Blood on the Carpet

They say you should think before you act. I say: Think less and act more.

Of course, as a critical thinker, I believe every person should consider the consequences of their actions and ;aldkjfasdlkfjads;lkfajsd;lkfjadl;kf. BUT, I’m just beginning to really express myself. I’ve been practicing internal reflection, speaking my mind, pointing out flaws, and truly identifying how something makes me feel. I’m acting on my own accord. It is wonderful.

As you might have read before, this year has consisted of many highs and lows. I’ve had my fun and created a solid potential career, but I’ve slept with the wrong people, felt pathetic and failed miserably. It has been a journey to some form of a self identity. I’m finally getting the sense it is all worth it. There is a light at the end of the tunnel.

The problem is finding my footing. I’m like a toddler running around for the first time. There is no one to place their arms around me and create some invisible force field. Sometimes I hit my head off the corner of the coffee table. Now I’m left with a pool of my own blood.

I know it sounds wrong, but I’m excited. While I hate bringing out the Clorox, making a mess is fun. Discovering how to run is exhilarating. I’m feeling open, optimistic. I’m happy. My rock bottom seems miles away.

You have to understand, all my life I’ve been passive. My own personality traits have been dictated to me and I’ve accepted it. It got to the point where I couldn’t even describe myself. The biggest issue was that I let others judge which me was best for me. I never acknowledged that I had a voice. It is fun to run around and articulate my thoughts. For the first time in a long time, the person I’m becoming matches the person I have always been.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still cleaning up my mess. I’m just saying sometimes a little blood on the new carpet isn’t the end of the world. Sometimes it’s a lesson learned; forward progress.

wishful sinful

I have this recurring fantasy.Ok, fantasy is not the right word. It’s not kinky. Don’t get excited. Or get excited, do what you gotta do. But more like a daydream? Daydream. Where all of the guys I have had some sort of relation(ship) with are  in one room on a stage that resembles the set of The Dating Game. They are all sitting on cheap plastic stools (I did not spring for leather couches, I guess?) wondering what they are all doing here. They get to talking and realize their shared connection: ME! How long would this take? Hours? Days? Would I ever come up in conversation? This is no longer a talk show, it is more like a horrible Twilight Zone episode. Like that one where everyone is inexplicably stuck in a white room with high walls and can’t get out.  I haven’t really figured out the details. My daydreams are not big on exposition.Does this make me self-absorbed? Probably. Has everyone thought about this scenario at least once? I’m willing to bet DEFINITELY.I always wonder what they would say about me. Would my high school boyfriend remember our first kiss on Valentine’s Day in Italy? Our last kiss? Would any of them remember arguments and passionate moments? Did I make any lasting impact on them? Do any of them miss me or hate me? Why did all of these relationships end, again?

Someone told me last week that the key to a happy relationship is to date an ugly person. They didn’t elaborate much, but I think what they meant was that physical attraction and passions inevitably fade, but at the end of the day, when all the pretenses drop away, and you are left with all of the ugly, your faded alma mater t-shirt and your mouth full of Crest whitestrips, that they still want to be there. That they stick around, for whatever reason.I’ve never gotten to the point in a relationship where I am comfortable being naked. I don’t just mean physically naked. But naked as in completely myself. Like, ugly me. Bed-head, unflattering-lighting me. I got pretty close in my most recent relationship, but I was always a conscious of that other presence. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it pushes me to be better – to be the best version of me at all times. But is it really better? Aren’t I just as lovable with a a t-shirt and a nose strip of  as I am with a push-up bra and a mini skirt? Maybe there is a happy medium I can get to. But in the end, is it my heart and compassion and sense of humor that really matter? I’d like to hope so.That being said, I don’t really agree with my mom. I want to think that I will find someone I am attracted to in every way. Don’t get me wrong; he doesn’t have to be a young Mick Jagger or anything. In fact, I’m not too comfortable dating a guy who is prettier than me. But I want to find someone who makes my heart skip a little when he smiles at me and shiver when he kisses my neck, someone who knows how to cook one great dish, who will drop whatever he’s doing to pick me up when I’m stuck in a rut, who’s witty as hell, with excellent taste in music and movies, an endless passion for adventure, and a huge, huge heart that he isn’t afraid to share with me. And maybe he will come with a receding hairline or be a close-talker, but I will love him for it and he will love my chewing ice addiction and my funny faces, and it won’t matter because he will be kind and want to stay in bed with me for hours on a Saturday morning.But for the record, if you’re reading this, young Mick Jagger – I would never turn you down. Call me.

