How do you deal with confrontation?

How do you deal with criticism?

How do you deal with passive aggression; better yet, are you passive aggressive?

Why is it that we always talk about our problems with everyone else besides the person we have the problem with?

Why do we assume?

I learned I cannot communicate.  At least I’m oodles better than I was way back when.   Then again, I have to grow up and mature sometime.  My secret wish is to suddenly transform into the person that I’m suppose to become.  Much like a caterpillar into a butterfly, I want to be stripped of everything that’s holding me back and transform myself into the person I’m suppose to become.  I might add to the end of that sentence, whatever the fuck that means.  What am I suppose to become and does that make me less of a person than I am now?  Pressure, conflict, an amalgamation of complicated feelings and situations, only exacerbated by my wanting to avoid it all, to ignore it all, to escape from inevitable confrontation, and most of all, to not  face the coward that I really am.

What an ugly word — coward.  Why is it that I can’t admit to myself, at least not outloud and without cringing, that I am a coward?  Fearful of being one, silenced by the growing undulations of “step up, step up, step up”, I wonder if it’s just better should I pretend to be brave.

This existential crisis manifests itself whenever I see the Banana Smoothie update.  Am I too scared of change to change it?  After years of having a banana smoothie as my modus operandi, what does it mean to change it?

My name is not Teri, what the fuck?  Why is wordpress doing this to me???

And… my toes are freezing.

I feel like there is something I must do.

This blog has become where I run away to, where I nurture and care for my own passive aggressiveness.

But fuck!  My feet are really cold…

Reclaiming cunt!

I am very excited for this course, hoping fervently, that one day, I could either become a better lover, a better masturbater, a better and maybe more prolific erotica writer, and maybe get a better understanding of what I want inside and outside the bedroom.  Really.

Now aint it funny how the ones that you drag all the way through your hell

are the same who can teach you how to touch heaven as well

and now its out of order, but we ought to now

you try and fit a square through a circle and its gone now

you wouldnt even know it was there

and you’d get lost tryin to navigate the moments we’ve shared

like when we held each others hands and we said goodbye

tears streaming out our eyes like somebody had died.

we can close our eyes and let the second hand go by

cause i wouldnt wanna not say goodbye

let you know that you touched my life

and whether i like it or not, i think a part of me will never give up this fight

cause theres nothing like you and i, no theres nothing like you and i

but its getting late in the game now, outcomes uncertain

these are things that i needed to say before the curtain

so i wrote you this song that you deserve

to let you know you will always be my first and most wonderful love

He walked by, I raised my hand.  He shook it, as any old friend would.  Our eyes met, and for an instance all that energy, all that secrecy, all that I had ever only dared to whisper to myself and indulged only in fantasies, all that sought to clamber out of my dry, clammy throat.  All I could muster up in that pivotal moment was a measly “Congratulations.”  He looked at me, and thanked me.  What else was I hoping for.

I talked, I laughed, I danced until my legs almost gave out.  As the party was nearing to an end, I rushed to see my friend.  She was beautiful, radiant, gorgeous without the magic of Adobe Fotoshop, a thing of beauty in her own right.  What other cliche can be brought to the butcher’s board, here?  I wished her congratulations and hugged her.  The man of her dreams proposed to her.  Ah, what a perfect couple.   See, there are couples that are incredibly awkward together, in real life and around other people, that is.  They smile, they don’t really talk, they kind of add to the debilitating atmosphere of a funeral, without the fun.  Then there are ok couples.  Ones that are together for so long and around each so often you just get used to seeing them together, but nothing incredibly and endearingly special.  Then you get this perfect combination the gods just happen to bless the mundaneness of… regular people, I guess.  They were fun, adventurous, you know, totally added life to the party and what not.  That kind of couple.  No matter how close I felt to her, no matter how much I loved her, no matter how much history I have shared with her, I forgot what she looked like.  Only a vague, and annoyingly elusive, memory lends itself to me.  She had a smile that… caught my breath, eyes that shined.  I don’t know.  Obviously I can’t describe people, only depressing events.  And luckily, I don’t know what my best friend looks like, only fucking beautiful and radiant, and only that I had never envied her as much as in that moment, and that I had never hated myself so much as in that moment.  She was going to be married to the man I loved.

The day before the wedding I saw him again, standing outside facing the ocean.  Hey, why not, right?  I looked at him, and almost wished that I had said something.  But I didn’t.  Fear?  Loyalty?  Guilt?  He turned around and looked at me, half expected me to say something, only I didn’t know what to say.

“Well?” he asked, “What is it?”

“Congratulations,” I smiled, “On getting married, that is.”

