truth

My computer crashed and I lost my memoir. I am pretty upset my hard work is gone. I hope to rewrite the ending to share with the world.

Away we go.

Noah and I kept up the conversation for a few hours. We talked about everything, fully exploring each other’s brains. I had no idea he was infatuated with singers Elliott Smith and Nick Drake, as I was. We laughed over our eminent hatred for kids who were on Nickelodeon’s old game show, Legends of the Hidden Temple, who sucked at putting together the Shrine of the Silver Monkey, (legs, body, head, it’s three pieces to put together! How dumb were those kids if they couldn’t comprehend the logical format of a monkey’s body?) We assiduously recanted for hours about other nostalgic ‘90s kids TV shows, foods that rule (birthday cake ice cream), foods that suck (Swiss cheese, although he opposed), and the music of Bob Dylan. I felt a bond with him, someone I needed, even friend-wise. He offered his body for soft and comfortable hugs that night. I reveled in it. I had begun to forget about Jake.

            Soon, it was the night before Jake's road trip. I was sitting cross-legged on his sidewalk. The muggy late June air was punishing my brow with mini lakes of sweat. There was about 10 of us all together, Jake had decided to have an impromptu going away party before he and his comrades left for D.C. While Jake, Arlo, and Nate were snuggling their blankets into the bus and some marijuana into Jake’s secret compartments in the floor, I sat next to Noah. Our other friends were playing Frisbee in the street, but he and I were happily watching as spectators. I had been catching his glimpse all night, and feeling more and more inclined to sit closer to him. He probably thought I was a creep. I didn’t really understand what I was doing, but I didn’t really feel any sadness that my boyfriend would be leaving me for 3 weeks. I didn’t mind that he’d be couch surfing on stranger’s sofas, possibly meeting new, pretty girls along the way. Noah consumed me; I wanted to know him more. I felt guilty in a way, thinking these things. But I also felt justified; I knew Jake wasn’t going to care about me when he left. But it was like I was mentally cheating.

            Noah assured me that I would be seeing a lot of him while Jake was away, he wanted to be my friend more, as well. I felt elated and secretly couldn’t wait for Jake to get his ass on the move. I thought I would feel some gloom upon his departure, but I was more excited about what the next few Noah-filled weeks had in store.

            Jake left that following morning. I didn’t feel anything.

 

            The next weeks, I knew I was falling for Noah. There was no question about it. I felt horrible; I was keen on having a boyfriend, but I was falling for someone else. We saw each other most of everyday in the evening. I waited until Noah got off of work at 5 in the afternoon to call him. I was always so inexplicably nervous calling him. It was the quintessential sign of a crush... I always felt so guilty. My heartbeat exploded out of my chest, as I would dial his cell phone.

            Each day was remembered by the view of the dusty sun hitting the western sky, as I would drive to his house, my nervousness increasing each minute. I would pick him up and feel lighter and happier, more than I ever did during the past year I was with Jake. Each night was ours. Simple things kept the evenings alive, Mario Parties, Pokemon Stadium battles, and effortless talks about the current state of love. We were consumed with one another; he was becoming my greatest friend. I barely heard from my boyfriend during his trip. He would call me 2 times a week, but even then his calls seemed forced and rushed. It surprised me that I didn’t mind too much. I had written Noah about 5 separate letters, each with the intention of telling him my feelings. 

I never got the chance.

Stand alone.

 Beauty was dripping down my face. Black mascara curled around my chin, my lips were not sticky with gloss, and my normally straight hair was becoming matted, resembling that of a wet dog’s. I wanted to look ugly on the outside to justify how ugly I felt on the inside. I felt so worthless; more so than he had ever made me feel before. I was beside myself, feeling the lowest point of grief. I shuffled through the rain, my bare feet becoming muddy and pruned as I entered my house.

            I collapsed on my bed, sobbing. I had about a half-hour until I had to go into work, but the thought of serving Target guests their sickening food was out of the question. I picked up my phone and attempted to speak to my boss at Target, Heidi, explaining I wouldn’t be able to go in that night. While being put on hold to speak to my boss, I began recapping my ordeal. Attempting to be strong as I was finally put through to her, I tried to speak without crying. It didn’t work. I sobbed to her on the phone and said I could try and find someone to take my position for the day. I dialed my friend and co-worker, Tony. Sobbing all the way through my explanation on why I was losing my mind in tears. Tony, an outwardly known selfish jerk, felt some sort of kindness in his abysmal heart and took my shift. He talked to talk to my boss that I couldn’t be able to go in and for that, I was grateful.

