Merry Christmas

So, because apparently I'm a pagan, I went to see Wolf of Wall Street tonight. And yes, obviously it's not a "family film" with quality life lessons and heartfelt moments that fill your eyes with tears and your body with warm fuzzies, but it was a fucking good movie. Drugs, nudity, language, it contained all the components of what could potentially be just a trashy movie, but it wasn't. There was that element of class because, well, everyone was fucking rich. They may have been rich drug addicts addicted to porn and any form of narcotics, but they earned the right to be addicts. At least that's how the movie made you feel. Sure, maybe they earned their money illegally, but they still had drive, ambition, and love for something. They actually got up off their asses and decided to make something of themselves, unlike all the people (myself included) who were sitting on their asses in the movie theater watching them get ridiculously high, fuck whores, and strap money to people. The things they did for the love of money may have been far less than honorable, but at the end of the day, who among us is honorable, right?

Here's what I'm trying to get at. The movie was captivating and genius not because of the number of swear words they managed to cram into a sentence or the amount of distasteful nude scenes in the film, but the way Scorsese was able to manipulate the audience into somehow rooting for Leonardo DiCaprio, the Wolf of Wall Street. You end up hating the FBI, the guys you should be pulling for as an upstanding American, and hoping that somehow Leo can crawl his way to his car and drive a mile to his house completely incapacitated by twenty year old Lemmons just to stop his partner from giving himself up on the tapped phone. In the end, the Wolf of Wall Street sold me. And I think that was the whole point. The goal of Wall Street is to sell whatever story makes you richer, just like a good movie tries to sell you its story, and Leo is pretty damn good at it. Both his character, Jordan Belfort, the actual criminal, and Leo himself sell their story to the public in true stockbroker fashion, and although I'd like to think myself brighter than all those gullible idiots who trust these genius bastards over the phone lines, maybe I'm not. Jordan Belfort wrote a book upon being released from prison detailing what he did to become a millionaire, but what you'll never get from him either in a book or a movie, is an apology. The man was fucking badass and believed it wasn't criminal to take advantage of someone who was simply too stupid to fall for your lies. And you know what? I think he might be right.

Christmas Eve

The four previous posts (minus the "lone wolf") are ones I decided to share from my a diary that I'm writing as a series of short excerpts on my current relationship with one individual. Basically they're about learning to become friends with an unrequited lover.

The most recent post, "The Lone Wolf," is one I wrote several months ago about a wolf dying of rabies. I am, somewhat obviously, obsessed with wolves for some unknown reason and write about them often. Anyway, I thought you deserved this little explanation for some of my previous posts, and I'll try to be better about providing these in the actual post.

In the near future, I plan to compile a collection of dream diaries, which I have added to and altered slightly into short stories. I'm planning to post about one of these each week, but in the meantime, I will attempt to be better about posting something everyday, since I am now home for the holidays after my first semester of college and have no excuse for not writing since I largely sit around on my ass all day watching Breaking Bad and avoiding any real work. Sorry for the run-on sentence, thanks for reading, and Merry Christmas Eve.

The Lone Wolf

On a lonely path in the middle of nowhere, a lonely wolf loped longingly along. Leaves upon leaves upon leaves stacked upon each other, leaving just enough room for him to hang his melancholy head with his jaw just brushing the top layer of leaves. There was no moon in the sky. The stars were masked by the absolute certainty of the blackest of nights, and the wolf exhaled slowly and deliberately. Nearby, a rabbit snapped to attention and darted into the nearest shrubbery, alarmed at how careless he was to let such an ominous threat pass so closely. But tonight he would not pay for his mistake. The wolf did not alter his course. Although it was a moonless night, a companion, a fellow wolf, howled blaringly into the ink-black sky. The lone wolf did not raise his head. Following the cue of their alpha, the rest of the pack joined in, sending their powerful voices into the void above them. The lone wolf did not raise his head. His companions beckoned with their calls, silencing the quiet whispering of the woods with their calls. But still the lone wolf did not raise his head. It was their final goodbye. He was alone in his despair and confusion.