♥E

♥ E

A Metropolitan Affair

For as long as I can remember I’ve been having a love affair with the city. I’ve been surrounded by the countryside and suburbia for all my life, but when I close my eyes I think of those long, lingering looks.

It’s not what most people assume. I don’t imagine the skyscrapers or have big, Broadway dreams. I fell in love with the side streets, the 24-hour coffee shops, and the opportunities.

A city is an enormous, breathing industry sucking up our money and positive emotions. However, after a long night in a jazz club, I forget that I’m broke and missed the last T. Instead, I’m smiling because the starry night fills the negative space of the skyline.

When I look into those urban eyes I see my future self. The commute to work that I’ll learn to loathe, or the street where that guy accidentally touched by boob while he was texting and walking at the same time. In the city, I see the drunken nights at my favorite bar where the bartender knows my name and shamelessly offers to take me home every Friday. I cannot wait until I laugh with my friends about the time one of us accidentally took home a college senior.

I want the small loft, the tight corners, and shitty roommates. The kind of roommates that have loud sex at 4 a.m., after I’ve announced I have to open the store at 5:30.

I crave a new perspective. All my  trips to the city consisted of backseat views and dinners at restaurants I cannot afford. I’ve walked around downtown and stayed at a friends apartment, but I’ve never had that experience of being able to call an overpriced residence my own.

Of course, the most vital concept is the interaction.The workplace buddies and crushes. The fellow commuters I see after work at Kendall Square. The small conversations that happen while waiting for my scone. As someone who studies how communication shapes our world, I view the city as the ultimate social web. I just want to find my place among the spiders.

This summer I strive to find my side streets, to discover how long it takes to get across town, and find the group of friends who want to catch a late night movie. This summer is about starting my future. This summer is the start to a big adventure.

I feel like every liberated woman at the end of an  indie romcom. But instead of having some realization that the man I’ve been sleeping with for 8 years will never leave his wife, I’m running into his arms as we finally put a deposit on that adorable 2 bedroom in Cambridge.

Graduation Blues

The other afternoon I officially applied to walk during Slippery Rock University’s commencement ceremony. As of yesterday, I  became a soon-to-be college graduate. The idea is scaring me shitless. Well, maybe that’s just the new habit of morning coffee.

What’s scary isn’t the ‘real world’ or the independent life that presents itself; it’s the anxiety directly rooted in uncertainty. Uncertainty in what I want to do and in what I’m going to be able to do

Recently, my degree and aspirations have been gradually growing distant. The fact that I may be preparing for a life that will make me unhappy is becoming a pressing issue for my bowel movements.

After a few performances and a new connection to the theater department, I’ve been thinking more and more about becoming a performer and writer. I’ve been spending my free time thinking of blog posts or personal essay topics. I make time to read other authors critically and perfect my ukulele chords.

I value my education and believe learning about communication has made me a better person and offered a chance to mature. I’ve grown from a sad, awkward teenager to a potential adult, slowly making a path in life. But I believe I won’t be satisfied until I’ve exhausted all of the options

The most damaging aspect is the internal conflict. I was raised by smart, hardworking, republican families who stressed the importance of security and a strong work ethic. The voice of my father is in my head reminding me to find a good job and start a savings account, but I still find the need to move to a big city and try to become a jazz singer. Every time I think about just picking up and going, I hear his voice and instantly feel a rush of guilt all over. I blame my tenacious fear of authority figures and need to follow the rules.