            I then dialed my best friends, Darcy and Mischa. They both had sympathy for me, but couldn’t come over my house for lack of transportation. Looking for someone to comfort me, I called Arlo. He was my friend and Jake’s, but he knew about my hardships with Jake. He offered a shoulder to cry on and I accepted. He and my other friend, Estelle, took me to a shoddy little arcade in Port Richey called Stop N’ Play. Treating me with all the air hockey and Simpsons Arcade Game I could play.

            I forgot about Jake for a few hours, but my mind kept slipping back to the technicality that I was single now. For the first time in 2 years, I was without someone to hug and caress me. Now I can assume how needy and pathetic I was back then, but the comfort of a boyfriend was all I had ever known. And myself, lacking all self-esteem, was frightened that I would never find another person who would appreciate me or like me again. He never called me that night. I was alone in bed, attempting to sleep and dripping with anguish. I cancelled my 18^th birthday party. I didn’t feel I was worth it. Maybe I was being a little too wrapped up in self-pity, but I didn’t feel anything but the loss of a person.

            The day of my birthday, I had called back on my birthday party. Jake called me because week’s prior, he had promised to take me out for sushi before my guests arrived. That day was the decision if we would be gone for good or reconcile. He entered my home in an awkward and sheepish manner. We reached my room where we embraced for a long, solemn while.

            “I did my thinking...” He said. “I realized I missed you. I miss you and I don’t want us to end.” His stance wasn’t stiff as it usually was. He was relaxed and almost happy to be speaking these words. I looked down to the turquoise carpet in my room and back up at him, eyes filled with relinquished tears. But even at that time, I knew it was not what I needed, but everything I wanted.

            Thinking back on this conversation, I should have known that our relationship resembled limbo the entire time, that it consisted of nothingness, and we were just waiting for our time of hell. The apocalypse would come too soon after that. But at that time, I was ecstatic. I had regained him and then maybe I could show him how worth it I was.

            My party commenced, I was actually very surprised with the amount of friends I had. Everyone had a good time, I felt loved by all (except Jake, concerning that, I was only liked.) I had to go outside for a little while; so much fun all at once when I had been feeling exceedingly depressed before was like an overload and I was feeling “fun-drunk”.

            Noah was already outside near the cars that devoured every inch of my property around my aquamarine house. His tall stature filled the shadows, enveloped by the light pole overhead. He turned to me, surprised anyone else wanted to be outside when all the fun was inside. I had always secretly admired him, even though he and I were never truly close friends since he had graduated a year before me, but we had known each other for a couple of years. I was the person to know of Noah the least; he was Jake’s friend first and then mine. But I felt intrigued and drawn to him. I knew little of him, but what I did know for certain, he was kind, genuine, but tragically sad. He had led a hard 19 years by then, but I wasn’t afraid. I sorted out why he was by himself out there, and not wanting to pry into his life, decided it best to assume he was fun-drunk, too.

            That was the night that mattered. That was the night I spoke to him, all the feelings of shit I had been harboring to myself. I explained to him tirelessly my situation of getting back together with Jake, even though it was obvious that he and I were not meant for each other.

            “Why do you like him?” Noah asked. “Why are you with him if he has caused you so much pain and heartache? You said he doesn’t even love you, and there’s no reason to be with someone like that.”

            It took this beautiful, brown-eyed boy for me to contemplate everything all at once. I had asked myself those same things and I knew the answer. I was embarrassed and ashamed to say it out loud.

            “I’m afraid of being without him. I don’t want to be alone. Maybe he can learn to like me again....” I trailed off, knowing that within the next few months before college, Phoebe and Jake would eventually end.

In-between the end & limbo

He and I weren’t alike and I think he hated that. We went on with having sex, all of Jake’s friends had done it and all my friends had done it- our group of friends were all grown-ups now, right? After our senior year ended but before he left to attend the University of Central Florida, he had arranged with his two best friends, Arlo and Nate that they would go on an east-coast road trip in Jake’s Mystery Machine. Their destination was Washington D.C., an ironic twist to Jake’s being as he avidly would read Abbie Hoffman’s Steal This Book and other anti-American manifestos. I didn’t really get it. But then again, I never got him anymore, either.

