Irony's a bitchass ho

Saturday night was one of the worst nights I've ever experienced. Thanks to it, I didn't do any homework (well, this is actually thanks to my intense passion for procrastination), screwed up my job interview, disappointed people I really care about, developed bags under my eyes, and became ridiculously sick. Who wants to live my life again? Come on, anyone? Don't be shy now!

It started when I told my mother I'd be having a sleepover. Actually it started when I was stranded at Valley Fair for two and a half hours because Marina's seven pairs of size 0 jeans no longer fit her 18-year-old ass. I love her to death, but her we're-not-leaving-until-I-buy-jeans-and-OOH-that's-a-pretty-dress cost me my evening plans. Still, she wasn't the only stubborn one. I was determined to spend the night with Friend at Half Moon Bay, I was determined to get my mom's car, and I was dead set on doing this that night.

"I have a life too you know!!" was mother's response when I asked her for the keys. Really, my argument was flawless - drive up for a sleepover (really, mom, I'm sure you must be tired by this hour) and return home in the morning for my second Starbucks interview. In reality, I'd drive up to the beach and have one of those coveted second-semester-senior spontaneous absolutely crazy once-in-a-lifetime adventures.

Um, right. If anyone has lived on our lovely earth, they'd know that the only time things fall into place for that kind of night is in the cinema. For the first time in the nine years, my mother decided to go out. To the bar, to her boyfriend, to the club with her boyfriend - whatever. Why tonight? Beats the crap outta me. Point is, she drove me to my friend's house for the supposed sleepover around 9 and left to go party.

That's okay, the naive little saturday-night me still thinks. I'll have Friend pick me up and we could still make it happen. Except, of course, I'd have to deal with the fact that the house I was "sleeping" in was located up on a mountain in a different city in pitch-black darkness. I had trouble finding it even with the GPS. When Friend called, I explained the situation and gave up, saying I'd just have my mother pick me up on her way back from wherever. "No, wutchu talking about! Tell her you're sleeping over and I'll come get you!" Claiming he had a sober driver, a car, and a GPS inside that car, he convinced me to completely rely on him.

12 PM. Friend's phone goes straight to voice mail when called. Other friend, the one whose house I was in, was being very generous but increasingly sleepy, and her parents were starting to wonder when I was going to go home. Soon, soon, I kept telling them. I'm going to kill him, I decided.

1 PM. I suggested we go onto her bed since her eyes were closing. The guilt was eating me up inside. Friend finally called saying he found a charger for his "dead phone", and he was going to come get me if only I'd text him step-by-step directions on how to get to the house. But sweetie, I growled, what about the GPS? GPS, my ass. I had no other choice but to text him the street names. The girl's mom was making sure for the 6th time I didn't need her to drive me home herself.

Half an hour later, I was in the car with four people, two of whom were passed out in the back seat. Wonderful. We drove to a park near my house where we stupidly got out of the car and froze our butts off on the benches. That was even more fun than waiting to get picked up. And oh, how could I not mention the highlight of the night - when I sat behind the wheel because Friend decided he wanted Jack in the Box, and the original driver was making out with her boyfriend on the grass, the cops pulled up right behind us at the drive-through window. I still have a provisional license, see. My heart hadn't done that many leaps since season 3 of LOST came out on DVD.

I suppose the best, and the only good, part of the night was how Friend behaved himself. The first thing he asked when he picked me up is if I had a place to stay, and if not, he'd find me one. I lied and said I'd just crash at Marina's, but he made me call Marina on the spot to make sure. Woke up crabby Marina, arranged plans. Later, he took me on a walk, discussed childhood favorite Nickelodeon shows (Hey Arnold? Anyone?), pushed me out of the way of a 3 AM biker with an obvious death wish with the words "man, if that guy hit you, I woulda... freakin'... well, you know what I would do." He even offered to walk the 20 feet with me to Marina's house (which I politely refused) and texted a few minutes after I left to make sure everything was okay. In other words, he was the perfect friend.

Marina kicked me out at 6 AM saying she had to get up for work. I didn't complain. After making so many things difficult for so many people, I just wanted to get out. It didn't matter that I didn't have a place to go. I'd eat breakfast (and drink lots of coffee) in Starbucks, and tell my mother I was dropped off by the girl's parents when I'd come home around 9.

It didn't help that outside, it was raining out of a bucket. I pulled up my polyester hood and sloshed in my Keds around the parking lot. I wanted to cry. The rain took care of that, though. And, here it is, the big ironic moment of the story -

As I was rounding my house, I glanced at our parking space. My mother's car was not there. I suppose she stayed over at her boyfriend's house, and I could have been home all along.

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The reason I believe I screwed up my Starbucks interview later in the day is because I became ridiculously sick. I'm not sure if it was the rain, the lack of proper clothing under the rain, or the lack of sleep destroying my immune system. In any case, I welcomed the coughing and headache. I've been feeling so pathetic and disgusted at myself lately, I saw this as a way to physically release all my self-hatred. This sounds a lot more depressing than it actually is - I feel I got what I deserved, and balance in my self-concept (another shameless psych plug) is restored.

