Wednesday, January 15, 2014

The second part of a very long story

This is the second part of a very long story.  I suggest reading the first part first.



A cross country relationship turned out to be every bit as difficult as I imagined.  There were times when I was sure that I was going to break up with Derrick.  Not because I met anyone new or loved him any less; really, it was because I loved him so much.  I missed him so much that it physically hurt in a way.

That sounds like something from a bad Nicholas Sparks parody but it just was.  I believed 100% that he would never move to Chicago with me and I wasn’t going back to Florida.

But every time I got the idea to just rip the BandAid off and get it over with, I just couldn’t do it.  I could make myself cry just imagining not being able to talk to him again and couldn’t think about what it would be like if that wasn’t just an imaginary situation.

So for five months, I had a relationship with my phone.  Luckily, the whole meeting new people, moving to a new city, starting a new job, learning an entirely new way of life thing had me pretty preoccupied.

But it wasn't all sunshine and unicorn poop.  I remember one day in June so clearly: I had just gotten back from an infuriating afternoon trying, unsuccessfully, to weave my way past the Gay Pride parade so I could get a gallon of milk from WalMart.


To be clear: I am not against gays.  But as far as I could see, this parade wasn’t so much about gay rights as it was an excuse for hairy men who should never be in spanx to wear thongs, for rainbows and glitter and an opportunity to lie on the sidewalk at 3PM, passed our drunk.

I like a good time but that wasn’t a good time.  That was a crowd of 19 year old guys in Daisy Dukes yelling at a bunch of protesters to eff off, having drunk people get drunk spit in my face, having girls passed out half naked on the sidewalk across the street from the WalMart where I just wanted to buy a damn gallon of milk.

I got back to my apartment that afternoon, milk-less, and just started crying.  This was a strange, strange place and I was so, so alone and these were not “my” people, not my family and my friends, and who are these people anyway and when are they leaving and why didn’t I just get milk this morning and this city is stupid and life is just so hard… just all around dramatic anguish.

Of course, I was being dramatic again but I didn’t care: I missed my friends and my family and Derrick so much.  There were so many people I loved that just weren’t there with me.

Which is how you see the blog in front of you today.  I’m not much a phone-talker and really, not even that reliable at answering texts.  But writing my blog was sort of like talking to my mom or a friend.  Because back in the early days, those were the only people who read it.


And really, I wrote it for me too.  I am naturally introverted and fairly independent, so being alone doesn’t really bother me.  But when you have all of this new experience business overwhelming you, even I just wanted to let it out.  But instead of just picking one person to unleash it all on: I picked everyone, all at once.

That’s what a blog is anyway, right?

So that is my short 1,800 word story behind this little blog you come back to every day.  Or that you just randomly stumbled on before reading a short novel about some random chick in Chicago.

My blog has obviously evolved a lot since then and I don’t regret it at all.  I like the change and am looking forward to what it will turn into in the future.

But as my one year bloggiversary creeps closer, I feel as if I owe my questionably narcissistic hobby a little bit of sentiment.  If for nothing else, as a tribute to that emotional girl in June who just wanted a glass of milk.

Happy Hump Day!
I told you, Friday's coming... I can smell it.

Boston by Augustana on Grooveshark


Want more tea? Have a second cup!
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