            It was a couple days after our graduation, May 31^st, but before their summer road trip and my birthday. Jake was going to come over my house that day, before he and I both had to go to work. Donned in a disgusting and grimy Dunkin’ Donuts uniform, Jake had skated to my house an hour before his shift began. I let him enter my house; things were the same as usual. We simply just hung out in my room; the TV was off as we lay next to one another. A year in to our relationship, I had begun to lack hearing the words “you look pretty today, Phoebe. You’re so beautiful, cute... what-have-you.” I had made it a point that day to look extra fine, as I was a seemingly cheerful mood for having to go work at Target’s Food Avenue in a few dwindling hours. I wanted to know that Jake had noticed my extra effort on beauty or something, or just know that he appreciated my existence to some extent. I hadn’t heard anything from him, so I asked him a simple question and I was only joking around when I asked it,

                        “Do you think I’m pretty?” My mouth curled in a curious sort of smirk, awaiting the answer I felt I knew I would hear.

            Jake’s stare went from my brown eyes to across the room, darting back and forth like an insect bobbing to and fro toward a bright light.

“Jake? What’s wrong?” I asked, my voice not as fierce as I had intended it to be. He had nothing to say to me. Just like the times before. But this time, it seemed a little more serious.

“Don’t you think I’m pretty?” I asked again, this time with more emphasis on the  I’m. No answer. Silence. My mouth began to taste sour. “Do you like me anymore?” I asked, my small, delicate voice breaking in pieces a little bit.

            “I have to go. I don’t know anymore, but I have to go,” his voice trailed off in a shy and disparaging tone.

            He picked up his skateboard and left my room in a feverish hurry. I was stunned. My eyes wide, but not yet wet. I had no idea if I should stay or follow. I had no idea if my eyes should well up or stay hard and stiff. His reaction was not one I was expecting. I had only been joking when I asked him those things, assuming I was going to hear the boyfriend answer most girls do hear. Still mildly in shock, I wasn’t sure what I was doing. I ran out of my room moments after he had exited my house, I had heard my front door close with a slam. I left my brain, seeping its grey matter all over my bed, as I ran outside, not really knowing what to expect. I ran; bare feet pounding the gravelly asphalt, catching minor stones in between my feet were of no thought to me. I scraped the bottoms of my feet running toward him, until our bodies gained distance equivalence. Not wanting to display how out of shape I was, I held in the deepening breaths my body wanted to exude. I played it cool, as if I always ran awkwardly and like an insane woman all the time.

            “Why won’t you talk to me?” I asked, in between secretive pants. I didn’t want an answer to the question I had just posed. His head was still straight forward, not looking to me. We were reaching his house, I saw his blue and orange Mystery Machine only a few feet ahead of us. He had 20 minutes before he had to be at work and I had 2 hours until I had to clock in.

                        “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Do you want to go in?” He finally spoke when we reached the doors to his bus. He beckoned me inside. I crawled into the familiar sanctuary. The air inside was pleasantly musty with a tinge of a fading grape air freshener. It was all so common and recognizable, so why couldn’t I recognize what the hell was going on?

            Jake’s gaze was to mine now, after he had closed the doors for us to have some privacy. I noticed the rain beginning to trickle onto Jake’s windshield out of the corner of my eye. “I don’t know if I like you anymore, Phoebe. Not like how I used to,” he said. His monotone voice was shaky but frighteningly assured.

            “W-w-whattt?” I croaked, a lump forming where my throat was. “How can you say this to me? It’s two days before my birthday! What’s wrong with me?” My eyes had begun to flood. I could feel the salt water drop down my face, catching upon the pillows of my round cheeks. I  thought had done everything for him.                                                                                                                                                                         Everything.

            He took a deep breath. Jake was rarely ever sad or downtrodden. But that day, he was crying. “I just don’t think I like you anymore. You didn’t do anything! Don’t think that.”

            “But, it’s almost my birthday!” That was the only thing I could say in the midst of all the shit. I was going to turn 18 on June 2^nd and this was turning out to be a less than desirable birthday present. I spoke calmly after I hiccupped a few more sobs. “I think when you leave for your road trip, I am going to miss you more             than you are going to miss me.”

            “I think you’re right,” he replied, the only tears I had ever seen of his sprinkled the bridge of his nose. I felt a little better, seeing his usually stoic demeanor turn sort of human.

            “When did you realize these feelings? Was it before or after we had sex?” I questioned. If it was before we slept together, I was going to faint. Thoughts ran through my head that he was only using me for sex now. I wanted to projectile vomit everywhere.

