No one ever gets what they want
Posted by: Steffi on: November 4, 2009
How ironic, considering we all want the same thing.
And another thing
Posted by: Steffi on: November 1, 2009
there are reasons for everything.
Or at least my everythings. So no, I don’t waste money when there’s a better alternative. I do it when it’s completely necessary. And I don’t wake up at the crack of dawn for the sake of waking-up-at-the-crack-of-dawn. I do it because I have to. because I want to. And I do it because I hate that feeling I get when it clouds my gut and it’s almost like I can’t take another breath because every time I do it stakes it’s way further and further into my chest. So I have to back off. I have to back down, step out, and get some air. But not even air helps. Not when it smells like flowers.
Someone out there knows everything about me
Posted by: Steffi on: October 31, 2009
Literally.
It’s not a figure of speech; I’m not being emotional, and I’m certainly not hallucinating.
Yesterday, I spoke to a complete stranger for 4 hours straight on Omegle. (If you’ve never heard of it, it’s this internet-chat thing that connects you to a complete stranger: You’re completely anonymous to them, and they’re completely anonymous to you, so that way neither of you are obliged to give a damn about each other.)
See, the majority of the population on Omegle are 16-23 year old prepubescent, unmotivated, or jobless creeps who can’t get “any” in the real world (seriously, grab a piece of paper, go to the site and start tallying). So why would I visit this site? Well, I was studying orgo. Why else.
What I did was I messed around with most of them, but I thought to actually talk to the last person before getting back to studying. Didn’t think it was gonna take 4 hours… didn’t even think it was gonna last 10 minutes. But somehow, we got to talking about nothing to just about everything. And by everything, I mean everything there was to know about me, and about him.
So I literally poured my heart and soul out to a complete stranger, who by early morning, was no longer alien or insignificant to me. I told him about my family. I told him about coming out to my mom, being emotionally disattached to almost everyone in this household with the exception of my sister. I told him about my bad habits, my flaws, insecurities, regrets… we talked about psychology, genetic predispositions, situational altercations to behavior, good, evil, sexuality, motivation, role-models, love, crushes, awkwardness, humor… he was like this vacuum I could pour anything (and essentially everything) into, and I knew that he wouldn’t throw any of it back out.
A stranger. A complete stranger.
It’s almost too good to be true. You have this person who’s completely anonymous to you (and you to him/her), so you have basically all the freedom in the world to talk about whatever you want and in whatever way you so desire. We joked, we talked, we were more than serious at times, and then we joked around some more. I pretty much entrusted him with everything. I gave him myself.
It’s sad. It’s so fucking sad.
It’s like… the one-night stand syndrome. The way some people can just sleep around with whomever they want and leave the next morning unscathed, and completely refreshed. They fuck around with some guy—a stranger that they met at a bar somewhere, or some hopeless sex addict they found on an online chatroom, or some dude they met at a party, a club, street corner. bathroom. I don’t know. Point is, they’re all just strangers. And this is why they can get away with knowing things about you—because you will never EVER have to speak with them EVER again. There’s no room for friendship, not even as mere acquaintances or “online-buddies”.
I did it because I wanted something from him. The way people who commonly routine one-night stands want something from that guy they’re fucking. I wanted someone to care for 4 fucking hours, and I wanted to care back. I wanted to be the one that this guy needed to talk to, and I wanted him to be the one to take everything—every word and worry I had—in. I wanted to pretend like it mattered.
See, the amazing thing is… you can get away with something like this because it’s a no-strings-attached situation, and you don’t have to worry about complications. There’s no drama involved, no I-miss-you’s or I-hate-you’s or wtf-is-wrong-with-you’s. It’s just: Thanks for talking to me, and thanks for listening.
(And thanks for making me feel like I’m not the only one awake at 5 in the morning)
But this thing that I did. It’s a lot like typing on this blog-thing. Sure you expect people to read it, but you can never be certain that they will. So in a sense, I feel like I’m retaining my anonymity by grounding my words to this blog. It’s like my safety-net. My go-to person. I can let it out here, and no one will ever get too close to me—there’s no chance that I’ll get hurt. No chance that they’ll get hurt. It’s just this. And so much more.
Constantly and Consistently
Posted by: Steffi on: October 26, 2009
246.
The number of strangers that follow me. It means nothing.
100.
