Ed under the pretense of this summer relationship we had going. He stopped talking to me, I was hurt, and he went off to Williams in the fall. Later on, he'd sporadically contact me, saying how sore he felt over the way things ended. How he was confused and didn't know what to do, and felt things were getting too serious before college. He told me he'd like to get to know me again under a different context, but it never happened. While I was dating Matt Campanella, and was unsure of the whole thing (which, honestly, I had every right to be because Matt was pretty damned toxic), Ed told me that the best way to judge if you should be in a relationship with someone is if you could watch a Discovery Channel special about dolphins with them and enjoy it. To just lay there and cuddle and watch dolphins. I don't think Ed and I ever got to that point while we were together. Just a bunch of teenage touching and trying to impress one another.

He messaged me today asking what I thought of "Moon," and we had a coherent critical conversation for about three minutes before he started rambling on about what it would be like to talk to one's clone. He then told me that at this point, he's decided he wants to be a filmmaker, and he saw his first Woody Allen film this past week. "Hannah and Her Sisters." I told him "Manhattan" was my favorite.

He's working at the Vox Populi this summer, which is incredibly sexy, and part of me wishes I stayed in Philadelphia for the break, just so I could have gone to that record launch party he had there the other night. But I'm in New York, and I still doubt we could ever watch the dolphins together after all these years.

Tits

I hate my breasts. I don't even know if calling them breasts would be accurate, seeing as they more closely resemble tiny flaps of skin. A friend moved into a new apartment recently, and while over at her new digs, I took the opportunity to use her measuring tape to figure out my figure measurements. 31-24-31.

For the Fourth of July holiday, I ended up at some party with the boy, consumed enough liquor to get me properly drunk, and somehow made it back to his place. I wake up at 6 am from the light streaming through the window curtains, and for the first time I get a look at his room. Herzog DVD collection, post-it notes above his desk, baseball caps on hooks - and a page from a magazine ripped out and taped to a prime wall spot close by the headboard featuring a very buxom female. If my chest measures 31", hers must have measured 38". The breeze blowing through the open window kept the page flapping about, begging me to notice it, pleading with me to make the comparison between my own sorry rack and the tits of this sexy goddess lady. I glanced down at my pitiful bare breasts, slightly peaking from the cold, and glanced at the big sleeping boy next to me, then took another look at the fantasy woman on the wall. I don't remember the last time I'd felt that small and frozen and lonely and weak. I proceeded to put my clothes on and then left for home.

No one updates these anymore

But I will.

Much has happened since the last time I managed to update this pink mess of a blog...rather, much has happened within the last week. I lived my life one way for two years and now everything's backwards and I've given myself an ulcer and I have stopped wearing a bra.

I broke up with Joe last Tuesday. Needless to say, it was a long time coming. Depending on who you ask, this "long time" could have either started Welcome Week freshman year (Josh would say this) or the BBQ on Joe Siegel's roof (a more accurate time frame, in my opinion).

Despite the inevitability of the split, I still feel awful sore about it. There are things I certainly don't miss about Joe, but there are the things I do - how the skin around his eyes crinkles when he smiles or how he would always make me feel better when I was sick. However, there was no physical relationship between us, and that's just inexcusable.

As of right now, I'm sailing the as-yet-uncharted-by-me waters of singledom in New York City. It sucks. I just want to have sex with someone, feel good about it for a few days, then move on to others. Like I did in high school - you know, back when I was much cooler than I am right now.

We'll see how things go. I just want September to get here.