            “After... we did it... I began to not like you as much,” he replied, shamefully. He paused as his phone rang with Dunkin’ Donuts’ number displayed on the caller-ID. “I need to go to work now, though. I’m thirty minutes late.” he replied. He pushed his dreadlocks out of his face, revealing a saddened look I couldn’t believe. “I think we need a break for a while. I need to think things through.” He began to get up and crawl into the driver’s seat.

            He offered to drive me home since it was raining, but I felt a little melodramatic, so I said I could make do with walking home in the rain. I left his bus, feeling disgusting and empty- a feeling that was not unknown to the Phoebe Body. I began walking down the street in the rain as his bus drove off. I half assumed that as revenge, his bus would hit a huge puddle where I was walking and splash me in dirty humility, like how it happens in movies. Thankfully, it didn’t, but I was hoping maybe the rain would serve as a catharsis to my horrible feelings. That didn’t happen, either.

That thing, that thing, that thi-i-ing.

And so that was the first time I said I love you. The times after that were no different except the date change. The next time landed on our one-year anniversary under the light pole. I could not fathom how we could do everything together and he had no strong feelings towards me. The next times were all too reminiscent of the past before.

            We went on with our relationship, living in a little bubble of denial for the next year. He and I had were each other’s firsts in many things. I had never been intimate with a boy before him, but I thought since he meant so much to me, he was worth it. I was considerably wrong with that thought.

            He had become a cool sort of thing our senior year of high school. He bought a 1966 Volkswagen bus painted in exact replica of The Mystery Machine from Scooby Doo, he began to grow dreadlocks, partake in psychedelics and pseudo-activism. I felt not cool enough for him, always being with an eclectic group of friends from journalism and AP classes. Senior year, I realized he could never love me. I realized this early on, but I stuck with him for another year nonetheless. He would get stoned every day in his bus with me silently looking on, not wanting to join in. We were never the same after my little love outburst and I always held that in the back of my mind.

            I’ll always remember the date, who could forget the date of losing your virginity? I had always thought I would be the girl to save herself not for marriage, but for the one, my love. I’ve always been a romantic and the thought of losing it to anyone less worthy than the one I loved was preposterous. A cold Valentine’s Day at the beach in 2007, we capped the night in eating then-delicious cheeseburgers in his bus at Sunset Beach in Tarpon Springs. The peachy pink dusk was hitting the ocean; we watched the sunset for the beach’s namesake and snuggled into the fleece blankets in his bus. We closed his shag-carpeted doors and went on with business, as usual. Kissing, kissing, kissing, I put my hand on his face and my thoughts were weighing heavy. We had been close to doing it once, but we were both too scared. Valentine’s Day, such an artificial day of significance, but then I believed that day was the day for me. For some reason, my best friend Mischa had randomly given me condoms that past Christmas and as a joke, she had told me to keep them in my purse, for “emergencies.” Mid-kiss, I breathlessly asked him, in the sexiest voice I could muster,

            “Do you want to do it?” Although, my voice was so heavy in exhilaration and apprehension, I sounded more like a German schoolmarm- opposing the sexy thing I wanted to portray.

            There, not any other time when I professed my love toward him, but he did look as extremely happy as he did then. He nodded and replied back with fervent “yes!”

            The Greeks make their products well, but I wasn’t aware of the excruciating pain that I would endure for the next four times we (ironically) made love to one another. He was quite selfish in that respect and never threw caution that I may not have been all the way satisfied as he was... but all thoughts of me were thrown under the table (as usual). When I first decided that I wanted to sleep with him that day, the thoughts in my mind were, there, now if we ever break up, he will never forget me because I was his first, too. He’ll always be a monument in my memory for that and I am assuming I in his, as well.

            But looking back in a more mature light, I still ask myself if our actions of sleeping with one another with just another ploy for me attempting to keep him for myself? Was the main reason I slept with him not for our true enjoyment but so he could never forget me? If he ever ended up hating my guts, he’ll never forget the girl who he lost it to. I am ashamed of these thoughts now, I feel regrettable losing it to someone who never cared about me, something that went against all that I had ever wanted.

First but foremost

The next actions should have made me realize what a crazy person I am and these actions delved and marked the next two years of my life. It should have been an absolute omen that he and I were destined to be awkward. My friend, Aura, was aiding me one night after I got a cryptic text message from Jake. He wanted to meet me the next night before I left Florida on a trip to Boston the day after. I wanted so desperately to kiss him, but being an insecure baby, I had no idea how to go about making the move. I didn’t believe in making the first move anyway, regardless of my insecurities or not. Boys should always make the first move—it’s more romantic that way. I was freaking out on how I would make a move that I certainly did not want to make, but my friend Aura had an idea.