The number of people I’ve maintained on facebook (god forbid it waivers between +/- 1). This too means nothing.
Like the number of people inside the EE when it stops in front of college hall. They crowd around you and suffocate you with their insuppresant body odor until you’ve nearly resorted to swallowing your own vomit.
This number? Means nothing.
Me? I am but one person.
But these numbers, they don’t mean anything. Not when everything is so neatly placated inside my head. Not when you’ve been demoted to a number, which all it means really is a thing not closely unrelated to experience points and pokemon.
There is significance here, but it doesn’t lie in numbers.
I need to know I’ll find something. Anything.
Prerequisite coin flip
Posted by: Steffi on: October 26, 2009
Coffee, believe it or not, puts me to sleep when I’ve accumulated enough sleepless hours to account for the dust particles building up on my computer screen. Otherwise, it works like a charm—i.e. the kind that feeds off of your body, providing you with the gratification of severe electrolyte imbalance in your legs.
Coffee. I hate coffee. But I love the taste of coffee. And I hate what it does to my body. Kinda hurts below my torso sometimes, though I’ve never really understood why. I guess some questions just don’t have answers.
Speaking of which.
I’m deliriously sick and tired of leaving my questions unanswered. Like I’m some kind of broken jack-in-the-box. Jack just doesn’t wanna come out of his box. No he doesn’t. Nuh-uh, no sir. No he don’t, no he gone done di’int.
I have class in about 4 hours.
Orgo, to be exact.
Don’t think I’m going to sleep any time soon, don’t think I care, don’t think I will, don’t think I’ll breathe for that matter, or use the bathroom. I may or may not shower, who knows. What does unprocessed food taste like? I’ve forgotten.
Where has time gone.
Only Jesus has the answers.
Time
Posted by: Steffi on: October 26, 2009
When you’re plagued with sleeplessness or when you refuse to sleep. It goes by not faster or slower than it normally would; it’s simply paced at a different rate—a rate that’s not quantifiable or certain. Specific. It’s not something that should or could be recorded. Not when you’ve been awake for 18 hours and counting.
I lack
Posted by: Steffi on: October 17, 2009
confidence
self-esteem
direction
decision
sympathy
visibility
and words.
words.
words.
words.
words.
words.
Am I loud enough?
I doubt it.
She hesitates at every intersection
Posted by: Steffi on: October 17, 2009
My mom.
I’ve been noticing more recently that whenever she drives, she always hesitates at every intersection. Even when she has the right of way, like she’s unsure whether or not the other car will go, even when it shouldn’t. I don’t know. Like she’ll do this thing, where sometimes, she’s so unsure that she hesitates in the middle of a turn, and I tell her this, but I don’t think she hears me. I mean, it’s okay to hesitate I guess, but if you’re in the middle of a four-way intersection, you’ve gotta floor it; you can’t just sit there and wait for rabbits and fucking hail. But this is what happened when she drove me to Douglass this morning, and after she picked me up later that afternoon. And I know she’s done it before, I just hadn’t realized (until today) that it’s become slightly problematic.
I think she’s plagued with indecision.
And I think I understand.
You know, once that car hits you, it’s over. It’s fucking over. And I know this. I know this. But I do it anyway. I sit there and I wait for shit to rain until it’s too late and someone’s just chipped a wedge off my bumper. And little by little, the chips become more consistent, more constant, more degenerative. This is where indecision gets you, when you’re so unsure of what to do (even though you know of what you should do), you just sit there and waste away in thinking. Too much thinking. When you enumerate the consequences and draw lines inside you’re head, you don’t realize that you’re perpetuating a consequence as you think. Indecision is a consequence on its own.
You have to learn this. Because how many hesitations does it take to get hit by just one car. One car. And how many people are you gonna piss off in the process. Indecision pisses people off, believe me; in the process of outweighing costs and benefits and letting indecision linger into procrastination, I’ve fucked more things than I can count.
I need to stop.
I need to stop rotting away in four-way intersections; I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know what I’m waiting for.
should have stapled this on my forehead when I had the chance.
Oops
Posted by: Steffi on: October 14, 2009
Totally an accident that I clicked on “New Post” and uploaded a picture contained in My Pictures folder of Ellen Page and Drew Barrymore practically making out which I stole from an Ellen Page fansite, clicked on “Insert into Post”, centered it on the page, and then “Publish”.
My bad.
