I met Meredith once before last year during a party my (now) ex-boyfriend Charlie was throwing. Considering I was four shots in when we introduced ourselves, she didn’t leave much of an impression at the time. I heard from a couple of people after the fact– Charlie included– that she was pretty awkward and left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth. She tried to hard to fit in, they said, and she was mean and didn’t get anyone’s sarcasm.Read more
On Sunday, my boyfriend and I drove up to Minnesota to pick up some things from our dystopian college campus. Housing sent out an email early last week with the details: Do you live within a six hour driving distance between campus? Perfect! Get your masks and a packing buddy to sign up for your three hour time slot today. (Disclaimer: not a direct quote)
Of course New York is not exactly a six hour drive to Minnesota, but considering my lucky boyfriend lives 5 hours and 54 minutes away (I know) from that rural midwest town, and I’ve been quarantining with him for the past couple of months, we took a car and headed north.
So, it’s been a minute. A lot has happened since October, and normally I frequent this hub more, but I’ve accumulated a lot of starts-of-blogs and not a lot of ends. There’s definitely a lot of boy drama happening in my life once again, and I lost my friends once again, and I also am homeless once again– all of which are important social contexts to consider– but I figured if I just word vomit on the page and post whatever comes to mind, I’ll feel less pressured to make my endings perfect.
a blog post I never published from September 23 about my depression, my now ex-boyfriend, and my best friend in college
Lately, there’s been this emptiness that’s been creeping up on me. It’s familiar. It reminds me of senior year of high school and the nights I spent still, staring at the ceiling feeling nothing for hours. Breathing is hard. My breaths feel long and intentional. When I exhale it feels as though my insides are quivering. Anxiety? Maybe. I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. I don’t want to self-diagnose. What if I stopped breathing. I shouldn’t think like that.
It’s over. Officially. The pretty boy whom I blogged about sitting two tables away from me in first semester psych one year ago pursued me for five months, dated me for nearly two, and broke up with me yesterday.
Six hours into our second date, I was exactly where I wanted to be with the cute junior pre-med student I’d been fantasizing about for months. We’d just finished our post-comedy show dinner at a 24 hour diner and had walked back to the parking lot to find his car (Featured image is my date night outfit). The meal had gone perfectly in every way I would have liked: we played off of each other jokes well, switched naturally from conversation topic to conversation topic, and felt hours go by like minutes as we sat across from each other. Although we’d been chatting nonstop over breakfast foods, when we strapped ourselves into our respective seats, we were silent.
I fully intended on leaving this date with a kiss, and I had to leave the right cues.
He handed me his phone to route Google Maps back to my hotel. I clicked the power button to open it.
I’m writing to you all in a state of panic. I have the total hots for this upperclassman, Charlie, and my feelings for him have only gotten stronger since we began talking at the start of summer break. Although I know that we’ve discussed the prospect of going out on a second date, and have had conversations that have stretched over hours, I can’t help but feel as though I still don’t hold his interest. There will be little spurts where he pays me a flirty compliment, or implies a slight crush, but I can’t help but look for subtext in every text he sends. It’s almost as though my brain doesn’t want him to like me back.
I’ve had the Tinder dating app on my iPhone tease me for a while now. Although I thought I’d given up swiping left and right all together, one boring evening I tapped it open to see who I’d find. I was casually browsing when I’d stumbled upon a familiar face. The curly golden hair, the sculpted jaw, and the soft smile– it was none other than the stunning boy from my first semester psychology class, Charles E. Stetson. His blue eyes gazed into mine through my cellphone screen. What was I to do: swipe left and avoid the possibility of rejection all together, or swipe right and take my slim chances of being liked back? Nervously, I pull his picture to the right. My heart thumps as I let go. Finally, a breath of relief. We matched.
My feelings for my boyfriend have absolutely perished. Currently, I’m at the airport waiting to board my flight back home to New York after a successful freshman year of college, and I’m arguing with my boyfriend, Marlowe, about something that happened last night. Actually, calling it “arguing” would be a stretch considering I give no f*cks about the conversation he’s trying to have with me. He’s essentially been talking at me for the past 2 hours in absurdly long paragraphs.
A month ago, a boy asked me out for coffee. I take that back. Not just any boy. I’m talking about the most perfect mold of a human being that I’ve ever laid eyes on: Charles E. Stetson. For context, this boy was the boy in my first semester psychology class whom I wrote extensively about in November for being so freaking attractive (See my …To my Future Husband blog post). A true prince. Tall with curly blonde locks, perfectly chiseled features, and pale blue eyes that could make any girl melt. So forgive me for essentially liquefying into a pool of water when he asked me out.