            “Phoebe, you’re so clumsy, why don’t you hurt yourself and blame it on one of you guys’ marker fights? Then he will have somewhere to kiss you to make it better.” Aura suggested.

            I was absolutely for the idea (going back to my first initial thoughts as a possible masochist) and we devised a plan. Aura didn’t want to clunk me on the head with an anvil or slice my face off with a sharp blade. No, we found something more awkward than that. Aura got a bobby pin and took off that dulled plastic ends of it, exposing the sharp metal. She took my head and scraped a fleshy wound on the side of my right eye until it was a tiny bit raw. It was good enough. The next night, I met him under a dim light pole next to his house. I showed him my wound and sure enough he kissed the side of my face to make it feel better... and then I stumbled onto his lips and we kissed for the first time on the muggy July night.

            That wound, that I still laugh about with Aura to this day, set the tone for our relationship, as weird as it was. He never hurt me physically, but emotionally, I was being held together by masking tape. The 26^th night of March, in the middle of my porch, I held his hips to mine and whispered in his ear. The mosquitoes were out for blood that night, and I was sure my heart was on the ground so they could have a free-for-all. My voice cracked as I leaned against his earlobe the first time. I had to repeat the words and the second time it lost its effect. After I said those three insidious words that night, I was tainted. I was the idiot girlfriend who got caught up in a something fake. His eyes did not look how I wanted them to look after I said it. His mint green eyes were blank. Not touched, moved, excited, or even confused by my utterance, but completely apathetic. He stood there, swaying with the warm breeze.

            “That’s cool. I’m sorry,” he finally said.

            “Yeah, it is cool. Kay ..... bye!” I squealed.

I didn’t even look or kiss him again as I darted back into my house. Fuck my life. Fuck my life. Fuck my life. I thought. I should have let things go like any normal mortified girl, but I had to make it worse. So I called him. And hung up. Shit! Caller ID! I had to call him back. My first words to him:

            “Just kidding!”

            “What? No you weren’t,” he replied back, acidly.           

            “Shut up, you don’t know anything. I was only kidding. Just kidding, just kidding, just kidding! I’m sorry, I was kidding...” I was beginning to become an emotional wreck, so I believed that repeating words would possibly make him forget the ass I had just made out of myself.

            “I’m sorry, I don’t love you Phoebe. I don’t know but maybe someday I will...”

                                                                                                He had no explanation. 

Clash of the titans

The night of March 26^th 2006, our eight-month mark of dating, my brain suffered immense trauma. But I should start at the beginning of what I should have known to be a series of awkward events. I had a crush on him since the 8^th grade. He rode my bus and lived eight houses down the street from me. I would see him skateboarding off of homemade ramps and rails in his driveway, but not in the glorified obnoxious skater brah way that Bam Margera is infamous for. He had his own swagger, he was truly himself, and I could see that. I was already a weirdo in middle school and me liking him only made things more awkward between he and I. 

            Eighth grade was a grade I’ll never forget, most likely because I went through a period of extreme self-examination and redefinition. I trumpeted throughout my Middle School as a self-proclaimed punk rocker! I wanted to be different, I wanted to be weird, and I wanted to fit in. How (and why!?) would a punk rocker ever want to fit in, I am not sure, but I ironically professed my indignation to society by buying out all the Hot Topic gear. I walked around in plaid purple and green bondage pants with a Ralph Wiggum t-shirt on all the time (a real sight to see). I would wear no less than 14 necklaces on my neck and both wrists covered with black and purple bendable gelly bracelets. Dead Kennedys, Dropkick Murphys, and Nirvana patches adorned my book bag. 

I thought I was a rad girl, but others thought otherwise. On the bus, no one wanted to sit next to me because I looked so frightening, so I sat by myself, behind the skater boy, Jake. It was no wonder Jake wanted nothing to do with me, I looked like someone anthropologists will study years from now, attempting to find an explanation for my fashion and music choices, but they won’t be able to come to any conclusions.

            I had heard from a friend that Jake was really freaked out by my alleged stalking. I quit liking him the day I found out he had called me a “creepy fat stalker”, but soon after in my 10^th grade English Honors class, he and I would be thrown together once again. Weirdly enough, he and I began to get along and bond that year since we were assigned to sit next to one another. He was absurdly sheepish and quiet, but somehow I was the one who got him to talk. I think it was because I would do the cute girl move and passively show interest in him by being annoying. He and I would have marker wars every class period and every day on the bus. Summer of ’05 rolled around before our junior year, which is when I felt that maybe this strange boy could possibly have feelings for me as well. One would think I would have better judgment to like someone who called me less than desirable names two years prior, but as history shows, my brain just doesn’t work like that. I was still unsure if he had reciprocated feelings towards me that summer; not many people had liked me before and I couldn’t really believe a boy so cute, cool, and rebellious could even have hindering thought about being interested in me. 