It has taken me almost one week to write this post. For some reason, I just didn't want to finish it. And I'm still sick.
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Clinically depressed with a side of stupid

I was originally going to write this post about a conversation I had today with a few friends about the happiest memories of our lives, a specific moment which we wouldn't mind being stuck in for the rest of ever, but that kind of writing just reeks of sappiness and optimism. I'm more of a sarcastic bitch that shoots spitballs at googly-eyed couples in grocery stores and makes illegal U-turns. A lot of people have tried to convince me that I won't reach a more permanent level of happy with all these inborn feelings of irony at the world, and maybe that's true, but I really don't think I can change who I am. Nor do I want to. So screw it.

At the same time, there is a part of me I want to change. I have a tendency to personally sabotage situations that I'm afraid will take a bad turn. It's sort of like shooting myself in the foot, only much worse - it's almost like I want to exacerbate the problem for dramatic effect, and then afterwards chew my nails and sit on my couch thinking how in hell things ended up like this.

In conversations, I drive us into the same rut of having absolutely nothing to say to make it better. No apologies, no secret confessions, no light sarcastic comment - nothing to save the day. The first time this happened, I fully blamed the other person. The second time, because the people were so different, I started wondering if it had something to do with me. The third time put me over the top. And you'd think, what in the world did I have to say and do to close every possible door of reconciliation? Well, it's a fucking talent.

After the waves of adrenaline from the scripted lines and the loud empty words die down, I'm left alone on the couch. Sometimes I'm on the floor, but chances are I'll be inside the apartment. And then all I have left is memories of the fight and all my feelings of resentment within these four walls because my mother's never home and dammit it's lonely. I always say that having regrets means not letting go of the past, but how can I not regret some of the terrible, life-altering things I've done? How can I not hate myself?

To all reading this post who understand what I'm talking about, I'm so sorry. I've said it a bajillion times but it fails to make things better, and I suppose it shouldn't anyway. But I will try my hardest to be accepting and let go of what can't be reversed. The next step is to get rid of this self-destructive talent; a lot of people tell me they wish they had at least some of the excitement of my movie-like life, but guess what, sweetcakes? Real life is not a movie. It's boring and anticlimactic and sometimes safe, but that sure as hell beats having people tell you "Oh my God you should totally write a book about your crazy experiences and I'll be the first to read it". I'm exhausted. I want safe.

When I began writing this, I didn't know how honest I would be with myself. It turned into one of the most personal things I've ever written. I really want to go hide under my blankie hugging Foofie, my huge white stuffed bear from 5th grade (and the only one that made it through the years), and swear that I was intoxicated while writing this, but the post wrote itself. And if it can't help anything I've already messed up, maybe it'll be a small aid in preventing this from ever happening again. Continue reading >>

Meet Lisa

Aim: To experience cognitive dissonance, where I'd feel uncomfortable because my actions don't match my beliefs, by breaking a social norm.

Specific objective: Pull up a chair next to a stranger in a cafe, invade their privacy, and strike up a conversation. To make it harder, I decided that that stranger would be a guy.

Process: I walked into a fairly busy Starbucks. 9 PM on the dot. Step one was to scout out my experiment monkeys, step two was to buy a drink.

Potential contestant in the outside patio. Cute, probably an undergrad, with a serious expression on his face. He immediately looked up as soon as I saw him, and his eyes followed me inside. I couldn't hide a smile. Yep, actions matched beliefs so far.

As I stood in line for my grande Caramel Macchiato, I suddenly realized I didn't have a speech prepared. What could I possibly say that won't make me look and feel like a stalking creeper? I suppose that would prove the point of the experiment in the end, but I had to start with something moderate. Hey, mind if I sit here? So he'll reply with no, go ahead. Then what? I suddenly felt a bit weak in the knees as I imagined the completely awkward scenario of me staring into this random guy's slightly annoyed face. Did I just say weak in the knees? This rarely happens to me. I would be interrupting his reading. So what, I told myself. With that slight push of confidence, I advanced my place in line.

But what if he says no, I'd like to be alone? That would be the worst case scenario. I could see myself turning bright red, making an apologetic fake smile, grabbing my keys and running like my life depended on it. Complete rejection. I felt I couldn't deal with it, not at that moment. Like a magnet, my legs pulled me out of the line to the Starbucks mugs on the shelf. Oh my god, what am I doing? I looked outside again. He was looking at me. Holy crap. Damn, he was cute. Okay, I'll walk right up to him, and then...

What if, instead of answering, he'll just look at me like I'm a complete freak? I racked my brain for something to say in case that happened. I'm just waiting for my friends, and there's nowhere else to sit. No, that's a pathetic joke of an excuse and I would forever call myself a chicken. I just don't like sitting by myself. A lie, but at least I'd come off as confident.