Under his gradually thinning pelt, his muscles weakened under the strain of the inevitable. His massive paws overtook his lean body and pulled him forward, step by step, slower, slower, slower. He collapsed. That powerful coat, which had gleamed in the sun and rippled in the hunt appeared in disarrayed, ragged clumps. Those paws, which had spurred him on through fire and ice, never failing, became the reason he could not go on. Those jaws which had snapped the neck of the mighty elk in a single, brief motion, were devoured by the saliva which gushed from their depths. And those eyes. Those eyes which had looked into the souls of prey and had understood them through the laws of nature and brutality, had lost their luster. The yellow that shone with the fervor of the omnipresent moons, one high above, and one the heart, dripped out onto that accomodating bed of leaves as the lone wolf let himself be reclaimed by the unforgiving ground which had possessed him since birth.

And those eyes, which had looked into the heart of man with infinite knowledge, closed. Never to be reopened.

Awkward.

That about sums up our time at Starbucks today. I’m sorry, but there’s no denying it. I mean, you seemed pissed out of your mind the entire time. And I don’t mean like high pissed, I mean angry pissed. It seemed like the last thing you wanted to do was spend time with me. After everything I said, it seemed like you had to contradict me or turn it into an insult. You even turned my idea to be a minimalist into an accusation when you claimed I had too many clothes to be a minimalist and used “Well, I’ve never seen that shirt before” as your evidence. Excuse me for wanting to update my wardrobe. Maybe it was because of all the party drama or maybe (though unlikely) you were as nervous as I was, but you certainly didn’t seem glad to see me. Even apart from all that, it was intensely awkward with all the long pauses and “yeah….so….”s…. You’re probably not reading anything into it like I am, you’re probably just thinking, “Well, guess we can’t be friends cuz that was awkward as fuck,” and you know what? I don’t really blame you.

One good thing that perhaps arose out of the awkwardness or in spite of it was the fact that I can clearly see you’ve changed. You “had a fling” with a junior and you smoke marijuana and cigarettes and clearly think that makes you better than me. In fact, it seemed like everything you said was just to make you appear better than me. I hope I didn’t come across that way too. I was trying to be cheery and keep a positive attitude, but sometimes that’s kind of hard to do when I’m getting insulted and clearly rejected. Overall, the whole encounter just depressed me. I was thinking about leaving some york peppermint patties in your mailbox, but you know, I don’t want to come across as desperate or trying to win you back or something. Believe me, I sure as hell don’t want to date the guy I hung out with today. I guess I’m searching for a way to bring back the old you. The one that blew me away with sincerity and ambition. The one that was vulnerable yet made me feel secure, and most importantly, someone whom I could relate to on a deeper level. I thought we could be friends that way. But I clearly see now you have no intention of opening up to me anymore. And I’ll just have to learn to live without you in my life, just as I’ve done for the past few months. Best wishes. Here’s to hoping for a future when you’re ready to be friends with me.

Friends

Let’s face it. When it comes to you, I make a prize idiot of myself 99% of the time. But I thought that you would look past that and were genuine in your offer of having casual drinks as friends. I mean, you even said that you were looking forward to it. But I guess that was all lies too. Either way, the fact is that tomorrow is Thursday, and you move out of your dorm for the holidays on Friday. Why is this relevant? Well, because, if I am to drink with you and get decently tipsy enough to be incapable of operating a vehicle and therefore be forced to spend the night in bed with you, then this must all happen tomorrow. Because tomorrow is Thursday. And you know what? Tomorrow will make exactly one week since I’ve been home. And one week of me thinking/hoping/expecting you were sincere in your desire to hang out, as friends, and that you would notify me when I should arrive at your dorm to have a good time. But apparently, you’re too busy doing who knows what (because I certainly don’t) to even send me the briefest text message courteously informing me that you are otherwise occupied for the week and that I should let the idea of our scantily clad bodies squished against each other on a twin size dorm bed go. As the universe, or really just you, would have it, I am left confused and wondering what the hell I am supposed to do now that there is no hope of that steamy reunion ever happening. The truth is, that’s all I really wanted for Christmas, and you won’t even do me the decency of informing me that it will not happen. Texting someone “sorry, I’m too busy, can’t get together this week,” takes maybe 30 seconds of your time. Hell, I don’t even care if you texted me while you were taking a shit. But the fact that you won’t do it fills my head with images of you sucking face with some dipshit and I can’t handle that. So why don’t you just text me motherfucker?

