How Come You Don’t Call Me Anymore?

Why on earth can’t you just pick-up the phone, You know I don’t like to be alone! How come you don’t call me? (Why he wanna torture me?) Call me! Alicia Keys

 

Foreword: This is the story of a not-so-typical girl’s experience with an oh-so-typical male.

 

So after being blown off on Sunday, I can’t lie and say that my electrons were neutrally charged. I expected something: an apology, a follow-up text, a phone call rescheduling… something. Well during the week of silence, I went through an array of emotions.

 

Sunday 4pm (from him): “You should enjoy your day, this is going to take a while”.

(my response): “OK… guess I’ll head home. Catch you on the flip side”

 

In my head, I’m fuming! I didn’t really feel like meeting up, especially after being on the metro all day… but I felt horrible, that I made alternate plans when I originally made plans with him. It was like I went back on my word, which irritates my spirit. Makes me feel like I’m a liar… hate that feeling. So according to TBoom’s rules, we started day 1 of the 72 hour rule.

 

Day 1: I should say day 1 started on Sunday. I repeatedly looked at my phone. Checked my email, looked at my phone. Checked the ringer volume, checked my text messages. *puzzled face* the phone didn’t ring, the text message bell didn’t ding… disappointing.

 

Day 2: Day 2 was much better. I only looked at my phone once an hour, maybe… maybe less. Considering that I was at work, I was pretty distracted. But I did start crying in my office. I mean how could he not want to talk to me? How could he not apologize? How could he not feel the strong desire to reach out to me? Yea I tweeted a lot that day. Everything I couldn’t say to him I said to the mass public.

 

Day 3: I was so hopeful this day. I was sure that this man wouldn’t let 3 days pass without casually including me in the conversations of his mind… right? WRONG. Ignored, upset, discouraged. How could I like someone who doesn’t like me back… freaking again! Why do I always misread the signals? I never take things at face value, I always perceive the possibility… bank my hopes on the future outcome instead of accepting the present situation.

 

Day 3.5: I actually start to get worried. Well after a conversation with my cousin, we debate whether or not he was hit by a car; lost three fingers in a metro accident; was robbed during a late stroll home. So of course I check the crime/obituary section in the Post. But wait, ol’dude’s from SC so that doesn’t really work, right? But then I do hear on myFoxDC that this dude was mugged while walking home… I was so sure. So then I prayed.

 

Day 4: Much better, absolutely worse. I start the day with the feeling that he’s a jerk, all men are jerks. My daddy said “He must not realize how beautiful you are”… thank DADDY! *tear* still doesn’t dull the gnawing ache in my chest that I’ve been rejected. But there are more fish, right? THEN I realize that I missed a text message from A that’s about 2 mos old. So I start thinking about all the possible text messages that I could have missed in 4 days. Logical recourse? Call AT&T, duh! So I call them to talk about my reception, or lack thereof. I discuss the possible calls/texts that I could have missed (if someone called or text me in reality). As patient as the customer service rep was, I think a good strangling was in order (her to me).

 

Day 5: Thursday I’m pretty neutral, blood is boiling slightly. To text or not to text, that is the question: so I talk to F. She gives me crucial advice. To the point that I starred & saved her chat message in Gmail. Be casual, show that this doesn’t affect you, be nonchalant.

 

Day 6: With the newfound conviction of a blase attitude, I was ready to make it through the day. It’s Friday, why not be happy? I mean you already posted WAY too much information on FB hoping to spark interest, why not take the added step of enjoying the fruits of your labor? Compartmentalize yourself… you are homegirl, stay in your lane.

 

Day 7: I decided to wait until day 9 to text, but I was in the shower and something said: Why Not? Why are you waiting? Just do it? It’s not that crucial… do it, homegirl! So I did… really ice-cube: Hey Cee-Lo, this week was crazy (because I was trying not to come to your house and stalk you on FB)*, but how was apt hunting?

*Definitely did NOT say this… just FYI.

 

Of course, he texts me back immediately. I mean who wouldn’t respond to such an amazing text like that? I mean initiate much? Whatever, its been a whole day of back & forth, but I’m neutral. Designated to my spot in the situation, I’ve grown accustomed to the nostril-flare that accompanies a heightened sense of awareness. I am homegirl, I have a lane. Please Lord, help me to stay there!

