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.

foreward/forewarned

Who was she? What did she do?  She was herself. She did it all.

I have found throughout the last four years of my life, I have experienced more than the average human. Love, hate, revulsion, compassion, intrigue, they have all come to me through many graces. Boys and friends have always been here and there and I believe these instances from the last four years have shaped me into the subtly awkward girl that I am. I have written this memoir in order to justify my world. The life I have led is based on one personal conviction- I refuse to be boring.

Four years to now, I have answered that decree.

My life has had its spouts of ups and downs, ins and outs, and what-have-you. I want to be remembered and what I want out of life is the absolute refusal of any aspect of my life to be considered typical. Being ordinary arouses no curiosity. No appeal. No motivation. I will be remembered throughout my life, among people, places, events, thoughts, and letters! There is no defining moment that has made me into the woman that I am, none at the beginning or at the end. Who I am comes from a collection of moments in the middle. These moments are anything but ordinary; more so unusual- these moments are ones to remember, to empathize with, to feel saddened, frustrated, or happiness. My life is filled with interesting, but useless facts.

the view and my cathartic exodus of feeling

Wow, jeez. 

Since 2002 I've transgressed from one online outlet of word spewage to another. Blurty to Livejournal to Greatestjournal to Deadjournal back to Livejournal to Myspace blog to Tumblr to Twitter... and now I say hello Blogspot. Please do me well. I have so many things to say and I hope they come smoothly.

 

I need to write. I used to want to be a creative writing major and I dropped that dream for the lack of my inspiration to write anymore. Five awards in writing in two years and I have put myself to shame. I can say that I'm mildly attuned to the blogger community and I can only hope that someone... or someoneS read this and really cultivate or appreciate what I have to say. I've had the dream in back of my mind all along that I'll get published from some thing I write about along the lines of blogging. 

So, here it goes. I'm Phoebe and I am telling my story. 

I wrote a lot of these entries from the past year or so ago in my creative writing class. I wrote a memoir recollecting the past four years of my life. I had harbored feelings inward for so long and writing this memoir in my creative writing class came to be a catharsis. It was a real exodus of things and people I used to want to vanish, but now I have no ill-feelings towards. Maybe just some pent up awkwardness, but that is a given.