No Patience

In the style of Chuck Palahniuk.

Consistently writing in a notebook will often make the people around you nervous. I’m always writing in class and in my cubicle at the telemarketing job I have…or rather, it has me. I’m usually writing stories, writing love letters, basically, writing bullshit. After a while though, inevitably, somebody will ask, “What are you writing?” What they are really asking is, “Are you writing something about me?”

Krissy sits next to me in English 101. She’s this Christian goody-goody and every time I see her I’m astounded at the variety of Jesus-themed shirts that are manufactured and sold in the United States. It seems she has a different one for every day of the school year.

I could be writing about her, but I’m not. I’m trying to figure something else out because it seems like I always have something that needs figuring out, some code to decipher, a feeling to pinpoint. The trouble with me is that I never come to any concrete conclusions. I analyze, dissect, and pick apart every word spoken, every gesture given, every hug that lasts just a little too long until I’m left with a big, inky, black question mark. If I could see it, it would look like a slippery wet snake, its pink forked tongue exposed to form the dot at the bottom.

Andy sits behind me in Calculus 280. He appeared to me as a walk in unchartered territory, a quick jaunt around the wild side, really. And I have to admit...the offer is tempting...

Okay, yes. I do some writing about him, so sue me. It’s unavoidable, an offer too good not to abuse. The thing is he tells me I’m different and like the idiot love-struck girl I try so hard not to be, I'm falling for him. I will jump for him through flaming hoops suspended fifty feet in the air and, yes, I will get burned, burned bad.

My heart hurts. My brain hurts. Damn, even my legs hurt. I really should know better.

Stupid.

Stupid.

Stupid.

When it comes to LOVE, in my experience, this is the natural progression of things:

“I love you.”

(Followed by.)

“I liked you.”

(Not to be confused with.)

“I now hate you.”

(And the occasional.)

“I miss you.”

MISSING seems to be the only thing I can fully commit to these days. It fills every vein in my blood-filled being. And every cell, atom, and neutron that makes me who I am drowns in it.

“I want you back.” (See: MISSING)

“My life is SHIT without you.” (See: LOVE)

Ethan’s this boy I dated from work and I use the term “boy” loosely to describe him. He is 28 and with him I see companionship. I see stability. I see the trail of brightly coloured tattoos running from his chin to each of his knuckles that I know will drive my parents crazy at Christmas dinner.

In short, he’ll end up being just another excuse to eventually buckle down with my notebook and write about another hundred pages during Chemistry 94. It will inevitably coax someone into asking me what I’m writing. And I will have no more patience this time. I’ll put down my pen, look them in their dumb little eyes and say:

“You, you narcissist. I am writing about you. Now...can we drop it?”