Like a Fuckin' Orangutan Bitch

I currently believe it is impossible for me to fall out of love with you. One of these days, I picture you calling me, or perhaps springing the news upon me when we next meet that you have found someone new. I imagine you’ll be looking for some form of consent or blessing from me, and of course, I will give it. But I won’t stop loving you. My heart is a fucking mess, to put it lightly, and I don’t believe there is a way to mend it. I’m screwed because I want to be with you and I’m screwed because I can’t. You see, in that moment when you come to me, explaining that you’re sorry but that you’ve found someone far better than I ever was, I will smile and exclaim. “I’m so happy for you” and “you weren’t obligated to tell me any of this, but thanks for the consideration” and “I just want you to be happy” are probable phrases to issue from my lips in that moment, but I just want to put it on record that it will all be absolute bullshit. My fucked up heart will love you forever, and from the looks of it, that will prevent me from any potential joy I could have found with someone else. I don’t begrudge you for that, it’s not like you made me fall in love with you. And that’s why I can never tell you any of this. I’ll keep a straight face every time I’m with you, make the right jokes, laugh at all your shitty ones, pretend the situation is just a walk in the park to me, but deep down inside, the whole time, I’ll be kicking and screaming, crying and dissolving, wishing, hoping you will never come to me with that other girl.

I won’t hate her. I’ll assume she’s the person that I could never be and that she’ll be the right one for you, and therefore, I won’t hold any grudge against her because she makes the love of my life happy. But at the same time, I will find it immensely difficult to be happy for you. In fact, many times, I probably will be downright miserable and depressed like I am right now. But hey, I’m human. But honestly, sincerely, I’ll do my best to convince you that I’m perfectly okay, completely over you, and optimistic about my own prospects. Who knows, maybe I’ll even invent a boyfriend for myself. Basically, I’ll do whatever it takes to erase your guilt about breaking up with me and to put your mind at rest about moving on from me and leaving me behind to collect dust in your distant memories. I’ll make it my mission to convince you that I will be perfectly happy fading away forever from your mind and that you will never think of me again. Like the docile, submissive coward I am, I’ll put on the best show of strength, independence, and courage you can imagine, and I’ll make you believe every single one of my lies, starting now. Bitch.

I Think I Saw It Coming

When you started walking towards me. I mean, you didn’t run. You smiled, hefty messenger bag slung over your shoulder, but you didn’t run. Love was absent from your eyes, I just didn’t see it yet. Somewhere deep inside my brain, my inner workings were putting together a warning signal. They were writing out the memo as I turned away from you and watched your too slow approach in the car window as the tears streamed down my face. Maybe those tears were part of the warning signal. My subconscious worked very hard to form those few tears, but I cry so much that I didn’t interpret them correctly. I took them for simple tears of joy, streaming down a lovers cheeks, which, to be fair, they were. But I wasn’t analyzing those tears one by one. I wasn’t dissecting their purpose and questioning their dark implications. Instead I laughed at them, those foolish drops. And when you finally (and I say finally because it seemed a lifetime you took to reach me) came close enough to turn to, I did. I ran into your arms like a mouse to the cheese, and still, I didn’t know it was a trap. I didn’t know those arms were about to crush me to pieces in a matter of minutes. I loved you. And well, screw me for loving someone so much that it tears me apart when they refuse to love me back. Excuse me for giving my heart to someone, only wanting the best in the world for them, wishing I could do more for them to make them happy. I don’t think it’s pathetic. I don’t think it’s something to be laughed at or to be ashamed of. I am proud of myself for loving you. I am thankful that I was able to break down my barriers and give my heart to someone. I consider that a noteworthy accomplishment. I wouldn’t take any of it back because I don’t regret it. Even all the shitty memories. The nights crying, trying to figure out why you didn’t love me, the hopeless hoping that every time I came (come) home you would (will) call me and explain how the whole thing was just a big misunderstanding and that you really do love me and always will. No. I wouldn’t take any of that back. Why? Because all that pain showed me just how much I can love. It showed me that I have a future with someone (even though I still hope that someone is you). All that heartbreak is now a part of who I am, and I am not ashamed of that. I am not ashamed of loving you so much that I felt as if my heart would burst. I am not ashamed that I write letters or type texts professing my love to you that I never send. I am not ashamed that I think of you almost every day. I am not ashamed that I long for you and want you more than I’ve wanted anything else. Say what you want about me, make fun of me all you want, call me pathetic, but I am not ashamed that I’m in love with you.