“Don’t you have anything else to say?”

“No,” I lied.  Oh god, the words, how they desperately cling to a dying hope to be released! “No.  Just congratulations.”

By now we knew full well how the routine goes.

“This is the last time I will ever say this, so listen up.  I would have done anything for you.  I would have waited for you, killed for you, jumped off a bridge if you wanted me to do it.  I loved you, and I still love you.  You just never, ever, ever know what you want.  You push me away and you keep asking me to come back.  You hold all the cards in this fucked up relationship.  You know what I want, and you have always known.  I want you.  That’s it.  I want you to want me, to love me as much I as want and love you.  But you keep sending me these fucked up signals and in the end, we just keep repeating the same god damn routine because you never know what it is you really want.  So this is it, Teresa. I want you. I need you.  I love you.  What do you want?”

He looked at me, half-tired from this tortured, repeated speech he’s recited so many times before, half-hopeful that I can finally give him the answer he wants.

“Congratulations, really.  Be happy.”

I turned away and ran.

I walked to the gardens.  I didn’t want to see them at the altar.  As I fell to the ground, blindly ripping out clumps of grass and flowers that didn’t deserve such an ungrateful fate, they said their vows, and they kissed.  I sobbed uncontrollably, teary-eyed, snot-nosed, and blabbered uncontrollably and everything.

Then I woke up.  Of course, I woke up.  I woke up feeling like shit.  What the fuck, brain?

Fuck yeah! Consenual consent… FUCK YEAHHH.

Yeahhhh!  First post of the year!

How long has it been since there has been anything short of intellectual or emotionally revealing on my blog other than the random postings about my day? Often times I feel like this… this brainchild of mine, the cradle of my emotional baby, of my thoughts and feelings, this hurting, bleeding, feeling, disgusting meshwork of words, forever entombed in a little corner of the internet, will die due to neglect and laziness… and… dare I say it?  The disease of unimaginative and complacent vomit.  What the hell am I really writing?  I don’t know anymore.  This isn’t me.  This isn’t a piece of me, it is not reflective of me.  It is not part of me, and they might as well be another girl’s thoughts.  A girl who seems to harbor an obsession with banana smoothies and the occasional gay film.

As I grow older (yes, 4 years does wonders to a 20 year old girl) I feel that… what they say about growing up is true.  You become desensitized to everything.  Well, not everything, but a lot of things.  A lot of things that used to be able to make butterflies take winged flight in your stomach, things that used to make your head light and your heart stop.  Things that used to clench your chest and make it feel like even a thousand piercing needles isn’t enough to describe the pain festering inside.  Love and heartbreaks.  Even the little things like waking up to a gloomy day or to the sound of chirping birds.  The lows don’t seem as low; the highs don’t quite reach up there anymore.  Is this what awaits me as I put experience and experience and experience in my back pocket?  The slow getting-used-to.  The plateau.  The contentment or resigned defeat?  Or perhaps I am just a little too cynical.  Because hey, it’s winter break and I burned my fingers ripping up a chicken.  That hurts, you know.

What this blog used to be — a waterfall of unadulterated pain, joy, expression — it isn’t anymore.  My words are chosen more carefully, mulled over more considerably; there is a limit behind what can and cannot be written here.  What used to be an outlet for my conscious ongoings and my unconscious feelings — a confidant, I suppose — has turned into… I don’t know what it is anymore.  As I venture deeper and deeper into myself (whatever the fuck that abstract shit means) I find such entangled and throttled messes.  I wonder if I can bare to hear my own thoughts out load, to read my unconscious mind wander off and see its trek described on such a bleak black and white slate.  To face myself is something… I don’t know if I want to do anymore.  Maybe that is why I cannot find anything to write.  Whatever juicy material is locked up in a vault.

So now I’m just writing about how bad it is to get a C+ and burned fingers.

California did.  California definitely did.

So I woke up at 11:00, talked with my cousin, did P90X.  For some reason it doesn’t really feel like Christmas anymore.

2 C+ in both major required classes…

HOW FUCKING WEIRD IS THAT.

I think I am through with this depression.  Soon I will embrace apathy.

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU

It’s a funny thing.  No matter what I do, I feel like I can never do the right thing.  Why much everything I touch detonate on me?  Maybe that is why I can’t have nice things.

You’re afraid so you keep running away.

Oh, words of wisdom!

As I was watching Aladdin the other day, I couldn’t help feeling a sick sense of empathy with Iago.  My god, I’m turning into a cynical, hateful parrot whose only goal in life is to exacerbate and bask in glorious derision.

Fuck it all.  Really… fuck. It. All.