Memories at Dangerous Decibels

I'm doing that thing again. Wanting someone I shouldn't want. Craving a closeness I shouldn't crave. Getting frustrated over my inability to live logic rather

Our song. This song. It just came on. This is so ironic. I thought I was over you. I was just talking about someone else. I was craving someone else. And now our song is playing and I am remembering the way you danced around your room and I laid on your mattress and I just laughed because life was so good and you were so good and love was so good and then you clambered over to me and kissed me like I was made of glass and I thought you would never let me go...and it's that part of the song when you would drink me in with your eyes and you'd sing it to me because it was us, this song is us and it will never be anything else and you could tell me that just with your eyes and maybe you already knew that we would fall apart but you couldn't tell me that because this was our song and you know how happy I was, how happy you made me, watching you dancing and singing and kissing and being--because I loved you most when you were just being. And all of that is this song.

I am a bit of a mess. I am craving one person who is not in any way good for me, and I am aching because of another who will never again be mine. I was so convinced I was done aching. And that made it okay for me to crave someone else. But now it is obvious that I do not love either of them, and I need to, yet again, find that place where I am content being alone.

The other night I took my rifle up to the attic and fired approximately 400 pellets at paper targets and if you had been standing in front of them you I would have shot you because my aim is excellent. I had Calvin Harris playing at dangerous decibels, but it was acceptable because the whole world should have been listening with me and feeling with me and concentrating on that bulls eye right where I think the dip in your collarbone would be if I lined you up correctly and maybe someone would understand the reasons why I have no lovers, only weapons and words and wantings.

The world's beauty spyglass sucks. I like mine better.

Here's a fact that will not be in the least bit surprising. I can count the parts of my body that I like on one hand.

1) I like my collarbones.
2) I like my eyes.
3) I like the color of my hair.
4) I like my wrists.

That's all. Four things. Name any other body part and I could tell you what's wrong with it. It's mostly to do with my skin--I am a lump of stretch marks and red scars and the hills and valleys of cellulite that are a testament to my love of pastry and lack of exercise. I am rightfully ashamed of my blotchiness, my skin being so white that the transparency leaves me veiny blue. My chest, shoulders, and back are a canvass of spot constellations.  I already have the beginnings of varicose veins on my legs. I am not noticeably chubby around my middle because I hold my stomach in all the time, but if I didn't do that I would look a couple of months pregnant. Which wouldn't be so bad. If I were pregnant. But I'm not. So it's bad.

I could continue. But there's an actual thing I want to say besides I don't really like how I look. The truth is, I would be perfectly happy with my body if I didn't feel I had to fix my stretch marks and my flabby legs and my man fingers to be acceptable. I wish I didn't feel like the world shudders whenever I wear a pair of shorts or go out without make up. And to a certain extent I have the ability to not care about the public's preferences when it comes to a woman's body, but in the end I would like my appearance to translate how I feel. I feel beautiful when I don't have to look in a mirror or go outside. The world, however, only sees beautiful in a certain way, so to get that sentiment across I have to fit in with everyone else's standard of beauty. It kind of sucks. But there it is. At least there are four things about myself that I'm proud of.