When it happens/the way we were

I must be an utter masochist. I should be wearing a mask. One would think when I told my first serious boyfriend I loved him for the first time and the response I get is pretty abysmal, I would not be a fool to reiterate the act again for a second... and third... and fourth time only to stand in awkward silence in continuous self-loathing for being such an idiot once again. I dated this person for over two years and he never told me he loved me, or anything good about me, for that matter. In the later years of my life, I realized my utter ignorance and stupidity of my emotions. I never really loved him at all. I couldn’t. I wanted to; maybe not because he was the right person, but because I liked what that word symbolized, it was something I have always wanted. It is something I have never known. Writing this seems like a sort of catharsis, finally digging the ditch to settle where my mind had wandered for so long.

            I could never fully love a person who wished me to be someone different. Someone better, prettier, wittier, philosophical, intelligent, and analytical. It was he who sparked the insufferable insecurities that still ravage my brain, guts, and that special beating thing. I never loved him. I am a girl with fingers and toes worth of regrets. At times, I wish I had never spoken those words to someone who didn’t value me at all. I knew these things, deep, deep inside; and I said it anyway. Why?

                                                                                    I’m still waiting to understand.

Always awkward cont.

The awkwardness is a part of one’s idiosyncrasies. It’s a maladroit that can either be so insuperably cute or painful to witness one might just have a heart attack. My name is Phoebe and I have chronic awkwardness. Now, I have come to terms with this... disorder and learned to live with being a bizarre, weird, absurd, clumsy, and ungraceful wretch. Can I help it if I refuse to eat the pointy ends of French fries, fat baby carrots, or a peanut butter & jelly sandwich that has a higher peanut butter to jelly ratio? Is it my fault that I have been cursed with an absurdly nasal Jewish, and demonic voice that comes out at random points of the day when I am in pain, in shock, in love, in hate, in a pickle, in lieu, frustrated, confused, happy, apathetic, sad, depressed, mildly depressed, manically depressed, sleeping, eating, praying, cursing, driving, walking, running, wheelin’, dealin’, living, dying... for some reason that voice really freaks people out. So what if I find the scent of moth balls soothing? I attempt to live a blithe existence but sometimes my chronic awkwardness comes out at extremely unfortunate times. But other times, my awkwardness brings out some beautiful things and I can stand to enjoy life a little more when I realize that.

The perpetual stink

I wonder if there is such a thing as being chronically awkward. Not that forced, hipster awkwardness where standing pigeon-toed, looking haplessly forlorn, and reading Hemingway at Starbucks is actually cool. Chronic awkwardness is something so painful, weird, or absurd to watch, your insides writhe with such confusion whether or not to laugh, cry, belch, or a hum pretending you never witnessed such a person. But do not get confused; chronic awkwardness is not the same as chronic embarrassment. There is a possible point that you could laugh at yourself after you are embarrassed. With chronic awkwardness there is no aegis, no shield, or protection from impending awkwardness.  You never know what’s going to come out of your mouth and what’s worse, what you think you say is normal is in fact, terribly weird and outlandish. It’s as if Larry David, Woody Allen, weimaraners in trenchcoats,  and the cast members of The Office are all inside your brain, instructing your body where to lead its path of clumsy destruction next. 

            Have you ever had to really use the bathroom in a public place? Except you’re dreading using it because it’s only a single toilet bathroom and you have other people waiting outside for you to finish? Once you’re finished, you leave the bathroom with such incredulous stink that you feel sorry for the next person who has to walk into that bathroom after you because they’ll know once they step in there what you did. But the point of being chronically awkward is making a comment about the smell like saying “Heh, heh... good luck,” rather than walking out and pretending there is no smell at all. My life is a cycle of perpetual stink to which I say things that I shouldn’t say, make motions without any discrepancy, and accidentally hurt everyone around me by tripping, tumbling, falling, or head-butting them. My current boyfriend, Noah, recalls,

            “If you added up all the times you’ve physically hurt me [on accident] and if I turned it around on you all at once, I would probably end your life right then.”

                                                                                                                        Ouch.