I ordered my drink and stood shaking at the pickup counter. He's listening to his headphones and studying something on his laptop; I would be interrupting something very important. He may have a midterm tomorrow. And the place really was packed - everyone on the outside patio would witness my little act of bravery. How would they react? How would they react if I got rejected? I can't do it. No, I must. The paper's due tomorrow (it was actually due today, but I didn't go to school) and I'll probably never see him again.

Clutching the latte in hand, I walked up to the door and froze. Literally, I froze. It was 9:30, I had already missed the new Scrubs, and I was a chicken. Slowly, the chairs began to clear out. Now I couldn't use the excuse that there was nowhere else to sit. Wait, that wasn't my excuse in the first place... What the hell was going on? My legs felt like butter. I stood there for another 15 (!) minutes before finally, finally sitting at a table next to the poor guy.

And what does he do? Completely ignore me. Everything I wanted to say flew out the window. I just sat there gawking for a while, stared at him, got my purse and left. And that was that.

Once in the car, I beat my forehead against the wheel a few times. I was alone in a pitch-black parking lot so no one heard, or at least paid attention to, the successive train of honks. I honestly could not believe that 1) I chickened out on saying Hi to someone I would never see again, and 2) I wasted almost an hour of time I could have spent watching one of my favorite shows. With absolutely no energy or willpower left, I drove to another Starbucks to try the experiment again, but this time with girls.

I wasted $2 buying another drink. A tall Americano, tasted like crap even with the milk and sugar. Two girls, also probably college-aged, sat in two chairs with a third facing them. Perfect. All I had to do was walk up, make light conversation, and be on my way... But as I forcefully pushed my legs to the empty chair, something in my brain flipped a switch. I lightened my pace, threw my head slightly back, and deepened my voice.

"Hey, mind if I sit here for a bit?" I didn't wait for an answer, plopping down on the stool with a friendly smile.

"Sure, no problem! We're just talking about relationships, so if you have anything to say, feel free to jump in." The girl to my right seemed genuinely sweet; the one across from me didn't even look in my direction.

"Oh, well, I've been in an off-and-on relationship for the past two years, but now I've shown him the door. Us girls have to take control of the situation, you know? I'm Lisa, by the way," I nonchalantly sipped my Americano.

"That is so true. What about when a guy is with you, but doesn't want to be called a boyfriend?" The one on my right inquired. Wow, they were really buying this crap.

"Pfft - one reason. He wants to stay on the market." I leaned back and threw a quick glance around the room, to add some weight to my tone of argument.

"Really... that's very interesting," the one on the right titled her head. We spent the next 20 minutes talking about her "boyfriend" Hugh, their Valentine's date, my own scumbag of an ex-boyfriend, and whether the movie He's Just Not That Into You makes a legitimate point. I told them I was a sophomore at Berkeley and that I liked my classes very much. "It only gets hard around midterms," I added, hoping I got the correct word. I told them about my classes, my major of Political Science, my favorite professor, my trip to New York over winter break, and how my uncle actually teaches at Stanford University. I found out the nice one on my right just finished undergrad and was now applying to grad school with a major of neuroscience. The other bitchy one still goes to UCSF and can't spell molecular. When they started questioning me with genuine curiosity about the campus, I grabbed my keys and ran for the door. 10:30 on the clock. Not too shabby.

Results: Not only could I not complete my original objective, that was one of the hardest things I've had to do in my entire life. On top of that, I felt so ridiculous and wrong doing this experiment as myself, I had to create a different persona for whom it may actually be a regular thing to sit next to total strangers as if I had no friends of my own.

Conclusion: 1) Bawk. Bawk baawk. 2) I never imagined it would be this difficult to break a simple social norm. Nevertheless, this inspired an idea: purely for blogging purposes, I'll try to break a different social norm every month for a year, building up more courage each time to try something outrageous. Hopefully by the end of this, I would have enough balls to do what I had planned originally.

That guy really was ridiculously cute. Pity.

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List of the week

Some of the best decisions I've ever made:

1. Search "how to _______" on Google and come across a blog by an amazing writer that I still read daily
2. Not purposely fail the entrance exam at Harker
3. Join yearbook
4. Buy a little something that's pink and shiny
5. Not follow Juno's advice
6. Take Pandich's AP U.S. history class

Some of the worst decisions I've ever made:

1. Take AP Spanish Literature
2. Slack off first semester senior year
3. Watch an episode of "The Secret Life of the American Teenager"
4. Every decision I made on Tuesday, December 30th, 2008 (with the possible exception of taking Marina's keys to re-park her car while she was in Tahoe so her dad wouldn't notice she went driving at night)
5. Stay home alone last Thanksgiving break
6. Think that I could make any rational decision while I was hormonally overdosed

Decisions whose outcome, good or bad, is still pending:

1. Stay up until 4:30 writing my Anna Karenina essay
2. Start talking again

That last one pertains to today.

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