I used to say that even before the needle touched my skin. I’m wondering if that is what is happening now. That the pain is merely in anticipation of this weekend, and once it is over, it will feel as if nothing has changed at all– that I will look down at my arm, be amused with the decorative band-aid, and find that I survived, and have not, in fact, died from blood loss.
I bought a new iPod yesterday after work, because my other one died. By died, I mean it forced me to reformat but then said it wasn’t complete without first plugging it into the wall– I don’t have the wall charger because it was a gift. (By gift I mean a leftover consolation prize from my ex-boyfriend who was more than happy to let me borrow his so he could purchase the new video iPod…even though he claimed to have no money for my birthday present… and therefore I feel no remorse in not having returned it after he dumped me and started dating one of our friends)
But, I digress…
After I left the office, I walked across the street into Radio Shack and spent an agonizing 15 minutes deciding whether or not sacrificing 72 gigs of memory was worth having a pink mp3 player. I decided it was not, and that I already had plenty of pink merchandise to compensate. I bought a black one, because black goes with nearly everything, and I was feeling a bit dark at the moment.
I thought that having a functioning iPod for my long commute to and from work would help me get out of my head, and stop pondering things that inevitably make me feel miserable. WRONG. Good old T.S. Eliot reminds us that “where words fail, music speaks” and I was left dissecting every lyric or minor chord of the songs.
So I put my “honky tonk” playlist on pause, and thought about why I was inclined to project meaning on everything in a way that would prolong my suffering. Maybe things are better off being ripped off like a band-aid. Just get it over with, be grateful for the healing, and rub vitamin E on that sucker so you aren’t left with an ugly scar.
I’m usually a huge fan of the band-aid method for bruised egos. Perhaps it’s denial, but I like to erase all traces of past humiliation and pretend that the person who caused it doesn’t exist.
This guy that I met at the Anheuser-Busch convention called me for a few dinner dates but seemed more interested in talking about the caliber of the venue than asking me about me or my life. I am NOT impressed by meals whose value equated several cute dresses I could have purchased from Forever 21. I am dollar burgers girl. My idea of splurging on dinner is getting a side order of chips and guac with my Chipotle burrito. Puh-leeeeeeeeease.
So funny. My close friends know this about me, and cringed when I relayed to them the details of said “dates.” Anyway… going on to prove even further how little he understood the type of person I am, he decided to send me a “humorous” facebook message asking me if I was sure that I was going to NORTH Korea and not South, because “The North seems a little unstable” and then listing off the fancy restaurants he wanted to dine at with me. (I had recently found out that as part of the Overseas Korea Foundation’s conference, we would get to take a day-trip to Gaesong)
This might seem like an acceptable message for some, but had he known ANYTHING about me, had he bothered to click on part of my facebook profile besides the photos tagged of me, he would have been able to see that my heritage is something I take very, very seriously. If he had thought to ask about the details of my trip to Korea, or even my knowledge of Korean history– he would never make a joke about my confusing the two. Yes I know the difference between North and South Korea– and the years of civil warfare that resulted in the division– I don’t need some ignorant old man with yellow fever and no ambitions besides hitting on girls half his age at bars correcting me on my world geography!
I was not at all surprised to find that shortly after sending the message, he had removed me from both his facebook and myspace friends lists. But I was at first, sort of frustrated with his cowardice. I had expected at least some half-hearted attempt at a witty response, apologetic gesture, or appeal to my ego… I really could have used some reading material for the slow times at the office.
But I can’t say I blame the guy. After several unreturned texts, invitations to Cubs games, I suppose his facebook message was the last ditch effort to reach me. And it’s not like I haven’t done the same exact thing to guys who have suddenly lost interest (or perhaps never had) in me. I don’t need their pictures surfacing in my recently updated profiles list. If they don’t have access to my wall, I can’t feel dejected when they don’t wish me a happy birthday on it, right?
So really, unless there is something that I need from you (such as a working iPod), there are not likely any remnants of your existence in my life.
Why, oh why, isn’t he as disposable as the rest? I barely thought about him the 4 years after we met, it should be so much easier to not think about him for the next 4(0).
I guess it’s hard for me because beyond what I write in this blog, there is not much I can say about him to anyone. I have wonderful friends, but even the best of friends are judgmental. Heck, that’s why I love my friends– I can be catty and overly amused by people I dislike’s unfortunate circumstances with them– but when it comes to admitting that I put myself in a position to be broken hearted, and was completely cognizant of the risk at the time I made certain decisions, sometimes I feel so lonely.
I’m a communications major. I enjoy talking about my problems. I’m all about the Socratic method and finding Truth through endless questioning. But this weekend, all I can do is surround myself with people and activities that will force me to think of everything BUT him, and stay miserable in complete silence.
And then I am going to go home. Because the only thing with more healing properties than Neosporin, is my mom’s homemade chicken noodle soup. I’m giving myself a week to let the wound mend. I write it here so that there is documented confirmation of my resolution. You get a week, Stephanie, and then you are ripping that band-aid the hell off.