Daddy’s Little Girl

“You’re a treasure I cherish, all sparkling and bright. You were touched by Holy and beautiful light; Like the angels who sing, a heavenly thing; And you’re Daddy’s Little Girl”  Michael Buble

She must have been 11 or 12, the ripe age when you still enjoy Barbie’s and Disney movies; the powerful years when you’re daddy’s approval and acceptance determines the type of men you’ll allow into your life in the future. In this era, the simple hug, the listening ear, the doting glance delivers such a profound impact to a desperately self-conscious girl on the journey toward womanhood.

I couldn’t help but stare. The way he eagerly turned his body to engulf her body in a chaste embrace. How he patted her hair as she babbled incessantly on the train. The way he freely approved of her independence as she escaped the embrace, only to welcome her back warmly as the heat evaporated, and she sought the comfort familiarity of his arms.

It was almost too perfect and personal to watch. He would remove his headphones just to hear her inconsistent gibberish. Would pat her hand or cheek as she asked the most asinine questions. Never once did you hear a harsh tone or distant reproach. He was just happy to be in her presence.

I think about C. About the” fortuitous” meeting. About me desiring his acceptance; craving a cuddle. I think on the image of this father genuinely coddling his daughter, and I honestly feel I did C a disservice. I never really wanted his squeeze, but that of an adoring father.

So I journey from place to place, from man to man ultimately longing for a parental adoption that replaces the absent father that I feared for so long. And I want that… that intangible acknowledgment that suppresses the unwanted emotions of inadequacy, self-doubt, low self-esteem.

I pine after men that at once pull me close, and at last push me away: my need too great, my sadness too extensive. I know I’m emotionally needy; like a junky needing a fix, I hunger for extrication from this dismal itch.

For every man I’ve ever disrespected or inevitably hurt, I apologize. I just want to be Daddy’s Little Girl.

The Lazy Song

“No, I ain’t gonna comb my hair, ‘Cause I ain’t going anywhere, No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. I’ll just strut in my birthday suit, And let everything hang loose.  Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Oh, today I don’t feel like doing anything. I just wanna lay in my bed, Don’t feel like picking up my phone, so leave a message at the tone, ‘Cause today I swear I’m not doing anything.” Bruno Mars

Before I start the post, I have to thank TBoom for the 72 hours rule! She’s so right. Today marks hour 36… *sigh*

Today is one of the first weekend’s in about 12 weeks that I have nothing planned. I have nothing to do, nowhere to go, no errands to run. It might also pair with the fact that my car has been out of commission since Tuesday. This week I’ve maybe slept 5 hours each night. That’s completely unlike me. I’m a sleeper. If I could, I’d close my eyes anywhere and melt into a dream that far outreach the depth of my imagination.

Even more, I’ve been metroing everyday to work, which means  no error is allowed in what time I leave. Yes, I’ve left the house without showering this week because I knew I would miss the bus and ultimately be outrageously late for work. Now I’m at a point where my weekend is blank. The ideas of what to do are endless, unfortunately though, I’m a little incapacitated.

I decided to get my tattoo retouched and colored on Friday. It was time. I’ve had the tattoo for 2 years, and for 2 years I’ve been making excuses that I would fix it. With the first prick of the needle I realized the permanency of the tattoo. My artist, Bobby,  from Body FX (the greatest place ever!) is a genius. In the beginning, I was sure Bobby would hate me. He mentioned that it would take two hours, everything had to be redone, as if we were starting with a fresh canvas. OUCH!

So the whole time, I’m screaming and convulsing in an indecipherable gibberish. Well TBoom & Deriberry thought I was hilarious. Apparently, I went from moaning erotically… to grunting like I was in child-birth. It’s all on video, maybe one day I’ll post it. Or at least watch it for myself so I know how I react to the immense pain of 6 razor-sharp perforations per second. Brisk strokes that attack, pierce, jab at tender flesh. The multitude of awareness as the blood and plasma oozes from your damaged skin… all in order to be a walking work of art. Definitely worth it.

I’m really excited that I didn’t cry. I mean TBoom, & Deri rubbing my back really helped. That sense of pressure and understanding motivated me to stay strong and not break down.

I can’t wait for the next one. This time more graphic, more intricate, more painful… YAY!

 

For anyone looking to get a tattoo I would definitely check out Body FX. Though the drive is brutal, the staff is amazing. They know exactly what they are doing. Prices are extremely reasonable. And they are funny.

Now it’s time to just rest and relax my foot. Keep it elevated. But how do I keep the boredom away?

I don’t want to watch anymore t.v. I’m not in the mood to read anything. Even though I went to bed around 1am, I couldn’t sleep in. I woke up before 9am. Now I’m writing… Guess I’ll just take a nap? Maybe someone wants to come over for movie night?