so I found this on my computer. I still feel it.

from Oct. 13 journal:

and better than wine
if love has a hangover, that’s ages away
I’ve been collecting perfect moments each day

make sure you know
no matter how this will grow

sober, in the sunlight

I fell
who can I tell?
tell the world
tell them all
yes, I did fall

and do I care?
and really
it’s not where
you’re from
that matters so much
as where you’re going

don’t give a fuck
how you grew up

something set this
it’s too perfect for chance
it’s a story to tell

I’m in love
I’m love
you’re love
my love
oh
love

new topic!

I fell in love.

This is how we met: the first night of frosh week, they had pizza (and beer) parties at frosh leaders’ houses, for mingling, a couple of groups to a house. Our groups were at the same party, and we both sort of noticed each other while we were mingling. Cut to a few nights later, it’s Retro Night at the Wardy (campus pub) and we danced together a bit. I would’ve danced with him more, but while walking my roomie back to our room, since she didn’t have her keys, we saw a girl being loaded into an ambulance, and that was pretty much a total buzzkill for me, so I went to bed soon after. Cut to the day before lectures and such begin, I think “maybe he’ll be in my tutorial… no, that never happens.” Cut to the next day, he is in my tutorial. That night it’s Maritime Night at the Wardy, there’s live music, I know a million folk songs and fit right in, I don’t know “Barrett’s Privateers” yet, but I pick that up fast. I’m there with my friend (this initial thing is a problem, so many people have the first initial E.), let’s call her Rosie since she had a bandanna that night and did many a Rosie the Riveter impression. And she gets me up to dance, but he offers his arm so off I go with him. And after the song Rosie asks me “what the fuck was that?” and I say something like “he’s in my tutorial, and oh my god he’s totally my type, and he’s wearing brown corduroy pants.” Let it be known that I have a deep love of corduroy pants. But that’s not really the point. Rosie, who by now has had plenty of beer plus a shot of tequila, decides that we must dance together again. She basically physically shoves us together. And we dance, and we go outside for some air, and we get to talking, and we go to his room, and neither of us gets much sleep that night. And the next day he asks me out for coffee after tutorial, and so far I’m getting my happy ending…

I can write more, if you want to know more.

(I do not like how that’s all one block of text. May edit later.)

sadness.

I wish this wasn’t the first post in ages, there are so many good things that’ve happened since I last wrote.

The list I was starting in my head after my good friend K. told me to write here again had:
- the first black US President was elected and inaugurated
- I came to Canada for university
- I fell in love with the guy I met the first night of frosh week

But you know what happened?

An absolutely incredible woman died. She was my advisor for a good part of my high school years, and head of the theatre department, where I spent an absurd amount of time. She’s the one who got me to get my shit together on my senior project, she’s the one who helped me grow up. I already missed her, up here over 400 miles away. I’d promised her a longer email a couple of weeks ago, which I never wrote. It was going to be full of things I was so proud to tell her about. I was so excited that I’d get home in time to see the musical, too.

Life sucks, you know?

I think it might be harder for me, too, because I’m alone with this. None of my friends here knew her. There’s one other person in the city (that I know of) who went to my school, and I’m not sure he ever spent time in the theatre department. Not like I did, certainly.

I was talking to a friend last night, and she said: “people can be understanding, but when there’s a death in the family (which the theatre crowd certainly is), you just want to be with your family.” That’s exactly it. I want to hug someone who knows how I feel. I called K. last night, which helps, but I want to be with everyone. I want to choke my way through “Rose” (which we sang before every show) in a group, not alone.

But most of all I want Robin to give me a hug, and that’s never going to happen again.

a bunch of different people

I love you, you know.

A year later, I want what you offered. Is it too late?

I don’t know, I just don’t know.

The more I talk to you the less I want to.

Stop using that tone. Just stop.

I lie to you with increasing frequency.

You’re a sweetie.

I’m glad I got the guts to talk to you, you’re awesome.

I used to have the biggest crush on you.

I miss you.

I miss our conversations.

Please leave me alone.

Thank you.

hugs

The Five Love Languages

My primary love language is probably
Physical Touch
with a secondary love language being
Quality Time.

Complete set of results

Physical Touch:		11
Quality Time:		9
Acts of Service:		6
Words of Affirmation:		3
Receiving Gifts:		1

Information

Unhappiness in relationships, according to Dr. Gary Chapman, is often due to the fact that we speak different love languages. Sometimes we don’t understand our partner’s requirements, or even our own. We all have a “love tank” that needs to be filled in order for us to express love to others, but there are different means by which our tank can be filled, and there are different ways that we can express love to others.

Take the quiz

—–

Doesn’t really surpise me.  I’m a very huggy person.

From my paper journal: “I can talk to him online more easily than in person because online I don’t need to suppress the urge to hug him and never let go.”

Hugs - human contact - a basic food group for me.  When I can’t hug one person, when I lose a previously consistent source of contact, I glom onto someone else . . .

two sentences

I want to distill your essence down down down until I can put all of what you are into a syringe and inject you into my veins. I want to be able to mainline to you to fill the craving need I get when I can’t be with you.

platonic for her, not for him

I love you, ya know?
not just saying it to you
I mean it - always

could you come back please?
can’t force you - that wouldn’t fit
so I’ll try waiting

Protected: stream-of-consciousness autobiographical sketch

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