This Post Is About My Chest March 19, 2008

Namely, some things I’d like to get off of it.
 
And not, say, my actual chest or the cyclist who nearly caused an accident near LaSalle and Monroe the other day when he decided to abruptly U-Turn amongst a stream of cars so to follow me as I walked the other direction — all while yodeling about my whoo-weee titty city.
 
(Ed. note: I was, for the record, wearing a winter jacket. And was not, say, topless. Which might warrant such yodels.)
 
Vermin like him - who at some point in their miserable existence have concluded that a hanging sack of testicles validate careless objectification of women - give me some idea of why Lorena did what she had to do.
 
And there. I’ve already started.
 
Getting things off my chest that is.
 
Because it’s been exactly ten days since my last post. Ten days. While one voice in my head tries to demand I take a chill pill, please, because ten days is not that long, another voice yells (by way of typing loudly) that there are things I WANT AND NEED TO WRITE DAMNIT.
 
My chest has been feeling mighty heavy lately. And it ain’t just due to the 34-D sweater cows whoo-weee my titty city.
 
So why not just shut up and put up? Write what I want to write and stop writing that I want to write?
 
Well.
 
After more than a week of having ideas buzz around my mind - of things I’d like to share and rant and coo - and not having a second to myself to write them down, the mess that already calls that space in between my ears home has quickly turned into one wild clusterfuck of ataxia.
 
Yes. It just may be more irritating to actually have things one would like to write and being completely unable to find the time to do so than having all the time in the world to write but not having a single thing to write about. (Note to the Gods: Feel free to have a laugh and declare Well, we’ll show her.)
 
The fun little tale explaining how my boyfriend’s and my one-bedroom apartment came to have our mattress on its living room floor and its bathroom door unhinged and hanging against a wall? Is sharing brain space with anecdotes about my mother and her recent barrage of phone calls that have covered every topic from whether I remembered to switch my microwave clock an hour forward to Mrs. Cho bragging for one full hour about daughter that student at U-M Dentist School who I know not smart as you but she get scholarship and Mrs. Cho not stop showing it during their last brunch.
 
And debaucherous accounts of my Leap Day activities - when I followed my own advice to practice hell on earth come February 29th because it’s a day that doesn’t technically exist 75% of Time which technically means you can do whatever you want and it doesn’t count and I’m sure if I had taken math classes in college, I’d have no trouble backing this theory with a very complicated math formula but since I did not, you’ll simply have to take my word? Those are confused with stories from a night a couple weekends ago that involved a private VIP room at Victor Hotel and me again proving that I am all time wing-woman able to amass the attention and phone numbers of hot girls everywhere.
 
Or at least those at Victor Hotel that night a couple weekends ago.
 
In my odd little way, I am a perfectionist. The girl who lets her apartment become a fucking sty but - when finally deciding to clean it up - starts by alphabetizing her books by author and organizing her magazines by chronology. The one who then makes sure all her hanging clothes face the same direction in the closet, preferably grouped by color. And scrubs every inch of the bathroom floor and tub and shower before moving on to the kitchen sink and the dishes and the oven.
 
On second thought, perhaps this has less to do with perfectionism and more to do with some kind of errant O.C.D. combined with my tendency to veer towards extremes.
 
In any case. The same (lack of) logic applies to this blog. There is that need to deconstruct from the foundations up and to do it all right in the face of so! many! thoughts! To clear the air - and my head - before starting afresh with stories of this and that. To give a home to the muddled thoughts clogging my fucked up cerebrum other than my fucked up cerebrum.
 
So one deep breath. And begin. About a friend who is causing enormous amounts of headaches, heartaches and outrages right now.
 
Of all the hundreds of faults I have, one of my very worst may be my inability to know when to no longer give someone just one more chance. It’s incredibly fucking difficult for me to walk away from someone that I’ve come to love and care about. I like to believe I know how much it hurts to feel like you can never be imperfect because the only love you know is based on conditions. My childhood drills made me run the other direction. To become far too non-judgmental. Yes, far too much. To give second, third, fourth, nth chances. To forgive and to forget. To not hold grudges. I may be all kinds of fucked up, but I have an idea of what it means to be a good person and a good friend. It doesn’t mean that I always am. But when I’m not, I own up. 
 
This friend has been less than that. Forgotten what it means to be honest and trustworthy. Or loyal. Forgotten how to place priorites. Or to take a much needed check of their actions. Not even destructive in some inspired trainwreck sort of way where the focus is on oneself rather than hurting others. Were that the case, I’d have no right to preach. I’m not so hypocritical that I’d call out one of my own. 
 
No. This friend has mainly become one big reason I’m more a damsel in distress these days.
 
And my head is a mess - has been a mess - trying to figure out what to do about this friendship.
  
This friend gets away with a lot of the shit that they pull. We all let this friend get away with a lot of the shit that they pull - either victim to a genius who’s learned how to fool everyone into thinking they’re a saint when they’re actually a very corrupt, hateful and hurtful person. Or victim to a friend who is just that fucking delusional.
 
Once I trust you, I really trust you. Me and moderation aren’t words synonymous. And me and caution? Are for hell of fucking sure not either. If I love you, I love you fiercely. If I’m excited, I jump up, down, and sideways. And if I think you’re my friend, I give you no walls.
 
Because to me, the notion of soulmates is an idea best intended for friendships.
 
I protect myself when it comes to relationships with men. I like to play strong. It takes me long to let barriers break and come forward. Guys get to know me - really know me - only after they’ve passed some subconscious test of are you worth this and can you hold my interest for more than tonight, this week, this month? My shtick is that I’ll love you - just please don’t expect me to settle. 
 
But in friendships I play that role of ‘girl trapped in abusive relationship’ all too well. I create excuses for poor behavior. I open the door over and over again at the first apology or sign that things might be all right. I don’t listen to the advice everyone else sheds. Questions of How can you still friends with that person? They’re caustic! are met with my quick rushes to their defenses. I put up with a lot of shit I’d never take from any guy.
 
Because I’ve always liked people who have a taste for debauchery. Those that are of complex personalities but more or less good hearts. People, I suppose, that I consider similar to me.
 
And with debauchery can come chaos.
 
I guess in some ways it can be easy for me to come to the conclusion that it’s time to end a friendship once I reason that if I’m fed up - in light of all the fucking chances I give, all the shit I let slide - then this must be a pretty fucking bad situation. But breakups - particularly friendship breakups - can’t be that clean. Can’t be that mature. Can’t be a common agreement to move on and leave the other party at peace. People are hard to escape. Facebook, Gchat, gossip among mutual friends all make it impossible to cut people off entirely. You can go about blocking and you can ask those mutual friends to not mention the people in question to you any longer but all that tedious work just seems that. Tedious. And petty. Even dramatic.
 
It’s unneeded. Life throws you enough fucked up historonics without having to get them from your friendships. 
  
And now I have this current friend. Who is neither debaucherous or delightful or complex but pathetic. Weak sauce. I could go into details. A macabre list of all the wrongs. And it would turn into a very, very long list. There’s a part of me that wants to do it. To be hateful. To vent. To bitch. To point fingers. To scream and yell and have the whole world see the laundry list of shit I’ve dealt with for them and because of them.
 
But I know there’s no real good that can come from that. Not right now. When the hurt is this current. Maybe someday else. When I’ve gained enough distance so that there can at least be some kind of message with the tale - at least some humor or insight - rather than raw rage.
 
For now, just writing this much has helped my chest feel like it can return to just carrying its physical weight around.
 
Whoo-weee that titty city.