What I talk about when I talk about love

I’m quiet and unfunny. I often break things. I tend to eat less than I should and when I was younger I weighed much less than I should have. When I moved to Berkeley, living in a house full of drug addicts and slackers, I gained weight from eating nothing but fried chicken and ice cream. As an aside, when you’re living with a cocaine user, you should never do laundry after midnight, because said roommate might come out of his room, high and scared shitless because you were doing laundry and he heard some weird sounds. Don’t get me started on the landlord who told us that we should pray for sunny days because our roof had been blown off.

I’m tall and awkward. My hair has grown long and I need a haircut, but I’m going to try and grow it out for 130 more days. As a kid, I had long, platinum blonde hair, especially when I lived in the Bahamas. I miss having bright blonde hair. It’s just another reason I’m not considered Nordic. That and my lack of blue eyes.

Some people may not agree with my goals or the ways in which I go about achieving them. I believe I’m asking not out of a sense of entitlement, but out of desperation. I’ve tried everything else, and I feel as if this is my opportunity to continue growing as a person. I’m not against the negative things that have been said of me. I understand that people have their own ways of looking at the world, and I have mine. We can disagree. I do need some help though.

I’m currently listening to Pandora after a six month hiatus. I used to spend hours listening to a carefully crafted station, started with “City and Colour.” When I was writing essays for a Russian lit class in Berkeley, I was told to stop using prepositional phrases. My professor’s suggestion was the best bit of criticism I had ever received as far as critical writing goes. He was an amazing professor who made Nabokov into a heroic figure for me, always elaborating on Nabokov’s life and interesting facts as they related to his novels.

I am nearly thirty years old. This is an inescapable fact. Here’s to hoping that these last twenty five years have been only a small part of my future life.

I’m avoiding any thoughts of JJ. We haven’t spoken in five days, and I’ve finally figured out that I haven’t seen her since December 26th. At least that is what remember now, after a few moments of trying to recall the day she came over for the last time. I’d been home alone after coming back from Berkeley for ten days to work on MFA applications. My parents had gone north to visit my sister in Arcata, but I decided to come to southern california alone. I saw only JJ and X during my vacation. JJ had come down to see her family for a few days before leaving for England. I can still vividly recall her room for the last time, and her crying after her sister took a number of photographs of the two of us. She said she didn’t want to go.

It’s funny how I remember only the bad times during our time together. The only good time I can remember wasn’t considered a good time when I was going through it, but now, it’s the only good time I can remember with JJ. We had just started seeing each other and I asked her to come with me to a friend’s place for dinner. On the train, she wouldn’t look at me. We sat in the front car, facing the front. She sat next to the window, and I sat next to her.

When we got to the party, I remember drinking and talking about music with my friend. JJ kept her hand on my leg under the table throughout dinner. On the way home, we got a ride from my friend, and JJ fell asleep across the car from me while holding my hand.

I’m always wondering how long it will take for me to stop thinking about her. This is just a first step.