On the other hand, our mainstream culture is piling up with women who worked hard and found a way to create a profit from self-expression. I have rooted my motivation to keep it together (said in the manner of Kit Ramsey) in idolizing relatively successful feminist who put it all out there. Mindy Kaling, Lena Dunham, and Carrie Bradshaw prototypes all get me up in the morning. So if I don’t attempt to walk in their footsteps, what kind of woman would I be?

I guess I should take my own advice. Whenever my friends express that feeling of uncertainty, the “what should I do” moment, I always tell them that most people already know their solution. Most people know what they need to do, what they should do, and what they want to do. They just ask others to confirm that it’s the right choice. So in my head I know what I should do. But I’m just looking for that confirmation.

Cheers,

Chloe

easy breezy

∴ I’m not necessarily what you would call a “girly girl.” I don’t wear a lot of pink and I look like a drunken gazelle when I wear heels.

But I do like beauty products. They are bright and colorful and usually smell good, which is all I really ask of anything in life. When I get to that shiny aisle in the drugstore, I become alive with hope and wonder, like those bratty kids in that damn chocolate factory. But soon, shit starts to go down – kids are dying strange sugary deaths, and things aren’t quite so fun anymore.

I start with foundation. There are so many options here. Liquid or powder? Matte or shiny? And then I have to choose a color. Am I… a beige? Fair? Natural? I find myself comparing my skin to celebrities’. I’m pretty fair, but I’m no Anne Hathaway. But I’m in no way a  either. I guess I’m more of a Drew Barrymore? A friend of mine tells me, “I am lighter than you, so you can’t be the lightest one.” That takes one color out of the running. “And you have pinkish undertones, but not as pink as mine.” Okay. Only I’m not an expert in detecting undertones. Same goes with the top and bottom notes in a fragrance. I mean, I can usually identify whether something smells “woodsy” , “floral”, or “fruity.” But asking me to pick a peony from a pansy would be like asking me to find Yemen on a map – I got nothing. Similarly, if someone pointed a gun to my head and asked “AM I A SUMMER OR FALL STYLE?” I would probably end up in a ditch.

Then it’s hair. This is what gives me the most trouble so I try to pick products through elimination. My hair is long and auburnish, so I first rule out the products for short and dark hair. I feel good about myself for a little.

It also tends to be a bit unruly, in the sense that I almost always wake up with giant “morning after” sex hair as opposed to the more tame “bedhead” hair even if I spent the night alone watching Dumb and Dumber for the hundredth time and eating a leftover sandwich. And look! There’s a product for unruly hair! I grab a bottle and turn to leave…

But wait. My hair is also dry, and here is a product that is extra moisturizing. Hold on – there are also products that promise to mend my split ends and others that claim to deep condition and repair months of damage! But still, here’s a product for straight hair, wavy hair, and curly hair. And for color treated hair! WHAT TWILIGHT ZONE HAVE I WALKED INTO?

As much as I hate to admit it – I am highly influenced by advertisements. Look, its Stacey from What Not To Wear. She’s sort of a bitch but she’s got great hair, so I should go with Pantene. Pantene girls look like they just dipped their hair in a vat of extra virgin olive oil. Which I would happily do, but that E.V.O.O. shit is expensive.

Now there is Long and Strong – ok, my hair is long, but does it need to be strong? Fucking Garnier and their ridiculous commercials assume I wish to tie my hair in a giant knot or attach it to a fence and demolish it like a goddamn construction site.

Inevitably, I end up trying everything once but bring home whatever smells the best. Kind of like my love life. Hah, just kidding. Not really, though.

That chocolate river of death is looking pretty damn good right now.

 ♥ E